The wind coming off the harbor carried the smell of salt, rust, and something faintly metallic, like blood that had dried long ago. South Dock stretched before Raghav—a sprawling skeleton of cranes, warehouses, and cargo containers stacked like giant blocks. The place was never completely quiet; even at this hour, water slapped against the hulls of moored ships, chains clinked against metal, and somewhere in the darkness, a gull cried out before vanishing into the mist.
Raghav's boots crunched against the damp gravel as he walked. His pace was steady, but his mind was a storm of calculations. The dock was a trap—he knew it, Arjun knew it, Meera knew it. The question was not whether an ambush would happen, but how many layers of it there would be.
He stopped at the shadow of a shipping container, pressing his back against its cold steel surface. His earpiece crackled.
"South gate clear," came Arjun's voice, low and clipped. "Two trucks parked, no movement yet. Could be a front."
