Alex slipped into the quiet roadside diner on the outskirts of town. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, humming with a tired rhythm.
The place smelled of burnt coffee and frying grease. A lone waitress wiped down the counter, and a trucker nursed his third refill in a booth near the back.
To the world, it was just another morning. To them, it was a turning point.
Ava wore a hoodie and ball cap, her hair tucked back in a low braid. Alex, limping slightly from the warehouse shootout, looked like any other weary traveler. But every movement they made was practiced, watchful.
They slid into a booth near the corner where the blinds were drawn just enough to block view from the parking lot.
"Table three," Ava murmured under her breath.
At the opposite end, a clean-shaven man in his thirties, wearing a brown leather jacket and glasses, nursed a lukewarm cup of tea.
He didn't look up as he spoke.
"Harper," he said flatly. "You've got two minutes."
