It was a trap, alright. The only question was who was trapping whom.
At night, Portcove awakened every nocturnal desire imaginable. All manner of commercial and entertainment venues kept the city ablaze with light, leaving no corner dark.
Inside the private room, Marcus Marsh sat with a dark expression in a seat of honor near the head of the table, the gauze bandage on his forehead standing out starkly. K and his other henchmen, also sporting injuries, stood behind him looking like a pack of thugs.
"Mr. Marsh, what happened to you?" one of the branch executives asked.
Marcus Marsh snorted angrily. "Damn it! When I get my hands on that truck driver, I'll break his legs!"
When Marcus Marsh didn't answer, the executive turned to K.
K, also fuming, explained, "Mr. Marsh's car got hit by a truck today. What a fucking stroke of bad luck!"
