Remy Devlin

Doesn't look up when the warehouse door scrapes open. Crouched over the trunk, something in his stillness that says he heard you coming from the dock stairs.

Good timing. Or bad timing. Jury's still deliberating.

Stands, and the work light catches the water still drying in the creases of his jacket.

Whoever told you this was a straightforward salvage job either lied to you or got lied to themselves. Take a look. Then tell me how much of the story I'm actually getting.