Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK96JNEMBMB58TW0CXGR9W2

Rain stitched the harbor with pins of glittering, malicious cold. The foghorn groaned, mourning something not yet officially dead here. Detective Mara Cruz watched gulls wheel above trawlers, cigarette burning. She listened, letting footsteps scatter secrets across the slick pier. A lamp swung feverishly, painting nervous halos on raincoats nearby. Somewhere, a radio whispered jazz that nobody remembered liking tonight. The dockmaster approached, cheeks chapped, eyes trawling her questions warily. He pointed toward Slip Thirteen, a name sailors avoided always. Behind coiled ropes, a boot jutted from tarpaulin shadows stiffly. Mara lifted canvas, and the storm exhaled stale secrets slowly. The body wore night like armor, glistening with brine unnervingly. A silver fishhook pierced his lip, threading silence through flesh. On his palm, ink bled: meet me before tide turns. Lightning spidered distant clouds, revealing faces turned politely away, watching. Someone laughed wrongly, brittleness cracking like a dropped shell near. Mara pocketed the note, feeling currents organize around her purposefully. She studied the hook, wondering which mouth withheld another truth. Sirens threaded closer, unraveling the harbor's practiced, indifferent hush slowly. Rain intensified, applauding the night's most unforgivable performance so far. Above everything, gulls screamed names nobody dared to speak aloud.