The Deal at Dawn

The city was still asleep when Vincent parked his car near the port of Marseille. The air smelled of salt and diesel, and the horizon was painted in bruised shades of blue. In the passenger seat, a black leather bag rested quietly — heavier than he expected, heavier than guilt itself.

He’d promised himself this would be the last job. One delivery, one final payment, and then he’d disappear to Lisbon, start over, maybe even sleep without hearing sirens in his dreams. But promises, he knew, were like debts — they always came back.

The buyer was late. Vincent checked his watch again, the ticking echoing like footsteps in an empty hallway. He thought of the woman waiting for him back home, of the message she’d sent the night before: “If you don’t come back tomorrow, I won’t wait anymore.”

When the black van arrived, it moved too quietly for comfort. Two men stepped out. No greetings, no handshake. One of them opened the bag, counted quickly, then nodded. “We’re done,” he said.

But as Vincent turned to leave, he felt the cold press of metal against his back. “Not quite,” said the other. “You know too much.”

The sound of the gun was swallowed by the waves. The seagulls screamed as the first light of dawn touched the water. By the time the port workers arrived, there was only the bag left on the pier — open, empty, and wet with the sea.

The money was gone, and so was Vincent.