The docks at night are a different beast—chains rattle like ghostly laughter, waves slap against rotting pilings, and the fog wraps around your throat like a noose. You keep to the shadows, the .38 a comforting weight against your ribs. Pier 17 looms ahead, its skeletal frame silhouetted against the sodium lights of the shipyard. That's when you see it—the black Cadillac, parked crooked near Warehouse B, its chrome grille grinning like a predator's teeth.

You move closer, the wooden planks creaking beneath your wingtips. The car's interior reeks of expensive cologne and gun oil. A glint catches your eye—another monogrammed piece, this time a platinum pocket watch wedged between the seats. The initials 'L.Z.' stare up at you, the engraving crisp and recent. Outside, a door slams. You duck just as two figures emerge from the warehouse, their voices carrying on the salt-tinged air.

'...told you not to take the damn watch,' growls the taller one, a suit stretched tight over linebacker shoulders. His companion—a wiry man with a face like crumpled paper—nervously fingers something in his pocket. 'Boss wants them clean. No souvenirs.' The wiry man pulls out a pearl earring identical to the one from Chase's car and tosses it into the bay. The plop it makes is swallowed by the fog. They climb into the Cadillac, its engine growling to life.

You press flat against a stack of cargo crates as the car rolls past, close enough to see the golden dragon tattoo coiled around the driver's wrist. The warehouse door hangs slightly ajar, a slash of yellow light bleeding onto the dock. Inside, the scent of brine mixes with something metallic and sour. A single desk lamp illuminates a ledger left open—columns of dates, initials, and sums that would make a banker blush. The last entry sends ice down your spine: 'E.C. - Pier 17 - 48hrs.' Mrs. Chase's husband has less than a day left.