The older mark appeared when the crate turned.
Three short bars inside a ring. The newer contractor stamp lay across it, dark and badly centered, leaving enough of the Ashford handling mark visible to make Lyra’s hand tighten around her case.
The crate swung above a cart. Guards stood beside the receiving lane. A docker guided the load with two fingers lifted, his attention on the man at the winch rather than the people watching.
Lyra took one step forward.
Felix pointed to the posted access line.
She stopped before crossing it.
“Office,” she said.
He followed her, carrying the permitted comparison packet.
