I ran. The asphalt of the East Pier felt rough and muddy beneath the soles of my hi-tenile shoes, absorbing every echo and footfall. Hard, fast, and silent—those were the demands of the conditions I now faced. The smell of rust mixed with chemical odors from the industrial tanks pressed down on every breath, even with the mask filtering my air intake. Nothing else mattered except the silhouette of the colossal cargo ship ahead.
The Maruta was a gray giant under the hazy glow of Terminal D's yellow lights, appearing like a floating steel warehouse, laden with cargo and secrets I couldn't discern. Its engine pulsed with a low, deadly rhythm. The anchor had been raised. In minutes, it would cut through the night toward Ethereal Island.
I was too late. I should have been on this ship fifteen
