At six o'clock in the evening, at the East Port Authority, the final statistical table was finally completed.
Almost everyone in the meeting room sighed in relief at the same time. Some rubbed their eyes, some stretched their shoulders, and others slumped directly onto the table, unwilling to move.
All day long, everyone had been dealing with numbers, names, and files until their eyes were nearly blurry.
Alvin closed his folder and looked at everyone.
“Let's call it a day.”
“We will continue tomorrow.”
No one cheered, because everyone knew that there would only be more documents on the table tomorrow, not fewer.
The others began packing up their things. Ryan put his fountain pen into his pocket and picked up his notebook.
Just as he walked out of the meeting room, he heard two Port Authority clerks nearby complaining.
“Another twenty-odd cases added.”
“If this keeps up, the port will really have to shut down.”
“The hospital is almost full.”
“Someone said yesterday that another porter went missing in the warehouse district.”
“Really?”
“Who knows.”
“Lately, all sorts of weird things have been happening.”
The voices gradually faded. Ryan did not linger, following Simon down the stairs.
By the time they stepped out of the office building, the sky had already darkened. The distant docks were brightly lit, and the massive cranes stood in the night like steel monsters.
The sea breeze blew in, carrying a salty, fishy smell mixed with coal smoke, clearing their heads slightly.
Alvin stood at the entrance and glanced at everyone.
“Go back and get some rest early.”
“Gather at eight tomorrow morning.”
“Don't be late.”
Having said his piece, he left immediately, and the remaining people dispersed.
Ryan was about to head to the station when a voice suddenly came from beside him.
“Want to grab a drink?”
Ryan turned his head. Simon was standing under a streetlamp, a cigarette between his fingers, the ember glowing and dimming in the dark.
“Hmm?”
“Nothing else to do back home anyway,” Simon exhaled a puff of smoke. “There's a decent tavern nearby. We've been busy all day. Time to unwind.”
Ryan thought about it and nodded.
“Sure.”
Twenty minutes later, the two of them arrived at an old tavern on the outskirts of the port district.
The tavern wasn't large, but business was good. It was packed with dockworkers, and the air was a thick mix of alcohol, tobacco, and cheap stew.
In the corner, some people were playing cards, making quite a racket.
The two of them sat down by the window, and the owner quickly brought over two glasses of dark beer.
Simon raised his glass.
“To our wages.”
Ryan stared blankly for a moment, then laughed and clinked his glass.
“To our wages.”
The beer went down with a slight bitterness and a malty aroma, making them both feel much more comfortable.
Simon leaned back against his chair and let out a long breath.
“Things have been getting more and more chaotic these past few months.”
Ryan nodded.
“Indeed.”
“Before, the most we did was handle files on missing person cases.”
“Now, it's disappearances again, and then illnesses. All kinds of data are piling up like mountains.”
Simon chuckled.
“You're still young. Work a few more years and you'll get used to it.”
Ryan shook his head.
“I hope I don't.”
Simon was instantly amused.
“Spoken with ambition.”
The tavern was noisy. A few workers nearby were arguing about a football match, while another table was complaining about the merchant guild cutting their wages.
Listening to these sounds actually brought a sense of peace. At least this place still felt like the normal world.
They chatted idly about work-related matters—which department was the hardest to deal with, which official liked to shift responsibility, and which scribe's handwriting looked like chicken scratch.
By the end of it, even Ryan couldn't help but laugh a few times.
Time passed slowly, and the tavern grew increasingly crowded.
Suddenly, the tavern door was kicked open.
Bang!
Everyone instinctively looked over.
Four men stood at the doorway, wearing tattered coats. They had rugged, brutal faces and reeked heavily of alcohol.
The leader had a scar on his left cheek, and he began swearing the moment he stepped inside.
“Boss! Where's the booze!”
The tavern quieted down slightly. Quite a few regulars frowned, clearly recognizing these fellows.
The owner's face didn't look great either, but he managed to squeeze out a smile.
“Right away.”
Scarface propped his foot up on a chair and shouted, “Hurry up!”
His companions joined in the clamor, and the atmosphere in the tavern instantly grew tense.
Ryan took a glance and whispered, “Troublemakers?”
Simon took a sip of his drink, his expression calm.
“Local gang thugs. They often come here to scrounge free drinks. You get used to it.”
Ryan frowned slightly.
Scarface was already starting to harass the customers at the adjacent table. Some chose to tolerate it, while others lowered their heads and remained silent. After all, no one wanted to court trouble.
Just then, one of the thugs spotted a young woman sitting in the corner of the tavern and blew a whistle.
“Hey, miss. All by yourself?”
The woman's face paled instantly, and quite a few people around them frowned.
Things were beginning to escalate.
The tavern owner rushed over to defuse the situation.
“Gentlemen, do me a favor. Please don't cause trouble.”
Before he could finish his sentence, Scarface shoved him aside.
The owner stumbled back a few steps, nearly falling over.
The entire tavern fell completely silent.
Ryan gripped his glass, his brow slowly furrowing.
Beside him, Simon remained seated, his expression excessively calm. He even took a slow sip of his beer.
Ryan whispered, “You're not going to step in?”
Simon glanced over, his tone indifferent.
“What's the rush? The one thing East Port has plenty of is people looking to get themselves killed.”
As if to prove his words, a second later, someone in the corner of the tavern stood up.
It was a tall dockworker, at least six feet three, with arms as thick as tree trunks.
He set down his glass and walked slowly toward the thugs.
The entire tavern fell instantly silent.
Scarface was also stunned for a moment, clearly not expecting anyone to actually stand up to them.
The burly worker cracked his neck, making a sharp popping sound, and then spoke calmly.
“Get out.”
With those few simple words, the atmosphere instantly grew tense.
Scarface's face darkened.
“What did you say?”
The tall worker repeated, “I said, get out.”
Everyone in the tavern held their breath.
A brawl was imminent.
...
Around ten o'clock, the tavern's farce finally ended. Those gang thugs were eventually thrown out.
The dockworker's fists were much harder than their mouths. Two of them ended up black and blue, while the remaining ones didn't dare cause any more trouble.
The owner didn't even call the police. Such occurrences were not uncommon in East Port; as long as no one died, people usually settled things themselves.
The tavern quickly regained its lively atmosphere. The card games resumed, and the musician began playing his fiddle again, as if nothing had happened.
After the incident, the owner specially bought a round of free beer for everyone as a thank you to the dockworker for stepping in.
The atmosphere quickly returned to normal.
After sitting for another half hour, Simon checked his pocket watch.
“That's about enough.”
Ryan nodded, and the two of them stood up and left the tavern.
East Port at night was still bustling. The docks were brightly lit, the whistles of cargo ships in the distance sounded continuously, and the cranes were still operating as a large number of workers worked overtime to load and unload cargo.
The taverns and casinos lining both sides of the street were lit up, filled with drunkards and sailors.
The sea breeze blew over with its salty, fishy scent, dispelling much of their intoxication.
Rate on N.U.
