The waterfront office rises out of the dark like a surgeon’s block, all glass, concrete, and harsh white security lights. Diesel hangs in the air. Beyond it, black water slaps the pilings while machinery grinds somewhere inside the building.

Dallas Fontaine and Murderbone cut across the slick dock approach. The dog’s hackles stand up hard, his low growl matching the throb of engines under the floor.

At the side entrance, a hard hat lies crushed near a keypad. The door stands ajar by a finger-width, leaking fluorescent light and the stink of bleach.

A dockhand steps from behind a stack of sealed crates, one hand half-hidden under his rain jacket. Murderbone plants himself between the man and Dallas, teeth showing, while the office lights flicker once, then steady.

Dallas closes the distance and stops just short of the ajar door. The dockhand’s hidden hand trembles, then eases out from his jacket when Dallas’s stare never leaves his face.

Murderbone holds position, rigid and silent, as the dockhand swallows hard and glances toward the open doorway.

He reaches slowly into his rain jacket and produces a crumpled visitor pass, keeping it pinched between two fingers like it might burn him.

The visitor pass shows a fresh stamp and a handwritten code on the back, the ink still sharp. Inside, a muffled cart wheel squeals, then stops.

Dallas watches the answer land. The dockhand’s shoulders stay hunched, but the lie he fears most is not about Mercer, it is about being caught between richer men and the water.

The dockhand nods too fast, slips sideways from the door, and backs away toward the lights with both hands visible. The visitor pass remains in Dallas’s reach, stamped and coded, while the inner glass beyond the ajar door catches a brief movement and then stills.

He retreats off the side entrance without another word, leaving Dallas and Murderbone with the open threshold and the pass in hand.

Dallas slips the visitor pass toward the lock sensor. The side door gives with a soft click, and he eases it wider just enough to slip through.

Murderbone slides in tight behind him, silent as a shadow. The security lights wash the threshold white, then leave the room beyond in a dim smear of desks and glass.

Inside, the office smells of salt, paper, and stale coffee. A monitor glows on a desk, showing a hallway feed that still flickers from recent motion.

Dallas pauses at the first workstation and catches a fresh scuff on the floor, like a chair was shoved back in a hurry. A file tray sits half-empty beside a ringing phone that never gets answered.

From deeper in the office, a latch clicks once, then stops. Someone inside is listening to the dark hold its breath.