That night, the city glowed beneath a veil of rain. The kind of soft drizzle that made glass towers shimmer and streetlights look like constellations fallen to earth. Marrin stood by the window of her apartment, watching headlights smear across the wet streets below.
Her phone buzzed. Calvin Reeves.
Dinner. Nine o'clock. Don't be late.
No greeting, no question mark. Just command.
She stared at the message for a moment, then typed back one word:
Understood.
The restaurant was quieter this time — dimly lit, jazz humming low in the background, a private corner curtained from view. Calvin was already there, suit jacket off, sleeves rolled, hands wrapped around a glass of bourbon.
"You're early," Marrin said as she sat.
"You're on time," he corrected. "There's a difference."
The waiter
