Fog crawls through the wire mesh, turning the records cage into a small, damp coffin of paper and rust. Dallas holds the ledger open under the sickly pier light. The footsteps stop at the half-ajar door.

The figure shifts in the doorway, coat dark with sea mist. Dallas sees the clean angle of a badge chain and the stiff way the man keeps his right hand away from his jacket.

Murderbone appears at Dallas's side, shoulder low, teeth bared at the threshold. Down the corridor, a second pair of boots scuffs in the fog, just far enough away to be trouble.

The man flinches at the name, and for one thin second Dallas sees it, not a thug, but a courier who came too late to save himself. The corridor behind him is full of the next move, and the book in Dallas's hand is the proof that gets Voss.

Dallas turns the ledger just enough to catch the line that matters, then lets the page settle closed. The man’s gaze follows it like a hooked fish.

Murderbone lowers his head a little, but he does not stop watching. The fog thickens beyond the mesh, softening the corridor into a gray tunnel.

The man swallows and finally eases one shoulder off the doorframe, like the answer costs less than a lie. Murderbone watches him hard, but does not move.

Fog whitens the mesh behind them, and the corridor beyond turns featureless. Dallas holds the ledger steady while the tension in the cage drops from a blade edge to a low hum.

Dallas turns a page in the ledger and finds the receipt pattern that matters, numbers repeated in a clerk's hand, then corrected in a second ink. He traces the chain to Carter Vale's stamp and follows it through the margin notes.

He lifts the matching receipt from the desk file and lines the codes up. The paper confirms a handoff window, a storage drawer, and a pier-side office tied to Vale's name.

Murderbone sniffs once at the paper, then shifts toward the corridor as if catching a fresh scent. The fog outside the mesh thins just enough to reveal a moving shadow beyond the door.

Dallas folds the receipt into his pocket with the ledger still open in front of him. The route is pinned down now, and the next footstep in the hall sounds like it belongs to whoever meets Carter Vale.

Dallas eases the ledger down and shifts toward the open seam of the door, trying to make himself part of the fog and shadow.

His boot clicks the metal lip by a fraction too hard. The shape in the corridor stops moving.

Murderbone plants himself at the threshold, baring his teeth without lunging, while Clara snaps her attention to the door.

Dallas pulls back from the opening just as the hallway shadow shifts closer, cutting off the clean exit he was trying to use.

Dallas slides his shoulder toward the gap, trying to turn fog into cover.

A floorboard gives under his heel. The hallway shadow snaps its attention straight onto the doorway.

Murderbone shifts in front of Dallas, blocking the line, while Clara drags the ledger closer to her chest.

Dallas pulls back into the cage instead of forcing it. The fog stays in the doorway, thick and waiting.

Dallas lets the pause stretch, then shifts sideways into the fogged aisle. His shoes make no more sound than the dripping pipes.

Murderbone keeps his chest between Dallas and the doorway, but the dog’s weight moves with him, making room instead of blocking it.

Clara’s eyes flick once to the hall, then back to the ledger. She doesn’t stop Dallas, only tightens her grip and clears a narrow path.

Dallas slips past the threshold and into the service corridor, the shadow missing him by seconds.

The voice snaps behind him, but Dallas is already out of the cage. Ahead, the corridor bends toward the loading side, where a low engine hum grows clearer through the damp.

Dallas takes the bend without breaking stride, the corridor narrowing into puddled concrete and pipe shadows. The engine hum swells from ahead, steady and close.

Murderbone pads at his knee, then veers a step wide, checking the dark seam of the loading side first. Clara stays behind, half-lost in the fogged doorway.

Dallas reaches the loading-side opening and catches a sliver of the bay beyond, lit by a swinging work lamp and the wash of headlights through mist.

A crate truck idles outside the frame, its rear doors already open. Someone has started the move.

Dallas slips into position at the threshold, where the corridor gives way to the loading bay, and the first shape of the shipment comes into view.

Dallas keeps his voice low and steady, asking for safe passage instead of a fight. The truck lights bleach the fog white while the bay listens with him.

A beat of silence passes. The figure steps out of the corridor shadow and lowers their hands just enough to show they are choosing words over panic.

Murderbone eases half a step back, still wary, while Dallas reads the figure’s face in the glare and catches the strain under the caution.

Dallas gives the warning a nod and steps into the glare, choosing the pallet lane instead of the open bay. The truck idles on, patient and ugly in the fog.

The figure watches him pass, jaw tight, then looks away from the truck like it might remember their face.

Dallas reaches the lane, shoulders brushing damp wood and stacked crates, as the bay lights smear across the wet floor.

Dallas lowers his shoulders and eases deeper into the pallet lane, letting the stacked crates break up his shape from the truck lights.

The wet boards barely answer under his shoes, but the open bay ahead floods everything with white glare and fog.

He reaches the truck's flank, close enough to smell diesel and salt, but the cab mirror catches a sliver of his movement.

Inside the truck, a silhouette shifts behind the wheel, and a hand taps the dash as if counting time.

Dallas freezes half a step shy of cover, now pinned between the truck's open cargo and the bright mouth of the bay.

The engine keeps idling, patient as a threat, while the fog turns the pallet lane into a narrow, watched corridor.