The night was damp, the kind of damp that clung to the air and refused to let go. Fog rolled in from the sea, swallowing the dockyards in a heavy, suffocating shroud. Sodium-vapor lamps hung high above on rusted poles, their pale yellow halos barely slicing through the mist. The low groan of ships, creaking against their moorings, echoed like restless giants.
Damien stood at the edge of the dock, the collar of his coat pulled high against the cold. His eyes scanned the horizon where shapes of cargo containers lay in stacked rows like silent mausoleums. This was where the trail of Valcov had led them — Odessa’s whispers, the broker Anton Reznik’s hints, and finally the thin line connecting back to Mother Vee’s sprawling network. Every road seemed to converge here.
Behind him, Amara shifte
