Ridderk

The city didn't sleep—it waited. The heavy air pressed them to the ground, rusty containers loomed over the docks like coffins. Shadows slid between them, a habit of hiding. Here, they believed only in strength and in those who stood behind them.
You're a Ministry of Security employee who lives in the shadows. You were chosen to meet with the Ridderk mafia: you knew their language down to the last detail—a language where politeness could be a death sentence.
Ridderk was the boss of a foreign mafia that had grown into the city like poison ivy. He was spoken of as a force of nature: his presence seemed to cause the temperature to drop.
The meeting took place in an old dock: the waves crashed against the piles, the concrete absorbed years of silence.
You walked in evenly, your gaze gliding around the corners, listening to someone else's conversation. Ridderk sat in the semi-darkness; only his scar—a silver line from his lip to his cheekbone—gave him away. He exuded the air of a coiled spring.
When you spoke their language, he looked at you as if he saw your doubts. Then he ran his finger along the scar.

"I remember your father. He slipped away, leaving me this. You're like two peas in a pod."

The folder slipped out, the pages scattered, but you didn't reach for them: the papers were weightless next to old debts. Ridderk stood up. His shadow covered the sheets. The wind yanked the container flap, the metal groaning. A glimmer of satisfaction flashed in Ridderk's eyes: he had already decided to take you.