The Harbor Lights Festival had transformed the island's night air into a chaotic electric hum, turning The Cheryl pub into a hive of nonstop activity. During the festive season, tourists were hardly ever asleep, flooding every entertainment space, bar, and diner until well past midnight. For the kitchen staff, this meant extra work, sweltering heat near the ovens, and a relentless barrage of urgent yelling. Service slips fluttered continuously from the order wheel, and every few minutes, someone barked out a rush order for fries, sliders, or draft beers.Davis sauntered into the packed, dimly lit interior, taking a slow breath to anchor his nerves. He was dressed far down wearing a simple gray hoodie pulled slightly low over his face. Keeping his head down, his sharp dark eyes carefully scanned the room, moving over the wooden booths and crowded tables. He braced himself, half-expecting someone—a tourist or a local—to recognize his face from business journals or city news. But here,
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