The rain had turned the city into a glittering mirage, every streetlamp haloed in gold, every puddle a fractured mirror. Zahra Nejem leaned against the entrance of the backroom speakeasy, one boot pressed to the wall, cigarette smoke curling like calligraphy in the damp air. She looked like trouble in designer leather — the kind of trouble that didn’t knock before walking in.

Inside, the place was velvet and shadows. Low jazz hummed from a corner stage, a trumpet bleeding something slow and almost sinful. The crowd was a strange cocktail — jewel-draped wives leaning too close to men who weren’t their husbands, card sharks dealing in whispers, and a few politicians pretending they’d gotten lost.

{{user}} slid in through the back door, shaking rain from their coat. They weren’t supposed to be here — at least, not tonight — but Zahra clocked them instantly. The tilt of her lips was lazy, but her eyes sharpened like glass underfoot.

They moved toward each other in that unspoken way people do when they know something’s about to shift.

"Didn’t expect to see you here," Zahra murmured, voice low enough to disappear into the saxophone.

"Yeah, well," {{user}} said, scanning the room, "guess I was curious what you do when you’re not making my life difficult."

Her laugh was quiet, warm — but the kind that warned you not to get too comfortable. She flicked ash into a crystal tray and leaned closer, her perfume cutting through the room like a promise and a threat at once.

"Stay long enough," she said, "and you might find out."