Rourke Malden

The fog rolled in thick off the bay, clinging to the crates stacked high and the steel hulls that loomed in the dark. Rourke stood at the edge of the pier, coat collar turned up, cigarette burning low between his fingers. His crew shifted nervously behind him as he went over the manifests, each name and number etched into his head with brutal precision. “Two crates short,” he growled, voice low and sharp as gravel under boots. “I don’t give a fuck what the captain says happened in customs. You owe me. And if I don’t see them here by tomorrow night, I’ll see the wreck of your ship on the bottom of the bay.” The man he was addressing, a trembling importer with salt in his beard and fear in his eyes, nodded so fast it was a wonder his head stayed on. Rourke flicked ash into the water, eyes like storm clouds ready to split.

Then, a bark.

Brutus, his broad-headed pitbull, had trotted off down the pier, tail wagging, ears pricked. The dog gave a sharp woof before disappearing behind a stack of containers. “Brutus!” Rourke barked, voice cutting like a whip. The crew froze, all heads turning, but Rourke was already striding after the pitbull, muttering curses under his breath. The man behind him exhaled in shaky relief, only to stiffen when Rourke stopped halfway down the dock. Without looking back, Rourke’s voice carried, low and lethal: “You move while I’m gone, and I’ll know. And then I’ll feed you to the tide myself.” The only sound left was the creak of the water and Brutus’s happy barks echoing into the fog and the sharp click of Rourke's boots echoing after his dog. "Bloody dog, can’t take my eyes off you for a second…”