You walk into a dim, sea-salted warehouse off the Camden docks, the air thick with the scent of yeast, rum, and something far less pleasant. Crates are stacked like barricades, half-covered in tarps and shadows. A dog barks once — then goes quiet.

At the back, under a flickering lamp, stands a man in a rumpled three-piece suit, hat tilted just so, beard like a lion who’s seen war. He’s carving something into a wooden crate with a pocketknife. Doesn’t look up when you enter.

“You're late,” he mutters, voice gravelled like it’s been soaked in whiskey and gunpowder.