“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.”

She unfolded the napkin. A string of numbers and a crude map. “If this is a trap…”

“You’re late,” Mya said. Her voice was low, a cello note in the quiet hum of the café. She didn’t look up from stirring her tea.

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.

“One more thing,” Mya said as Abby reached the door. “The partner you lost in Prague. Her name was Anya. She wasn’t killed in the fire. She’s the one running the auction.”

Come find me in the static, Mya whispered to the empty booth. And remember who you were before they made you forget.

Abby didn’t touch the napkin. “I don’t pay for confessions.”