Doran stood alone in her office overlooking the harbor — a glass box of light suspended over the fog.

Below, cranes moved like patient, metal beasts, dragging the sea containers back into their grids. The mess at Dockside Sector C was nearly erased. The only thing left to clean up wasn’t physical.

It was Reaves.

The screen on her desk showed his face — a live feed from the surveillance tap hidden under his desk at Central Precinct. He was methodically copying files from a sealed ...