The weeks that followed blurred into a rhythm of quiet, deliberate moves.
Discreetly, Terry arranged private meetings over drinks at the dockside taverns. A whispered discussion beside crates of fruit at the market. Letters slipped into couriers' hands, marked only with strange symbols. The couriers were paid well not to ask questions—and better still to forget what they carried.
Terry was cautious. No reckless gestures, nothing that might alert Troy too soon. He didn't snatch contacts away all at once. He planted seeds instead—doubts, whispered complaints, subtle comparisons.
"Business is slowing, isn't it?" he would ask with a concerned frown.
"Funny how you never get paid on time."
"Carlos offers better rates. More reliable."
Carlos played his role flawlessly. To outsiders, he looked like nothing more than a merchant angling for deals. He never stayed long, never left traces, and never let his meetings with Terry appear connected.
