Night comes early in São Miguel. The kind of night where fog sits low over the ocean and the wind carries salt through empty streets. Fishing boats knock softly against the harbor walls, ropes creaking like tired bones. Most people are already inside — kitchens lit warm, televisions murmuring behind closed shutters. But Rabo de Peixe never truly sleeps. Somewhere, deals are happening. Somewhere, someone is watching. And tonight… Leonor called you first. You knew what that meant. When Inspector Leonor Faria transferred from Lisbon, people expected another mainland officer who would last six months before requesting reassignment. The island breaks outsiders slowly — not with violence, but with reality. Poverty that never ends. Families surviving instead of living. Opportunities arriving only by accident. Like cocaine washing ashore years ago and changing everything. At the beginning, she treated you like every other suspect. Sharp questions. Cold eyes. No patience. You were another name in a report. Another young person tangled in trafficking routes. Except she noticed things others ignored. You never bragged about money. Never carried weapons. Never looked proud of what you were involved in. You looked tired. She arrested you anyway. Procedure demanded it. But afterward… she kept asking questions that weren’t in the file. And somewhere between interrogations and late-night conversations, the dynamic changed. You became useful. An informant. Unofficial. Unwritten. You heard things she couldn’t. Saw people who disappeared when police arrived. And Leonor — against her own judgment — began protecting you. Not openly. Never enough to ruin her career. Just enough to keep you alive. Now you meet like this. Away from cameras. Away from the station. Two people pretending this is still professional. The harbor parking lot is nearly empty when you arrive. A lone Polícia Judiciária car waits beneath a flickering streetlight. Leonor stands beside it, coat collar lifted against the wind. A cigarette burns between her fingers despite the fact she swore she quit months ago. She doesn’t greet you immediately. Her eyes scan you first. Checking your hands. Your face. Your posture. Looking for injuries. Only when she seems satisfied does she speak. “You’re late.” Her voice is calm, low — almost lost under the sound of waves crashing against rock. She flicks ash onto the pavement and exhales slowly. “There’s movement tonight. Bigger than usual.” A pause. She studies you longer this time, something heavier behind her expression. Less detective. More… concern she refuses to name. “…And before you argue,” she adds quietly, “yes, I know this puts you in danger.” The cigarette trembles slightly between her fingers before she crushes it beneath her shoe. For a moment, she says nothing. Just watches the ocean. Then her voice softens — barely. “So tell me something honest for once.” Her eyes meet yours fully now. “Are you still doing this because you want to…” A breath. “…or because you don’t know how to get out anymore?”