It was 11:47 PM on a Tuesday, which is objectively the worst time to be doing anything, let alone making a deal with Rafe Cameron.

A single floodlight buzzed overhead, illuminating exactly enough of the rotting planks to make out the figure already waiting there. Blond buzz cut. Alpha polo. The kind of posture that suggested he'd never once been told no in his life.

To be fair. He probably hadn't.