Chapter 4: The Warehouse on the Waterfront

The neon glow of the boardwalk faded behind me as I walked along the seawall toward the piers. I had made little progress at the Brisa's boardwalk properties. They seemed like ordinary businesses, staffed by ordinary people. Perhaps they were each in hock to the Brisa family, but there didn't seem to be anything shady or untoward happening within view. Salt wind whipped at my coat, and each wave slap against the seawall felt like a warning. The old docks had been in decline for years— yellow floodlights and stale shadows bounced off the corrugated walls of aging warehouses.

I paused at the chain-link fence marked BRISA WORLD IMPORTS AND EXPORTS, the letters peeling from salt and rust. At one end, two goons in dark suits unloaded crates from a beat-up flatbed. Their slick hair and cheap cologne gave away every dollar they weren’t paying in taxes.

I watched them for a moment, thumb resting against the butt of my revolver. When they split, one slipping inside through a side door, I followed. My boots clicked over concrete cracked by sea air, flashlight slicing through gloom.

Inside, the warehouse breathed in dust and diesel. Stacks of wooden crates loomed like a coffin forest. I crept along a narrow aisle, heart pounding in time with my footsteps. Voices drifted ahead—low and clipped. I ducked behind a crate painted with an American eagle and a foreign script.

Through a crack I saw him: the goon from Lila’s shop, slipping a ledger into his jacket. He moved between crates marked “Fragile: Handle with Care” and “Brisa Collateral Trust.” I inched closer, ready to grab him for answers.

That’s when I spotted it—a crate lying half-open, its lid torn back. Inside, a brass mirror caught the floodlight and shimmered. It was ornate: thick frame etched with vines and jagged scrollwork, the mirror surface gleaming as if freshly polished. My pulse skipped.

I stepped forward, tracing the rim with my flashlight’s beam. The mirror pulsed—like a heartbeat. It wasn't a glass surface. Someone had made it out of brass, polished to a near-impossible shine. I leaned in.

Her face appeared instead of my reflection. Lila Harper. She stared straight at me, sorrow pooling in those irises, but beneath it glinted something else—defiance, maybe hope. A single tear rolled down her cheek and caught in the mirror’s edge.

I swallowed and reached out, fingertips trembling as I brushed the glass to wipe it away. The instant my flesh touched the surface, the world gave out beneath me. Everything turned upside down. for a moment, I was suspended from the ceiling. Then my weight seemed to settled through my body, as if melting back towards "down". I blinked, still in the warehouse. But something felt different.

A hulking goon stepped around the corner. I tensed, reaching for my revolver. But it wasn't there. I looked down and my hands scrambled across my body. My trusty trenchcoat was now a dark overcoat lined with silk. Underneath, a pinstripe suit and vest. A gold tie pin. My fingers brushed against them—I was someone else.

"Looking for a light, boss?"

I blinked at him.

“How—who—?” I choked out.

He didn’t miss a beat. “The shipment at dock seven is offloaded and secured. Antonio wants you in the car.” He waved me forward, the barrel of a Mauser hardly concealed under his jacket.

I swallowed hard. Every detective instinct screamed to bail, to find a corner and fight my way out. But my legs moved toward the door—my legs wouldn’t stop.

Behind us, fluorescent lamps glowed over neat rows of crates stamped with the Brisa crest. Outside, a sleek black sedan idled, its door swinging open at the goon’s approach. I hesitated at the threshold, caught between two worlds: the one where I was Cole Vane, small-time detective, and this one where I’d become something else entirely. I lurched toward the car, certainty in my gut that the life I knew just shattered— but maybe I still had a chance to save Lila.