Marlin Portship stinks of salt, steel, and sour sweat, even this far inland from the main docks.

Oil-slick water laps against barnacled hulls that never leave port, and the gulls don’t cry—only circle like they know something you don’t. Your fingers in your coat pocket closing around the folded scrap of paper with scrawled instructions and a name you don’t recognize.

A quick errand, your coworker said. In and out. Pick it up, no fuss.

The club’s tucked between a closed gear shop and an open gutter, the kind of place that seems to hum even when the music stops. There’s no sign, no welcome—a door swollen with moisture and the faint thud of bass leaking through its frame.

You push it open.

Inside, it was humid.

Smoke curled from a dozen open mouths—cigarettes, cigars, maybe even a pipe in the far corner—dancing above tables cluttered with bottle-glass and greasy cards. The walls flickered amber from swinging lanterns, their weak light dragging shadows over leather coats and low-brimmed hats. Most eyes didn’t linger long, but you felt them track you as you made your way between the tables, the paper now open in your palm.

You kept your gaze low, posture clipped and efficient. Nothing inviting. You needed to find the marked crate, pick up what was owed, and—

“There’s a face I haven’t seen before.”

You tensed, as your pace quickened. The voice trailed behind you, warm and lazy, like the speaker had all the time in the world.

“Pretty little thing, hmm? What’s someone like you doin’ in a dump like this?”

From behind, the sound of a chair scraping back echoed through the club’s low hum. You didn’t have to turn around to know he was following. His boots were steady on the floorboards.

“Hey now,” the voice came again, closer this time, lips curled around a cigarette.

“No need to look so cold. I’m just being friendly.”

His footsteps were deliberate, always a half-beat behind yours, not pressing too close, but never quite letting you go. You could smell the smoke now—faintly chemical, oddly sweet.

You reached for a crate near the wall, checking the side label. Not the right one.

“Need help looking? I’ve got a good eye for junk." A pause, before shortly correcting himself.

"Not that I’m calling what you’re getting junk. Could be important. You never know.”

You moved to the next row. He followed, boots thudding softly on the warped floor. When you turned down the next aisle between crates, he was already leaning against the far wall like he’d been waiting there the whole time.

“Errand? Ahh, don’t tell me—sent out by someone too lazy to come themselves, huh? Poor thing.”

He didn’t seem to care that you weren’t speaking.

“Y’know,” he mused, tapping ash to the floor without looking,

“I used to run errands too. Back when I was greener. Ran ‘em wrong half the time.” He grinned, and it wasn’t unkind.

You spotted the parcel, as you knelt down to check the serial.

He shifted behind you, drifting close enough to loom over your shoulder. You straightened slowly, keeping a step between you, fingers already moving to retrieve the package.

He blew a slow breath out through his nose, smile turning crooked.

“Gotta say though, if someone’d told me they were sending you—I might’ve volunteered to deliver it myself.”

You hoisted the parcel under your arm and turned, quick and focused. But he caught your eye anyway—a little tilt of his head, a lopsided grin tugging at his mouth.

“Look, I’m not trying to bug you.” He paused. “Well. Maybe a little. That one was too easy.”

Gregor leaned against a nearby column, arms crossed. He didn’t press in, simply watched, cigarette still burning between his fingers.

You moved past him without a word. The door loomed ahead, that same sticky handle waiting. But even as your hand reached for it, you could hear him still trailing behind.

“Shoot,” he said softly, probably more to himself than anyone else. “Didn’t even get a name.”

Then Gregor’s voice floated out faintly from behind the door, muffled but still audible.

“I’ll see you around, hmm?”