Along the waterfront, neon signs in faded Chinese characters sputtered in the night, their glow barely penetrating the damp fog coming from the shore which curled around the narrow alleyways of the harbour. Shadows shifted where dockworkers moved in hushed conversations, their cigarettes burning like fireflies in the gloom. Somewhere, the distant sound of a buoy bell and the slow creak of wooden hulls against mooring lines finished to underscore the restless stillness of the impenetrable night.

Taking advantage of the night and foggy conditions, a rusted freighter edged closer to the pier, its hull groaning with the weight of its illicit cargo.

On the edge of the dock, inside a dimly lit warehouse, tucked between rows of forgotten shipping containers, men waited. The air was thick with cigarette smoke betraying the level of nerves among the men. Tonight, would be lucrative but it could also, all go badly awry as they all knew what was at stake. Sweat beaded on their foreheads, tracing slow, uneven paths down their temples. Shirts clung to their backs, damp patches spreading like ink stains. The scent of nervous sweat – sharp, slightly sour – mingled with the stale air. A lone bulb swung from the ceiling, casting long, jittery shadows over the faces of the men gathered below it.

One small man wiped his brow with the back of his tattooed hand, only for another wave of moisture to take its place.  His foot tapped anxiously, the rhythm irregular, betraying his struggle to stay composed. His eyes kept watching as the rusted freighter, with excruciating slowness, made its final approach before its crew moored it securely to the dock.

He carefully surveyed his surroundings once more, ensuring there were no sign of interference that could disrupt the evening’s operations, before giving the signal to move out.

He barked orders in Mandarin every word crackling like a fire catching dry wood – sharp, rapid each work striking like a drumbeat. His men sprang into action, to help unload the content of the boat. The winches sprang to life, creaking painfully under the weight of the wooden crates marked with innocuous labels: “Tea”, “Electronics” or “Machinery Parts.” They were pulled, one by one, from the bowels of the ship onto the dock. Their descent seemingly taking an age, once again, further adding to the tension that already hung heavily in the air.