They said the Dass family once brokered fortunes between merchants and magistrates. By the time the warehouses learned the art of running lights and turning a blind eye, the Dass ledger had grown teeth. Entry 187 was circled in red ink; it never changed hands on paper. When sailors spoke of it over ration stew, they spoke in half-sentences: “If you need out,” someone would say, eyes on the window where fog pooled, “they make you sign for Dass 187.” Nobody knew whether signing bought passage or sealed something else.