Dallas slips through the ajar service door into a cramped junction of flickering monitors and tired relay boxes. The air smells of dust, hot plastic, and salt from the docks above.
A technician is hunched over a hard drive, scrubbing it with frantic little motions. On the wall behind him, wedding site maps glare back in red ink, each marked like a target.
Dallas Fontaine
That drive is the paper trail.
Murderbone bristles at Dallas's side, body low, eyes fixed on the man's hands. The technician freezes when he notices the doorway, but he keeps one palm over the drive as if that might hide the damage.
The Technician
You are too late. They already moved the clean route off the board.
Dallas spots the shift in the maps at once, the wedding site is being isolated by alternate service runs, dead-end transfers, and false delivery windows. This room is the nerve center of the detour meant to pull him away from the ceremony.
The Technician
If you want the real route, stop the wipe before it hits the archive.
The monitors keep stuttering red as Dallas stands in the doorway, with the wedding site, the hidden route, and the clock all pointing to the same trap.
Stop the evidence wipe before it reaches the archive