The stink of the docks still clung to Capol’s clothes by the time dawn broke, a cocktail of brine, rust, and blood that no amount of cold water could wash off. He leaned against the safehouse window, watching the first streaks of light cut over Eastgate’s skyline. The city didn’t wake gently—it convulsed. Sirens wailed from two directions at once, a car horn blared in fury down South Channel Street, and somewhere across the river, gunfire sputtered like an afterthought. The world never stopped here. It only shifted which part of it bled.
Behind him, Vince snored on the couch with his boots still on, shotgun across his chest like a lover. Jerry sat at the table, shirtless, wrapping his shoulder where the graze had left an angry red welt. Julian hadn’t moved from the terminal all night. His
