The file case sits open on the cliffside rock, fog beading on its black shell. That sharp printer-ink stink hits Dallas again, same as the service lane, same as the trail that kept moving when it should have died.
Dallas Fontaine
The ink is a marker, not a stain.
He peels back the soaked lining. Beneath it, a hidden pocket yawns open, its paper edges darkened with the same chemical wash. The case was never just a container, it was a courier trap.
Jackson Temple
Tell me that is what I think it is.
Dallas lifts the sheet free. Names, dates, routing marks, and one clean chain leading straight up into leadership. Not a rumor, not a guess, the final knot in the whole dead, paper trail.
The shepherd presses close, nose working the case, tail stiff as he watches the fog beyond the cliff.
Jackson leans in beside him, reading the page, then the harbor, then the page again. Behind them, the wind eases, and Far Harbor stays quiet for one thin, uneasy breath.
Confront the final leadership chain
+ New Item Acquired
Hidden document