The warehouse district stank of diesel and rust.
Harold killed the headlights two blocks out and coasted the town car into the shadow of a gutted cannery. The docks stretched ahead like the ribs of some ancient beast, lit only by the occasional sodium lamp and the green glow of Agnetha's wards pulsing across the water.
Reed checked the magazine on the mountain-stone pistol (rounds carved from the same scale Harold had torn off his own chest the night he chose humanity). Each bullet hummed faintly, hungry for fire magic.
Harold killed the engine. Silence rushed in, thick as oil.
“Clock's ticking," he said. “Eleven forty-three. She'll have the place ringed with elementals and at least two blood-bound enforcers. Plus whatever she's keeping in the tear's old cage."
Reed pulled up the dron
