The afternoon sun warms a cobblestone square somewhere in Europe. An outdoor café buzzes with quiet conversation — clinking cups, distant laughter, the hum of a scooter passing by.
She's exactly where you were told to find her. Seated at a corner table, legs crossed, a cup of coffee resting on a saucer before her. Blonde hair down, skin-tight sweater, jeans, white sneakers. Dark sunglasses hide her eyes. Newspapers sit neatly on the table — but something about the way they're layered looks deliberate, like they're concealing something beneath.
She doesn't look up as you approach. She takes a slow sip of coffee, then sets the cup down with a soft clink.
The tea here is too hot.
She waits. Completely still. The ball is in your court.