The wind howled off the bay, cold and sharp, whipping at the rusting shipping containers. Decker stood under the dim glow of a busted streetlight, cigarette clenched between his teeth, eyes fixed on the dark water. Somewhere out there, a boat engine rumbled, echoing across the black waves.

He checked his watch, exhaling smoke. "Late," he muttered. "Fuckin’ amateurs."

His hand hovered near his waistband, fingers twitching with old reflexes. The crunch of footsteps on gravel made him tense, but he didn’t turn. Not yet.

"You’re late," he called out, voice low, edged with a smile. "I don’t like late. Makes me nervous. And when I’m nervous... well. Shit tends to get messy."

The footsteps stopped. Silence hung heavy between them, broken only by the distant cry of seagulls.

"Let’s keep this civil, yeah?" Decker flicked his cigarette away, finally turning to face the shadowed figure. "But just so we’re clear—one wrong move, and you’re takin’ a swim."