When the two left the inn, the London sky was still gloomy.
The streets were wet, and last night's fog had not yet fully dispersed.
From time to time, the sound of carriage wheels rolling over cobblestone streets drifted from the distance.
Ryan and Simon did not linger, boarding a public carriage heading directly toward East Port.
It cost him nearly six shillings, which still stung despite his current high salary.
The closer they got to the port, the more crowded it became.
By the time they reached the outskirts of East Port, even the carriage could no longer move forward.
People were everywhere—dockworkers, railway workers, sailors, unemployed laborers, and citizens who had rushed over from nearby to watch the spectacle.
The roadside taverns were packed to the brim, and discussions could be heard everywhere along the streets.
“The negotiations are today.”
“I heard the Port Authority made concessions.”
“Wages are going up.”
“What's the use of just raising wages?”
“My brother still hasn't been found.”
“The police are all useless.”
“Shut up, or you'll get locked up.”
A mixture of voices blended together, and a restless, uneasy tension filled the air.
It was like the sea before a storm—calm on the surface, but already churning underneath.
Near noon, East Port Square.
The number of police officers had visibly increased, with a large force of patrolmen maintaining order.
Jonathan had been working continuously for who knew how long; his uniform collar was wrinkled, stubble covered his chin, and his eyes were bloodshot.
Standing by the police cordon, he spotted two familiar figures in the distance. He froze for a moment, and then his entire face darkened.
“Damn it.”
The rookie detective beside him was taken aback. “What is it, sir?”
Jonathan raised his hand and pointed.
Following his gaze, the detective saw Ryan and Simon.
Confused, the detective asked, “Who are they?”
Jonathan took a deep breath, his tone complex.
“One is a bastard who brings trouble wherever he goes.”
“And the other is the poor bastard who has to clean up after him.”
The moment Ryan walked over, Jonathan went up to meet him.
His expression was as grim as if he hadn't slept in three days—which, in fact, he hadn't.
“Ryan.”
“Is your leave over? Have you recovered?”
“More or less.”
“Good.”
Jonathan nodded, then added, “Then you'd better stay far away from here.”
Ryan was taken aback. “Why?”
Jonathan stared at him, silent for two seconds. “Because ever since you showed up in East Port, not a single good thing has happened here.”
Simon burst out laughing.
Ryan's mouth twitched, utterly unable to find a retort.
A sudden commotion arose in the distance. A massive crowd of workers began to gather, and the crowd parted automatically to make way.
A group of dockworkers was slowly escorting a man forward.
The man was around forty years old, tall, with a weather-beaten face and heavily calloused hands. He was clearly someone who had worked on the docks for many years.
Most importantly, the workers around him all knew him. People kept greeting him, patting him on the shoulder, and actively clearing a path.
Ryan looked over. “Who is he?”
Jonathan rubbed the bridge of his nose. “The representative chosen by the workers.”
“What's his name?”
“Thomas Black.”
“He used to be a stevedore foreman. Worked here for nearly twenty years.”
Jonathan paused, then continued, “At least for now, he seems reasonable, and he's the only one who can keep the workers in line.”
Ryan watched the man, suddenly realizing that the surrounding atmosphere was shifting.
Thousands of workers were gathered, yet it was much quieter than the day before.
Because they now had a voice, a representative, someone who could speak on their behalf.
Everyone's eyes would be focused on him.
On the other side of the square, the people from the Port Authority had arrived.
The director appeared in person, followed by secretaries, lawyers, clerks, and several officials sent by City Hall.
The police began to expand the cordoned area, attempting to clear space for both parties.
A negotiation table was quickly brought out and set up in the center of the square.
The cold wind rustled the tablecloth as thousands of pairs of eyes watched from all directions.
No one spoke. Everyone was waiting—waiting for the outcome of these negotiations.
Wages, compensation, the disappearances, worker safety—every single issue pressed down upon that table.
In the center of the square, the temporary long table sat just inside the police cordon.
The table legs were slightly uneven, propped up by two wooden planks underneath.
The cold wind blew continuously, rustling the edges of the tablecloth, yet the surroundings were terrifyingly quiet.
The gaze of thousands of people was entirely concentrated here.
The director of the Port Authority sat on the left side of the table, his eyes deeply sunken and his face pale.
Several consecutive days of pressure had nearly drained the middle-aged man dry.
Standing behind him were secretaries, lawyers, accountants, and two observers sent by City Hall.
On the other side of the table, Thomas slowly sat down.
He had no lawyers, no secretaries, not even a clerk—just himself, a dockworker.
Yet the moment he sat down, the thousands of workers behind him seemed to let out a collective sigh of relief.
Because he represented them.
He represented those who hauled cargo for twelve hours a day.
He represented those who had vanished in the night-shift warehouses.
He represented the families who could not find their husbands and sons.
The wind swept across the square, and no one spoke.
The distant sound of waves crashing against the docks was faintly audible.
Jonathan stood near the cordon, his eyes scanning the surroundings. He felt that something was off, but he couldn't put his finger on it.
On the other side, Ryan stood at the outer edge of the crowd, hands tucked into his coat pockets, quietly observing.
The Port Authority director spoke first, his voice somewhat hoarse. “Mr. Black, we understand the workers' feelings, and we are willing to resolve these issues.”
Thomas looked at him, neither nodding nor speaking.
The director continued, “Starting tomorrow, night shift pay will be increased by fifty percent, additional allowances will be provided for hazardous roles, patrols will be stepped up in all warehouses, the hospital reimbursement rate will be increased, and the families of the missing will receive compensation.”
As soon as he finished speaking, a commotion broke out in the surroundings.
Many workers were visibly swayed. A fifty percent raise was no small amount for the East Port workers.
Some began whispering to each other, and others discussed it in low voices.
Yet Thomas's expression did not change. He merely looked at the director and asked slowly, “What about the people who went missing?”
The director fell silent for a moment. “The police are still investigating.”
The square fell silent once more.
Thomas continued to ask, “Are they alive or dead?”
The director did not answer.
Thomas asked again, “Where are they?”
The director remained silent.
The wind seemed to grow even colder.
Thousands of people in the square stared at the long table, waiting for an answer.
Yet everyone knew the Port Authority could not give an answer, because they did not know themselves.
The negotiations continued as the cold wind blew across the square.
Thomas stood on the other side of the long table, pressing his palms flat against the surface, his voice low and steady. “We can talk about wages, and we can talk about allowances. But I want an answer: where did those missing people go?”
Silence fell over the crowd once more as thousands of pairs of eyes turned to the Port Authority director.
Sweat beaded on the director's forehead. He wiped it with his handkerchief over and over, yet he still could not provide an answer.
Because he truly did not know.
Over the past few weeks, the Port Authority itself had been nearly driven mad by the disappearances.
Ryan stood on the outer edge of the crowd, silently observing it all, taking a deep breath of the sweet-smelling air.
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