Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKA0B2BD6D3BGR4QEXYPPH1

Rain crept along the pier, swallowing footsteps and whispered arguments. Detective Mara Quinn watched gulls circle, patient as courthouse clerks. The harbor lights blinked Morse, though nobody cared for translations. A trawler moaned offshore, dragging nets heavy with unseen histories. She tasted copper on wind, memory stinging worse than whisky. The phone buzzed again, a moth trapped inside her pocket. Harbor patrol reported a floater, drifting near Slip Seventeen tonight. Quinn started walking, because running meant panic, and panic echoed. Dockboards complained beneath boots, telling stories about burdens they carried. The boat bobbed obediently, except for one dark burden there. A man lay swaddled in rope, suit salted and ruined. His throat held a smile someone forced, crooked and crimson. On his palm, tar smeared letters, spelling something almost legible. Mara photographed everything, heart ticking louder than the shutter does. Somewhere upriver, sirens stitched distance, weaving urgency through fog threads. She knelt, ignoring cold, listening for the harbor's confession tonight. Salt crusted the corpse, but underneath lingered hospital disinfectant faintly. Whoever tossed him overboard expected water to launder answers clean. Quinn pocketed rope fibers, careful not to wake gulls nearby. The lighthouse blinked pleadingly, but bureaucracy would demand patience first. She checked her watch: midnight exactly, tides turning with witnesses. Behind her, footsteps paused, considering whether to retreat or advance. Mara did not turn; fear recognizes friends by perfume alone. She said hello softly, and the footsteps answered with silence.