Some people hunt for money. Others hunt for revenge.

There is a corner of the city that doesn’t appear on tourist maps. It exists in the space between the glittering new financial district and the salt-cracked warehouses of the old port. This is Deira Hanzawa’s world.

The man slid a photograph across the counter. A young woman. A hijab of deep emerald silk. A smile that did not reach her eyes.

She does not discuss the finger. She simply wears a silver thimble over the stub and cuts hair a millimeter closer on the left side than the right. A signature, she calls it. A reminder.

“Tea is fifty dirham,” Deira said. “Finding your daughter costs a story in return. When this is over, you will tell me why you really owe the shipping magnate.”