“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.
But she was a professional. And professionals knew that trust was a luxury, but a common enemy was a currency. abby winters mya
Abby stared at the napkin. Then at Mya. A thousand questions fought for space in her head. Why now? Why me? Can I trust you? “You’re late,” Mya said
“I’m careful,” Abby replied, shrugging off her coat. Underneath, she wore a simple black sweater. No jewelry, no identifiers. Mya, in contrast, wore a chunky turquoise ring that seemed to catch the dim light and hold it hostage. But she was a professional
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.
“Careful is for amateurs,” Mya said, finally meeting her gaze. A small, almost imperceptible smile played on her lips. “Professionals are just… prepared.”