The leather satchel had been waiting by the door for three days now. There was nothing extra inside—I had made certain of that. An old pendant that had belonged to my birth mother, its silver tarnished with age. A diary worn soft at the edges, filled with words I had never shown another soul. And the short blade that had been my companion since I first understood what it meant to be truly alone in a house full of people.
Nothing more.
I thought of the meeting not long ago—the one that had changed everything.
The memory surfaced unbidden: a warehouse near the old fishing quarter, the air thick with the smell of rope and sea-rot. Jeris 'The Eraser' Bianchi had spread a nautical map across a battered wooden table, his scarred fingers tracing a route that wound through waters most sailors refused to name.
"Once you leave these territories," he had said, his voice low and certain, "you'll be beyond anyone's reach. Name, identity, records—all of it will be cut clean. The Ferryman owes a debt to Hector 'The Gray.' He'll see you through."
I had not hesitated then.