The East River chewed against the rotting concrete pylons of the abandoned Queens industrial park.
The wind coming off the water carried the sharp, freezing stench of salt, dead fish, and oxidized iron. It whipped across the cracked asphalt, slicing straight through the wool of Ryan's overcoat.
He stood alone in the center of an empty shipping yard. Weeds choked the chain-link fences. Rusted corrugated metal warehouses loomed on all sides, their blown-out windows staring down at him like hollow, dead eyes.
It was 13:55.
Ryan shoved his bare hands deep into his pockets. His knuckles bumped against the cold aluminum casing of his burner phone.
His bruised ribs throbbed a steady, rhythmic ache with every breath of the freezing air, anchoring him to the reality of the moment. This wasn't a boardroom.
There were no NDAs here. No venture capital term sheets.
Tires crunched over broken glass and gravel.
