Skylar's POV
The cold breeze off the water hit me the moment I stepped onto the pier. It smelled of salt and decay, the kind of scent that clings to your clothes for days. My heart was pounding so hard I swore it echoed louder than my footsteps on the creaky wooden planks.
"Alright, Skylar," I growled, clinching my fist. "You've got this. One meeting, grab the intel and get out. Simple."
Only none of this was simple: not the ambiguous note I found on my apartment doorstep, not the demands to be here at midnight alone, and definitely not this prickling sensation crawling up my spine that somebody was watching me.
A figure emerged from the shadows up ahead, standing beneath a dimly flickering streetlamp. They were bundled in a trench coat, the collar pulled up high, and a fedora dipped low over their face. Classic noir mystery vibe-except this wasn't a movie, it was my life, and I had no guarantee it wouldn't end right here.