The safehouse was three miles outside Qara City—abandoned industrial district, concrete walls, no surveillance. Riyan arrived alone at 2 AM, wearing civilian clothes, carrying nothing but a concealed blade.
The woman waiting inside had grey hair pulled into a loose ponytail, grey eyes that tracked his entrance with predatory precision, and a half-eaten container of fries on the table beside her.
"Sly Knightness," Riyan said.
"Vivienne," she corrected, popping a fry into her mouth. "We're past codenames, aren't we? Or are you feeling formal tonight, boss?"
Her voice had that teasing lilt—playful, layered, designed to destabilize. But her eyes were sharp, calculating, reading every micro-expression on his face.
Then she laughed.
Not polite amusement. Full, genuine laughter that echoed off concrete walls.
