Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKA5NW874VGNJH3VGSEW48N

Rain stitched the harbor in silver threads as Detective Mira Lorne arrived, late, her notebook damp and resolve undimmed tonight. Behind the fishmonger stalls, a siren moaned, gulls scattering as uniformed boots converged on Slip Nine, already cordoned with tape. The body lay half-hidden beneath burlap, a pale hand pointing seaward, wedding band gleaming like a stranded lighthouse at midnight. Mira crouched, listening to rain tick the pier's ribs, while whispers eddied from shadows where dockworkers smoked, watching her silently. Officer Patel cleared his throat, voice low, saying the caller was anonymous, the message garbled, the location unmistakably precise tonight. She traced bruises already blooming beneath the wrist, noting rope impressions, tar smudges, and faint glitter like ground glass everywhere. From the darkness, a clock tolled two, and the harbor answered with clanks, chains gossiping against hulls, secrets unsettled beneath. A receipt in the coat pocket named Rook's Bar, timestamped earlier, scrawled with a meeting time and one initial only. Patel mentioned fishermen heard arguing between storms, a woman's laugh turning sharp, then silence, then something heavy meeting wood hard. Mira pocketed the receipt, lifted her eyes, and saw footprints dissolving, leading nowhere, except straight toward the black, patient water.