Possessed by the Mafia King: Lucien Kim

The rain wouldn’t stop. It came down in heavy sheets, turning the streets into rivers and making everything feel colder and heavier. I killed the engine of the Rubicon and sat there for a second, staring at the yellow police tape flapping in the wind. South Harbor warehouses always look the same—old, rusty, forgotten. I stepped out. Water soaked my white shirt instantly, making it stick to my skin. I didn’t care. I grabbed the camera bag and ducked under the tape. Marco saw me right away. “Khai. Over here.” He looked exhausted. Pale face, tired eyes. Same look he always has on nights like this. “Rico Valdez,” he said before I could ask. “Mid-twenties. Low-level runner for one of the port crews. Found him about ninety minutes ago. It’s a message. Clean work. Too clean.” We walked inside. The smell hit me first—rust, salt from the bay, old oil in the concrete, and fresh blood. Rain dripped from the roof in slow, steady drops. Plink. Plink. Plink. One weak bulb hung from a cord above, swinging gently and throwing long shadows across crates and rusted containers. Rico was in the center, tied to an old metal office chair. No shirt. Wrists zip-tied behind his back. Throat cut in one straight line from ear to ear. Blood had poured down his chest and pooled on the floor between his bare feet. I crouched. Looked lower. LKK Carved deep into the skin below his ribs. Straight lines. No hesitation. No mess. Someone took their time. I knew those letters. Lucien Krosovski Kim. The Ice Prince. The Mafia King. The name that makes people lower their voices even when they’re alone. I lifted the Nikon. Adjusted for the dim light. Started shooting. Wide shot first—the whole scene. Then the throat—one clean slice. Then close on the letters—blood still wet and shining. Then his face—eyes wide open, frozen in fear. I walked around the chair slowly. His head was tilted toward the main doors. Not by accident. Deliberate. Like the killer wanted the dead man watching for whoever came in next. That’s when I felt it. Someone watching me. Not Marco. Not the other cops. Someone else. I turned the camera toward the far corner—dark over there, full of broken crates and rusted machines. Three quick shots. Flash popped bright. Checked the screen. Nothing clear. Just shadows. But the feeling didn’t go away. Someone was there. Marco stepped closer. “You see something?” “Enough,” I said. “This wasn’t an angry kill. One cut to the throat. Letters carved carefully. Body positioned to face the door. It’s a warning for whoever finds him.” Marco rubbed his face. “We can’t put that in the report. Not with those initials.” I gave a short laugh. No real humor. “Scared of the Ice Prince?” “Everyone should be,” he said quietly. “He controls the ports. Casinos. Politicians in his pocket. Half-Russian, half-Korean. Grew up in cold places—Alaska maybe—then fought in rings in Russia and Korea. Now he runs the cleanest, most expensive drugs in the city. When he wants someone gone, he makes it a lesson. Bodies in the bay. Messages carved in skin.” I kept shooting. Blood patterns on the floor. Cheap watch still ticking on his wrist. Zip ties digging into skin, bruising already showing. I looked back at that dark corner one more time. “If you’re watching,” I whispered, “come out already.” No answer. I finished. Gave Marco a copy of the files. Walked out into the rain. The drive home felt long. Streets empty. Rain drumming on the roof. My mind kept going back to the feeling in the warehouse—like eyes on my back the whole time. I pulled into Project 4. Gate creaked. Living room light still on. Mom was on the sofa, rosary in her fingers, TV muted. “Khai,” she said softly. “You’re home.” I dropped the bag. Took off the wet shirt. “Harbor crime scene. Same as always.” She looked at me for a long moment. “You always come back carrying something heavy.” I went to the kitchen. Opened the fridge. Closed it. “Just tired, Mom.” “Sit down.” I sat at the small table. My fingers found Teo’s old carving—T.C.—from when he was a kid. Mom turned off the TV. Silence filled the room. “Four years,” she said quietly. “Four years since Teo didn’t come home. I still wait sometimes. Like he’s just late from work.” I stared at the table. “I’m still looking.” “You’re not looking,” she said gently. “You’re hurting yourself. Every night you go to those places. Blood. Rain. You think I don’t notice how tired you look?” “I need to know what happened to him.” “Teo believed in the job. He believed in doing right. Then one night… only his bloody jacket came back.” I stood up. “I’m developing the photos. Good night, Mom.” She didn’t stop me. The darkroom was small—old storage closet with a red bulb. I stripped down, mixed chemicals, started working. Prints appeared slowly in the trays. Throat wound. Carved letters. Terrified eyes. Then the blind shots from the dark corner. One of them made me stop breathing for a second. A tall man in shadow. Silver-gray eyes staring straight into the lens. Hand raised like he was taking a picture of me. Bruises on his knuckles. Rain shining in his black hair. I stared at the print until my eyes hurt. My heart pounded. Heat in my chest. Anger. Curiosity. Something I didn’t want to feel. I hung the prints to dry. Turned off the light. In my room, I dropped onto the bed. Rain still hitting the roof hard. Sleep came in pieces. Dreams of Teo laughing. Blood on a jacket. Silver eyes watching. Phone buzzed at 3:47 a.m. Marco. I answered. “Another one,” he said. “Navotas fish port. Same cut. Same letters. Knife still in the chest.” I rubbed my face. Let out a long breath. “Navotas,” I muttered. “So tired… but okay. I’m going.” I got up. Put on black jeans, another white shirt. Boots still damp. Grabbed the camera bag. I paused at Mom’s door. She was asleep, rosary in her hand. Quietly, I left. Rain kept falling. I started the car. Drove into the darkness. This night wasn’t over. And whatever this was—messages, warnings, someone playing games—I was already part of it. I gripped the wheel tighter. I wasn’t backing down.