We reached Daniel’s car, our breathing loud and ragged in the quiet street.

The headlights flickered to life, cutting through the thick fog rolling in from the harbor.

We drove away from the Cumberland Avenue estate, leaving the lights of the grand house fading in the rearview mirror.

“Are you okay?” Daniel asked, keeping his eyes on the wet asphalt.

“I’m fine,” I said, clutching the folder to my chest. “Let’s get to your office.”

The drive downtown was silent except for the rhythmic, soothing sweep of the windshield wipers.

The city lights smeared against the glass like wet paint.

We parked behind Daniel’s small brick office building near the docks, where the smell of salt water was thick.

Inside, the air smelled of stale coffee, old paper, and printer toner.

Daniel turned on his desk lamp, casting a warm yellow circle over stacks of bank statements and corporate ledgers.

He immediately went to his computer and began typing, his fingers moving with frantic speed.

“We need to finalize the eviction paperwork first,” he said.

“Can we get it filed before the courthouse opens?” I asked, sitting in the leather chair opposite him.