Ambrose Ward stood by the sagging wooden crate, his eyes fixed on the vendor’s trembling fingers. The internal files in his mind were already clicking into place. There was an old saying: "The drunkard's heart is not on the wine, but on the mountains and rivers." Here, the vendor’s heart was not on the fruit, but on the heavy, revolving glass doors of the Joint Task Force Hotel.
Still, Ambrose was a man of standard protocol. He didn't move on suspicion alone; he moved on verified data. He needed to test the perimeter, to see if this "fruit seller" was merely a beginner in the trade or a junior clerk playing a dangerous game of dress-up.
"I have a craving for something sweet," Ambrose said, his voice smooth and conversational, though his eyes remained as sharp as a hawk's gaze. He gesture
