***

The break room was a small, dismal space with peeling paint and a lingering smell of stale coffee and ashtrays. A few rickety chairs surrounded a battered table that had seen better days, and a dented fridge hummed noisily in the corner. It wasn't much, but it offered a getaway from the grueling work outside.

I sat alone, sipping coffee and waiting for my shift to end as I mulled over the current situation.

A week passed, and Fanucci had yet to return. His absence was no surprise; he was too smart to risk frequenting the shipyard too often. He carefully supervises everything from a distance, ensuring his hands remain clean while his associates handle the dirty work.

The shipments were a mixed bag; some were legitimate goods, while others contained illicit drugs hidden within the crates. I tried looking for a pattern of marks or codes on the outside that would indicate which ones were which, but nothing was obvious yet.

As I was lost in thought, a man walked in, laughing and chatting with another worker.

He had dark hair and a trimmed beard. I had seen him around the shipyard but I never spoke to him before.

He looked at me and started to walk over. I felt my body tense up.

"Hey, you're new here, right? Grab a drink with us," he said with a grin.

The other man piped up in agreement, "Come with us." He nodded.

I paused for a moment, then smiled at myself.

At some point in my life, I had gotten used to the hostility from my co-workers. I expected it.

Here, I'm undercover. Nobody knows who I am or what my sexual preferences are. They don't hold a grudge or dislike me for any reason. I'm just a regular guy with a clean slate.

"I hope you know a good place for a beer," I said with a smile. This was my chance to get closer to them, and I couldn't pass it up.

"What's your name anyway?" He extended his hand, and I reached out to shake it.

"It's Spencer."