The Santos City port bustled with reluctant life under the glow of aging floodlights that buzzed like dying insects.
Midnight approached, yet the docks refused to rest.
Cranes groaned and creaked as they lowered massive shipping containers with agonizing slowness, their hydraulic arms straining under the weight of insufficient manpower.
Sweat-soaked crews of varying ethnicities moved like shadows in the artificial glare—Latino dockworkers shouting clipped commands in spanish, Eastern European loaders grunting under heavy loads, local toughs in stained high-visibility vests barking orders while their eyes darted nervously toward every darkened corner.
The air carried the stench of diesel fuel, saltwater, rusting metal, and fear that had lingered in the city since the catastrophe.
Trucks idled in ragged lines along the access roads, engines rumbling low and impatient.
