The doorway goes black with a man shaped by rain and bad decisions. He keeps one hand low, the other sliding under his coat. The customs subfile burns cold in Dallas Fontaine’s grip, its pages half-open to Mercer’s blacked-out name.

Professor Dayton freezes at the desk, candlelight thinning across his face. The stranger’s sleeve rides up, showing a Harbor Unit badge clipped to a fresh tear in the lining, a man trying hard not to look like law.

The stranger flinches at Dayton’s words, and his gun hand hesitates just long enough to betray him. On the open page, Dallas catches a routing mark tied to Pier Nine and a stamped reference to the church offices under Rowan Mercer Holdings.

From the file’s margin, a handwritten note shows the next step, an inspection route leading from the customs archive to Mercer’s private waterfront office. Dallas has the path now, and the man in the doorway knows it.

Dallas lets the file dip in his hand and steps forward, open palm extended like a surrender. The stranger’s eyes lock on the papers.

Then Dallas drives in low, shoulder first, and the study erupts in a crash of chair legs and scattered pages. The file skids free, still in reach of Dallas’s knee.

The stranger hits the floor hard, coat twisting, weapon arm trapped under him. Dallas lands on top, pinning the wrist before the gun can clear.

Dallas yanks the stranger’s coat open and finds a folded waterfront office sketch with Mercer’s route stamped across it. The man’s breath catches when he sees Dallas take it.