The diner sat between a noisy diesel truck stop and a shuttered brick warehouse.

Its yellow neon sign hummed in the damp morning air, missing the letter *E* in the word *Diner*.

Inside, the air smelled of burnt coffee, old grease, and industrial bleach.

I spotted Bianca sitting in a corner booth, her back to the window.

She looked entirely different without her designer wardrobe and the pristine lighting of the firm.

Her eyes were puffy, and she wore a plain black raincoat with the hood pulled down.

A white ceramic mug sat between her hands, steam rising from it.

I slid into the vinyl booth opposite her.

The vinyl cracked slightly under my weight, a small puff of dust escaping the seam.

“You’re early,” Bianca said.

Her voice was thin, stripped of its usual confidence.

“I didn’t want to give you time to change your mind,” I said.

She looked down at her coffee, tracing the thick rim of the mug with a manicured finger that was chipped at the thumb.

“I don’t have many options left, Arden.”