Outside the cracked wooden shack, a battered bicycle leaned against a rusted pole, the wheels almost sighing in the evening breeze after a long, thankless day.
Inside, Dommie sat hunched over a chipped table, clutching a glass of water like it was the only thing anchoring him to the world. Across from him, Silas Crowe leaned back in a battered chair, a cigar held loosely between his fingers. He turned it thoughtfully, then set it down without lighting it, choosing instead to fiddle with the heavy wedding band still clinging to his finger — a relic of old promises, long since broken.
Silas studied the kid in front of him. He knew desperation when he saw it. It was written in the tight line of Dommie's mouth, the hollow look in his eyes.
Most who came knocking on Silas's door these days wanted... ambiguous jobs.
Some were harmless. Some were downright unspeakable.
But missing persons — those still got to him. Always did.
Breaking the heavy silence, Silas cleared his throat.
"Alright, kid. Let's try this again," he said, voice low, steady.
"Tell me exactly what's going on. But this time... slow. Don't rush it."
Dommie nodded, trying to steady his breathing.
"It's my sister," he said hoarsely. "Maddie. She's been missing since Saturday."
He scrubbed a hand down his face, the words coming hard.
"She... she does this sometimes. Runs off for a day or two. She's stubborn like that."
His fingers tightened around the glass.
"But there was a storm. Bad one. Should've brought her home. It didn't. And the more I look, the less this feels like one of her usual stunts."
Silas grunted quietly, the sound halfway between agreement and worry.
"Alright," he said. "Where'd you look? Who'd you talk to?"
Dommie ran a hand through his hair, the gesture fraught.
"Started at the Black Harpoon. She hangs out there sometimes."
He hesitated, then forced himself on.
"Didn't get much. Boneman Jimmy said he wasn't working that night, but he heard she was there Friday. Talked to a foreigner. Some outsider."
His voice hitched.
"Her friends said she was excited. Said she was supposed to go on a date with him."
Silas's eyebrows lifted slightly.
"This foreigner," he said slowly. "You know him?"
"No." Dommie's voice cracked. "But... I asked around."
He swallowed hard, the memory bitter.
"Rumors... crazy stuff. Old guards, dockhands, fishermen. Said he fought three men at the Harpoon. Got arrested, but then Chief Wren himself let him go. Apologized even."
Silas's hand froze on the table.
"Some said he's recruiting soldiers for the Government. Others say he works for Deepwell, or maybe Reichwald. No one knows for sure."
Dommie pressed on.
"But Mrs. Jones — she's the tailor downstairs — she said she saw him with Greaves."
A shudder ran through him.
"And everyone knows what Greaves is. Bad news. Rotten."
He blinked fast, fighting the surge in his chest.
"I don't care about the politics. I don't care if he's Deepwell or goddamn Reichwald. I just... I just want my sister back."
The words cracked, and before Dommie could stop himself, hot tears slid down his cheeks.
He tried to wipe them away roughly, ashamed, but Silas caught the motion.
For a moment, the old fighter inside him stirred — the part that wanted to bark "Men don't cry."
But Silas swallowed it down. He knew better.
He grabbed a box of tissues off the table and shoved it toward Dommie.
"Here," he said gruffly.
He waited for Dommie to collect himself before speaking again.
"You got guts coming here, kid. And you're damn right to be worried."
Silas stood, slipping the cigar back into his pocket.
"Rest assured — I'll help you find her."
He glanced at the cracked window, the fog curling in like cold fingers.
"And if that foreigner's mixed up in this..." he said quietly, almost to himself,
"...he's gonna wish he stayed the hell outta the Reach."
---
Inside the backroom of a half-collapsed boathouse, the air was heavy with the stink of brine, mold, and bad tobacco. Crates of illicit goods sat half-forgotten along the walls, their faded stamps barely legible under the flickering oil lamps. Shadows clung to the rafters like barnacles.
The smuggler everyone called Duke leaned back against a pile of old nets, chewing thoughtfully on a splinter of wood. His boots were muddy, his coat stained with something that might've been fish blood—or maybe something worse. His nose had the permanent tilt of a man who'd been punched too many times and hadn't learned from any of them.
Old Miller stood near the doorway, cap in hand, wringing it like it owed him money. His shoulders hunched when Duke shifted his gaze toward him, slow and expectant.
"Well?" Duke grunted. His voice was low, thick, like gravel rolling through a wet pipe.
Miller cleared his throat, but the sound barely made it out. "There's been... a bit of talk at the Harpoon."
Duke raised an eyebrow. Said nothing.
"A guard from the Sanitarium," Miller pressed on, licking dry lips. "Askin' around. 'Bout that foreigner."
Duke's chewing stopped abruptly. The splinter nearly snapped between his teeth. That foreigner—the bastard who'd humiliated him in front of his crew and the bar. The memory of it burned like acid.
"And you're just now tellin' me this?" Duke's fingers curled into a fist against his thigh.
Miller flinched at the tone. "I thought—I thought it might not matter. Just a kid, really. Thick as a fog bank, looks like he ain't slept since the last storm."
Duke spat the splinter onto the dirt floor and straightened up. For the first time in the conversation, real attention burned behind his heavy-lidded eyes.
"Guard's a guard," he muttered. "Doesn't matter if he's wet behind the ears. Sanitarium's no small fry." He leaned forward, suddenly intent. "What's this guard want with our mysterious visitor?"
Miller shifted from foot to foot, uneasy. "Lookin' for his sister. Said she went missin' after meetin' with the foreigner."
Duke smiled then, a slow, cold thing spreading across his face. "So our foreign friend's made enemies beyond Duke's crew, has he? Interesting."
"Think we should tell Frisker? Let him decide what to do?" Miller ventured.
Duke snorted. "You? Miller, you couldn't deliver a letter without spillin' who wrote it." He stood, pacing now, mind working quickly. "No. This guard might be useful. Might lead us straight to our friend."
Miller's voice dropped to a whisper. "People are sayin' he might be working for Reichwald. Maybe even Deepwell. Wouldn't be wise to—"
"Reichwald?" Duke paused, a flicker of unease crossing his weathered face. "You hear anything solid on that?"
"Just whispers. Some saw him with Greaves."
Duke cursed under his breath. Greaves was a complication. If the foreigner had connections to Deepwell or Reichwald's operations, that changed things. Made simple revenge a liability. Unless...
"You wanna be useful, old man? Then you shadow that guard. Quietly. Find out what he knows about our foreign friend. Who he is, who he works for." Duke rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. "If he's Reichwald, we back off. If not..." A dangerous smile appeared. "Then me and him have unfinished business."
Miller bobbed his head quickly, clutching his cap tighter.
"And Miller?" Duke added, almost as an afterthought. "Next time you sit on somethin' this important, I'll assume you were keepin' it for yourself."
Miller swallowed hard. "Understood."
Duke slumped back into the nets, waving a hand in dismissal.
The old fisherman scurried out into the night, heart hammering, the briny wind biting at his cheeks.
Behind him, Duke picked up a battered flask from the floor, thumbed open the lid, and took a long pull. His mind churned with possibilities. The Sanitarium guard could be the key—a way to the foreigner without putting his own neck on the line. If the man was just another traveler, Duke would have his revenge. But if he was Reichwald's man...
Duke scowled at the thought. The Reach was changing.
And the current was getting rougher by the hour.
—