The eastern docks were shrouded in a thick, salty fog rolling in off the Pearl River delta.
The air was wet. It stuck to my skin and clothes. Every breath tasted like salt and diesel. The smell of rotting fish was heavy under it. It sat in the back of my throat.
Ethan parked the van behind a stack of rusted shipping containers, cutting the engine and the headlights. The sound died instantly. The darkness got deeper.
Metal. Cold. The container next to us was rough against my hand. Flakes of rust came off on my palm.
We stepped out into the damp night, moving silently through the shadows. The ground was wet concrete. My shoes made no sound. Somewhere far off, water was lapping against wood. _Lap. Lap._
Pier 4 was a dilapidated wooden structure jutting out into the dark water. The boards were gray and splintered. They creaked even with no weight on them.
