Chapter 12 – The Trap is Set

The room was quiet, save for the occasional creak of the old wooden floorboards and the soft flickering of lantern light against cracked walls. Kenji leaned over a table, eyes narrowed, a rolled map stretched across the surface. Red pins dotted certain corners of the port town, marking spots of interest—docks, warehouses, taverns, and alleys where rumors liked to slither.

Author stood on the other side, arms crossed, watching his captain study the map with an intensity that didn't waver. There was tension in the air—not born of fear, but of preparation. Kenji had faced stronger enemies, but this was different. This wasn't about raw strength. This was about control.

"Here," Kenji finally muttered, tapping a location near the southern docks. "The old storage yard. It's quiet, half-abandoned, and close enough to the water for a quick escape if things go sideways. Rumors say Ellion's crew has used it before."

Author stepped closer, nodding slowly. "And that's where we make our stand?"

Kenji glanced up. "That's where we start it. We'll plant bait. Make it look like we're running a stolen goods deal. Word'll spread. If Ellion's watching the docks like I think he is, he'll bite."

He pulled a small crate from the corner of the room—loot recovered from Red Jack's hideout. Weapons, contraband, and a few things worth selling. Enough to look like a prize.

Author rubbed the back of his neck. "What do you need me to do?"

Kenji paused, considering. "We'll need someone to make the drop. Pretend to be the courier. Draw them out."

Author's eyes widened. "You want me to be the bait?"

Kenji didn't answer immediately. He looked back at the map, then to Author again.

"No—I don't want you to be. But you're the only one who can sell it. They already know what I look like. You… you're just another street-level guy to them."

Author stepped forward, voice firmer than usual. "I want to do it. I'm tired of sitting back. You've done everything since we got here. Let me help."

Kenji studied him. There was still hesitation in his gaze—he wasn't just protecting a crew member. He was protecting a friend.

"Fine," he finally said. "But the moment something feels off, you run. Got it?"

Author nodded. "Got it."

Night settled like a heavy blanket over the southern docks. Fog drifted lazily across the cobblestones, muting the sounds of the sea and giving the area an eerie, dreamlike haze.

In the center of an open storage lot, Author stood alone beside a locked crate, his fingers twitching slightly as he adjusted the bandana over his face. The flickering lantern on the ground beside him cast long shadows. His heart thudded in his chest, every second stretching longer than the last.

Unseen, high above on a nearby rooftop, Kenji crouched low, body cloaked in the ambient warmth of his Sun Sun Fruit. A faint glow pulsed beneath his skin—barely visible to the eye but keeping his senses heightened.

His eyes tracked everything.

A soft crunch—gravel underfoot.

Three figures emerged from the fog, moving like shadows with purpose. No words at first. Just a slow, calculated approach.

The lead figure finally spoke. "You the courier?"

Author cleared his throat, trying to steady his voice. "Yeah. Goods are here. Payment?"

One of the thugs chuckled, the sound cold. "You're a little young for this kind of business."

Another circled wide, stepping to the edge of the lot, eyes scanning. Kenji's focus shifted to him. Sharp movement. Tactical. These weren't just street thugs—they knew what they were doing.

The third thug stepped forward and kicked the side of the crate. "Open it."

Author hesitated. "Not until I see coin."

Wrong move. The thug grabbed his collar, yanking him forward. "You think this is a negotiation?"

Kenji's muscles tensed. He was ready to move—but he had to be sure.

"I already got paid!" Author blurted. "You want it or not?"

It wasn't smooth. But it bought him a few seconds.

Then it happened.

"Wait," the wide-circling thug said, his gaze narrowing at the roofline. "Someone's watching us."

Too late.

Kenji dropped like a stone—but with the grace of light.

He landed between Author and the thugs, his feet igniting a brief halo of heat that shimmered the air.

The first thug swung—his fist passed through Kenji's torso like it was made of smoke and flame. Kenji responded with a blazing elbow to the gut, dropping him instantly.

The second tried a knife. Kenji let it phase through him, then twisted the man's arm and tossed him like a rag doll into the side of the crate.

The third turned to flee—but Author, seizing the moment, grabbed a rusted pipe and swept his legs out.

Kenji was there in a second, planting a knee on the thug's chest.

"Where is he?" Kenji asked, voice calm, but laced with fire.

The man coughed blood, smirking through the pain. "You think Ellion didn't see this coming? You're not hunting him… he's already watching you."

Kenji's eyes narrowed. He reached into the thug's coat and found a folded scrap of paper. A time. A place.

"Midnight. South Warehouse. Final shipment."

The night had thinned by the time they returned to the alley behind the inn. A chill breeze rolled through, catching the edge of a bounty poster pinned to the wall. Ellion Sparrow's eyes stared back at them.

Kenji handed the bound thug over to a pair of waiting Marines, nodding curtly before turning away.

Author slumped against the wall, wiping sweat from his brow.

"Well… I didn't die. That's a win, right?"

Kenji looked at him, and—after a moment—chuckled. "You did good."

Then quieter, as he glanced at the scrap of paper again:

"He's coming to us. Just like I hoped."

Kenji stood still, the paper crumpling slightly in his grip. Across the alley, the bounty poster on the wall barely stirred, Ellion's face staring outward with that same defiant smirk.

No words passed between them. Only quiet—the kind that comes before a storm.

Kenji looked up at the stars, then back at the name printed in bold ink. He folded the paper, tucked it into his coat, and turned toward the inn.

Tomorrow, they'd strike. But tonight, the town held its breath.

The wind carried the faint creak of the poster against the wood, like the whisper of a warning that hadn't finished speaking.

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