The city has a way of pretending its noises are ordinary. Sirens declare themselves as if they’re part of the morning soundtrack, trucks grumble like old men, the river shouldering light as though that’s what water is for. On mornings like this I let the soundtrack play and stand in front of the glass long enough to tell which notes are wrong. Today, one of them was.
Luca’s folder sat closed on my desk the way warning signs sit on fences no one reads. I already knew the summary before I opened it: Rafe’s men doubled their passes by the south dock, a sedan took the long route around the east warehouse twice, a third car parked where sight lines are good and left before the cameras could call it loitering. Testing, not touching. Men like Rafe think probing is power. Real power builds rooms
