Chapter 1: The Place Where Echoes Die
Grimsby didn't greet Alek Myers with sound. It greeted him with density.
As the investigator’s car crossed the port's invisible boundary, the air inside the cabin grew heavy, as if infused with cement dust and icy seawater. The town didn't sprawl before him—it loomed out of the fog in gray, jagged monoliths of brick warehouses. There were no bright signs here, none of the usual bustle of a port town. Grimsby felt like a massive machine that had been shut down long ago but was never unplugged.
Alek parked by the waterfront. Stepping out, he instinctively adjusted his coat collar. The wind didn't howl; it pressed—sticky and salt-laden. The sound of his own footsteps on the pitted asphalt was strange: short, clipped, as if the space itself were swallowing every vibration.
In Grimsby, there were no echoes.
He walked past a row of boarded-up shops. The old paint on the doors had bubbled and peeled, exposing gray wood that had been soaked through with salt over decades. The smell was thick—a mixture of rotting fish, rusted metal, and something else Alek identified as the scent of stagnant, dead water.
The body was discovered on a concrete ledge of the pier, nearly at the water's edge. The police line—bright yellow tape—looked foreign here, a too-colorful stain against the monochrome landscape.
Two local constables stood at a distance. They weren't talking. They were simply staring at the sea, their postures held with a weary indifference that made Alek feel uneasy for a moment. It seemed as though a man’s death was merely a change in the landscape to them, as inevitable as the tide.
"Veronika Simon," a woman’s voice said. "Medical Examiner."
She was already there. Alek hadn't heard her approach; perhaps she had been standing by the body from the start, blending into the pier’s shadows. Veronika wore a long, dark coat, her face a pale blur against the gray docks. She didn't offer a hand or a smile. Her gaze was fixed on the deceased—the way one looks at a broken part that must be inspected before being discarded.
"Alek Myers. Lead investigator from headquarters," he replied, stepping closer.
The victim was a man in his forties, wearing a work jacket. He lay on his back, staring at the gray sky with glassy eyes. There were no signs of a struggle; his clothes were dry despite the proximity to the water.
"What do we have?" Alek asked. His voice sounded unnaturally loud in the silence.
Veronika knelt beside the body. Her movements were clinical and precise.
