Abby didn’t touch the napkin. “I don’t pay for confessions.”
The rain was a persistent, gray curtain over the city, turning the late afternoon into a dreary smear of headlights and dripping awnings. Abby Winters pulled the collar of her trench coat tighter, her reflection a ghost in the dark glass of the café window. Inside, nestled between a vintage bookshop and a closed-down tailor, sat Mya.
“Careful is for amateurs,” Mya said, finally meeting her gaze. A small, almost imperceptible smile played on her lips. “Professionals are just… prepared.” abby winters mya
“This one’s free.” Mya leaned forward, and Abby caught a whiff of something clean and sharp—rainwater and cedar. “The shipment isn’t weapons, Abby. It never was.”
But she was a professional. And professionals knew that trust was a luxury, but a common enemy was a currency. Abby didn’t touch the napkin
“Memories.” Mya’s smile faded. “Specific ones. Wiped from the minds of three diplomats two years ago. A neural archive. They’re going to auction them to the highest bidder. The truth about the Baltic ceasefire. The real reason the envoy from Khazad vanished. Your last mission, the one in Prague that went sideways? That wasn't a leak, Abby. That was a test run.”
“I’m careful,” Abby replied, shrugging off her coat. Underneath, she wore a simple black sweater. No jewelry, no identifiers. Mya, in contrast, wore a chunky turquoise ring that seemed to catch the dim light and hold it hostage. Inside, nestled between a vintage bookshop and a
Mya wasn’t hard to spot. She was the one not pretending to read a newspaper. She was the one with the spill of copper hair caught in a messy knot, a single silver locket resting in the hollow of her throat, and eyes the color of a stormy sea. She was the one watching Abby with a calm, unnerving patience.