THE MAN AT THE DOCK
Made by mrcum
Chapter One — An Honest Dollar
Torn had a thousand ways to make a man rich.
It had just as many ways to make him disappear.
There were people in the city who made their fortunes through business. Others found theirs through gambling, trading, fighting, stealing, or simply knowing the right people.
And then there were the people who tried to make an honest living.
They were usually the ones who learned the hardest lesson.
Torn doesn't care how honest you are.
---
The man at the dock wasn't important.
Not at first.
He didn't own a faction. He didn't have a crew. He didn't have a warehouse full of weapons or a bank account overflowing with cash.
He had a small office, a battered desk, a telephone that rang far too often, and one boat.
The boat wasn't anything special either. It was old, loud, and had seen better days.
But it floated.
And in Torn, sometimes that was enough.
He had named the company Blackwater Transit.
It wasn't a glamorous name. He wasn't trying to build an empire.
He just wanted to make a living.
People needed to travel. People needed transportation. He could provide it.
Simple.
At least, that's what he told himself.
Every morning, he'd unlock the office before sunrise. He'd sweep the floor, check the engine, look over the day's bookings, then sit behind his desk with a cup of coffee and wait for the first customer.
Most days, the customers were ordinary.
Businessmen. Tourists. People carrying luggage. People trying to get somewhere quickly.
He didn't ask questions.
That was one of the first rules he made for himself:
Don't ask questions.
It made the job easier.
And for a while...
it worked.
---
One rainy Tuesday morning, a man walked into the office.
The stranger was dressed better than most of the people who normally used the service. Black coat. Expensive watch. Leather gloves.
He looked around the tiny office, then looked at the owner.
"You're the boat guy?"
The owner raised an eyebrow.
"That's what people call me."
"I need passage."
"Where?"
The stranger placed an envelope on the desk.
The owner looked at it, then back at the man.
"That's more than the trip costs."
"I know."
The owner didn't touch the envelope.
"Then why are you paying more?"
The stranger smiled.
"Because I don't like being late."
There was something about the man that made the owner uncomfortable.
Not fear.
Not exactly.
More like instinct. The kind of instinct that tells you to leave a dark alley before you know why.
He should have refused.
Instead, he took the envelope.
"Departure is in twenty minutes."
The stranger nodded.
"Good."
He turned toward the door, then stopped.
"One more thing."
"What?"
The stranger looked over his shoulder.
"You didn't see me."
Then he left.
The owner stared at the door for several seconds.
Then he opened the envelope.
He counted the money.
It was enough to cover nearly a week's worth of expenses.
He looked toward the window.
The stranger was already gone.
He sighed.
"People are weird."
Then he went back to work.
---
That should have been the end of it.
It wasn't.
The stranger came back three days later. Then again the following week. Then another man came. Then another.
Soon, the owner started recognizing a pattern.
None of them traveled with much luggage.
None of them talked.
And all of them paid too much.
He began keeping a notebook.
Not because he was suspicious.
At least, that's what he told himself.
He wrote down names, dates, destinations, and payments.
Nothing illegal.
Nothing that could get him in trouble.
Just business records.
That was what he called them.
Business records.
One evening, while closing the office, he noticed something strange.
There were several names in his notebook.
Different people. Different destinations. Different dates.
But beside each name was the same small symbol.
A faction emblem.
He stared at it.
He knew the symbol.
Everyone in Torn knew the symbol.
He closed the notebook.
For the first time in years, he considered shutting the company down.
Just walking away.
Selling the boat.
Finding another job.
Something quiet.
Something normal.
Something that didn't involve mysterious men paying him ridiculous amounts of money.
Then he looked at his bills.
The rent.
The fuel.
The repairs.
The food.
The growing list of expenses that came with running a business.
He looked at the envelope of money sitting on his desk.
Then at the notebook.
He opened it again.
And turned the page.
---
A week later, another man came into the office.
This one didn't bother pretending he was a normal traveler.
He sat down across from the owner.
"You've been doing good business."
The owner leaned back.
"I suppose."
"You could do better."
"I'm not interested."
The man smiled.
"Everyone's interested."
"Not me."
The stranger placed a small package on the desk.
The owner stared at it.
"What is that?"
"Something that needs to reach the other side."
"Then hire someone."
"We want you."
"Why?"
"Because people trust you."
The owner laughed.
"People don't even know me."
"Exactly."
The stranger stood.
"You look harmless."
