[SERA — POV]
She was at the tram station at five-fifty.
Old habit: arrive ten minutes early and spend them watching the space. She bought coffee she didn't need from the stall and stood with it and watched the eastern Ash Market come alive in the gray before proper dawn—the vendors opening their stalls, the overnight workers heading home in the particular posture of the late shift, the pigeons making their case for the world's crumbs with absolute conviction.
She watched the people. Nobody paid her specific attention, which was what she was checking for.
He appeared at six exactly.
He'd changed since the Carnelian Club—darker clothing, better suited to moving without notice, the fine cut of his usual dress toned down to something that read as simply expensive rather than conspicuous.
