The Port District was vast and bustling, though its prosperity was one of poverty rather than opulence.
Its vibrancy was a stark contrast to the Bay Area or the downtown core. In the Port District, women offering companionship services wore cheap, often secondhand, revealing clothes. They stood under streetlights at alley corners, conducting quick, transactional business.
Clients would negotiate prices and head into the alleys. There was no pretense of charm or conversation—only business.
In the Bay Area, even streetwalkers had an air of sophistication, lounging in outdoor cafés, sipping coffee, and flirting. Deals would often be sealed in a nearby hotel after moments of playful banter, giving the illusion of a spontaneous romance.
Downtown, business was high-end and direct. Clients needed deep pockets to enjoy the finest services available.
Each district had its own version of prosperity. To say the Port District wasn’t bustling would be wrong—the streets were filled with commerce and customers.
The deserter-turned-hitman arrived at the southeastern corner of the first pier’s exit, leaning against a phone booth while observing a three-story building across the street.
Occasionally, his gaze drifted toward the passing young women, whose bold and vibrant demeanor briefly distracted him. But he quickly refocused on his target: the Brotherhood’s headquarters.
The building bore a sign reading “Brothers Import & Export Company.” The gang’s income streams were diverse—protection rackets, extortion, kidnapping, forced labor deals, and smuggling.
No one knew exactly how much they earned monthly, but it was enough for their leader, “Big Polly,” to buy a villa in the Bay Area.
Yet Polly preferred to stay in the Port District. The Bay Area was a playground for the rich, but the Port was his true home.
Inside the Brotherhood’s headquarters, Jimmy was sweating profusely on the sofa in the third-floor manager’s office.
“Wipe that sweat off. You’re dripping all over,” Polly said casually, tossing a handkerchief onto the coffee table.
Jimmy grabbed it without thinking, dabbing his forehead. It wasn’t until the sticky texture registered that he realized something was off. He glanced at the handkerchief, but Polly’s voice drew his attention away.
“I hear you’ve been quite the big spender at the casino lately. Care to explain?”
Polly, despite his diminutive stature—barely 5’3” in shoes—exuded an intimidating presence. He was lean, with pale, almost delicate skin. Rumors swirled about his childhood trauma, including abuse at the hands of an orphanage caretaker, whom Polly reportedly killed with a dinner knife.
That was the start of Polly’s bloody rise to power, earning him the moniker “Big Polly.” It was less a nod to his stature and more an assertion of his dominance.
Sitting next to Polly, Jimmy, significantly taller, felt dwarfed by his boss’s aura.
“Polly, I…” Jimmy stammered, silently cursing whoever had ratted him out.
Polly raised a hand to stop him, settling into the sofa beside him. Jimmy instinctively leaned forward, making it easier for Polly to drape an arm around his shoulder.
“I don’t care if you win or lose, Jimmy. I only care about whether you’re touching the company’s money. That affects everyone here—you understand, right?”
Jimmy nodded frantically. “I swear, Polly, I didn’t touch a single cent of the company’s money. The accounts are already with the accountant.”
Polly nodded slightly. “I know, Jimmy. That’s the only reason you’re sitting here right now.”
“I don’t mind if you guys hustle on the side, but if your stupidity drags trouble to my doorstep… well, you know what happens.”
“We’ve worked together for years, Jimmy. I don’t want to lose any of my brothers. Do you understand me?”
Jimmy nodded so quickly it was a wonder his head didn’t fall off. “Of course!”
After a moment’s hesitation, he decided to confess. “I did squeeze some money out of that banker, Jobav, from the Imperial District…”
Polly raised an eyebrow, letting go of Jimmy and standing up. He patted Jimmy’s shoulder before stepping behind his desk.
“I know Jobav—a rich Imperial snob. How much did you get from him?”
“Thirty thousand.”
Polly repeated the figure, then chuckled, prompting Jimmy to join in nervously.
Polly’s laughter was peculiar, his shoulders shaking with each guffaw. But just as suddenly as it began, it stopped.
Standing over Jimmy, Polly’s expression turned icy. He loved towering over people, even if it required them to be seated.
“You shook down a rich man for thirty grand and lived to tell the tale? That’s a miracle!” Polly said coldly.
“Now tell me—why did that miracle happen?”
Jimmy squirmed under Polly’s gaze, his words fumbling. “Because Jobav is a pushover. Polly, everyone shakes him down. He never fights back.”
“Everyone?” Polly’s brow furrowed.
“Everyone,” Jimmy confirmed.
Polly pondered this, then turned back to his desk. “If I ever find out you gambled with the company’s money again, I’ll feed you to the fish myself.”
“Now get out of my office. A shipment of liquor is arriving this afternoon. If you screw that up…”
Jimmy leapt to his feet, swearing allegiance. “I’d kill myself before you could!”
Relieved, he realized he’d dodged a bullet—not because of any brotherly bond, but because he’d balanced the accounts in time.
Polly shooed him away with a wave. Jimmy exited the office, muttering curses under his breath.
Outside, the hitman spotted Jimmy emerging from the building.
It was time.