The owner didn't know whether that was an insult.
The man continued.
"That's useful."
He walked toward the door.
The owner called after him.
"I'm not a criminal."
The stranger stopped.
He turned around.
Then he smiled.
"Neither was I."
And he walked out.
---
The package remained on the desk.
The owner stared at it for nearly an hour.
He didn't open it.
He didn't touch it.
Eventually, he picked up the telephone.
He called the number written on the receipt.
"Come get your package."
A pause.
Then the voice on the other end answered.
"You're making a mistake."
The owner swallowed.
"I don't care."
Another pause.
Then:
"You will."
The line went dead.
---
That night, the owner barely slept.
He kept thinking about the stranger's words.
You're making a mistake.
Maybe he was.
Maybe Torn simply wasn't the kind of place where a man could mind his own business.
But he had a choice.
Didn't he?
He could refuse.
He could stay out of factions.
He could run his little company.
Make his money.
Go home.
Wake up.
Do it again.
That was the dream.
A simple life.
An honest dollar.
Nothing more.
---
The next morning, the package was gone.
He never saw who took it.
There was no note.
No message.
Nothing.
For several days, everything returned to normal.
Then his boat was vandalized.
Nothing major.
A broken window.
A damaged engine component.
Something small.
Something that could be repaired.
The owner stood beside the boat, staring at the damage.
He knew.
He didn't need anyone to tell him.
It was a message.
He could stay out of their business.
But they had decided he was already in theirs.
---
That was the first time he understood something about Torn.
You didn't always choose your enemies.
Sometimes they chose you.
---
Months passed.
The little company grew.
More customers.
More money.
More boats.
More employees.
The owner told himself that things were getting better.
And technically...
they were.
But there was a problem.
The people paying the most were the people he trusted the least.
He started recognizing faction members.
He knew who was powerful, who was dangerous, who was desperate, and who was ambitious.
He learned which names made people nervous.
Which names made employees suddenly stop talking.
Which names never appeared in newspapers but somehow seemed to control half the city.
The owner learned the most important lesson of all:
Information was worth more than money.
Because everyone who came through his dock had a story.
And he had become the man who heard them.
---
One night, long after midnight, the owner sat alone in his office.
Rain hammered against the windows.
The harbor was almost completely empty.
He poured himself a drink and stared at the city lights.
He remembered the day he opened the company.
He remembered how proud he had been.
One boat.
One office.
One dream.
Make an honest dollar.
That's all he wanted.
He laughed quietly.
The sound disappeared beneath the rain.
"An honest dollar."
He repeated the words like they belonged to someone else.
Then his phone rang.
He answered.
"Hello?"
A voice spoke.
"Captain."
He froze.
Nobody called him that.
"Who is this?"
"You've been doing business with us for a long time."
The owner said nothing.
"We have a job for you."
"No."
The voice laughed.
"You didn't even hear it."
"I don't need to."
"You've come a long way."
The owner looked around his office.
At the desk.
The paperwork.
The company logo.
The photographs on the wall.
His entire life had somehow become tangled in the underworld he had spent years avoiding.
"What happens if I say no?"
Silence.
Then:
"You already know."
The call ended.
The owner slowly lowered the phone.
Outside, thunder rolled across Torn.
He looked toward the harbor.
His boat rocked gently against the dock.
For the first time, he realized something.
The boat wasn't just carrying passengers anymore.
It was carrying secrets.
Money.
Favors.
Enemies.
And eventually...
those things were going to come looking for payment.
---
The next morning, the owner unlocked his office.
He walked inside, placed his keys on the desk, looked at the telephone, then looked at the notebook.
He opened it.
There were hundreds of names now.
He picked up his pen.
And beneath the last name, he wrote a new entry:
"First real job."
He stared at the words.
Then closed the notebook.
Outside, the city was waking up.
Torn was alive.
People were fighting.
People were making money.
People were dying.
And somewhere in the middle of it all was a man who had once believed he could remain ordinary.
He had been wrong.
Because Torn doesn't let simple men stay simple for long.
Eventually, everyone chooses a side.
Sometimes you choose the side.
Sometimes the side chooses you.
And sometimes...
you don't realize you've chosen until it's already too late.
---
TO BE CONTINUED...
Chapter II — The First Job
If you enjoyed this and would like to see more, bump this post and I'll keep writing. I hope you enjoyed it! It took a while to write and make sure I had the grammar and punctuation right.
Love y'all. ❤️
— Torn