They arrived at a slum tucked against a narrow strip of harbor, where the air smelled of salt, rust, and something faintly rotten beneath it all. Small fishing boats bobbed lazily against worn wooden docks, their paint chipped and faded by years of neglect.
The place was alive, but not in any welcoming way.
Clusters of fishermen lingered near the piers, their voices kept low as they spoke with people who clearly did not belong. The outsiders stood out at a glance—well-dressed, burdened with large bags and heavy suitcases that seemed out of place in such a rundown harbor.
Their movements were stiff, their composure strained; cautious eyes flickered from one corner to another, as though weighing every shadow, every passing figure, every possible threat. Tourist perhaps...or something else.
Lory's gaze swept across the area, sharp and observant. It didn't take long for her to notice the pattern, too many unfamiliar faces, too many people trying too hard to look casual.
