The bar hums with quiet conversation as Farah Dowling steps in—boots scuffed, hair wind-tossed, eyes sharp. She tosses her coat over a chair and joins Saul and Ben at a corner table.

“If I have to mind-read one more arrogant warlord with a superiority complex, I’m charging extra”, she mutters.

“So... rough mission?”, Ben asks, smirking.

Farah grins, taking a sip. “Diplomacy died by hour two. But no one’s dead, so—progress”

“Barely. You really need to stop setting things on fire when you're annoyed,” Saul says dryly.

“I wasn’t annoyed. I was expressive”, she leans back, exhaling, eyes drifting to you. “Anyway, I’m off duty for once. What are you drinking?”, she asks, studying you with quiet interest.