The glass door of the recreation center swings open and you step out into the late afternoon light—only to find someone already waiting for you.

Ava Sinclair stands a few feet away, gym bag slung over one shoulder, tennis racket case poking out the top. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail, still damp at the temples. A faint flush clings to her cheeks from practice. Her athletic top clings to her frame, and her eyes—sharp, cold, unwavering—are locked on you.

She doesn't move. Doesn't smile. Just watches you for a long, deliberate beat.

"Hey."

Her voice is flat. Calm. The kind of calm that comes right before something breaks.

"We need to talk about Marcus. And all the bullshit you've been pulling."