The Proscenium rose from the black water like a beast of glass and steel, its decks stacked in tiers that climbed toward the grey sky. Emergency lights cast a pale glow across the polished railings, and the fog curled around the hull in tendrils that seemed almost alive. The two fishing trawlers approached from the north, their engines cut to a whisper, their hulls brushing against the yacht's massive anchor chain.
Caleb was the first over the rail, his wounded side screaming in protest as he pulled himself onto the lower deck. The others followed in silence—Elias, Nyla, Vance, Deji—their movements coordinated by hours of planning and the desperate precision of people who knew that one mistake would cost them everything. The lower deck was empty, the crew either unaware of their approach
