Game over.
This is not a negotiation anymore.
The smell of the sea mixes with fuel and blood, sharp and unmistakable, and my men have already done their work at the edge of the deck, emptying buckets of bait into the water, watching as dark shapes begin to move beneath the surface. At first, they are distant, barely visible, but then the water shifts, cuts, and circles, and I know the sharks are close. They love to feast. Marco’s breathing grows louder, uneven, his chest rising and falling too fast, too shallow. He tries to speak, fails, swallows hard, and then finally looks at me, as if hoping to find something human enough in my face to save him.
“This wasn’t how it was supposed to end,” he says, his