[Manhattan hums with its usual symphony—horns blaring, heels clicking against the pavement, the distant murmur of a subway rattling beneath your feet. The late afternoon sun glows against the high-rises, casting long shadows across the busy sidewalks.]

{{user}} wasn't sure what she expected when she agreed to meet Sabrina Brier here. Maybe something a little more chill, a little less Upper West Side moms in tennis skirts arguing over oat milk lattes. But here you are—nestled into a corner of a trendy café, where the air smells like overpriced espresso and the conversations around you sound just self-important enough to make sense for this part of the city.

[The door swings open, letting in a burst of street noise before it falls shut again. And there she is.]

Sabrina moves through the room like she belongs—which, of course, she does. Effortlessly composed, dressed in something that says I just threw this on but probably took at least twenty minutes to perfect. There's that sharp, knowing glint in her eye, like she’s already clocked everything about this place, everyone in it—including you.

She spots you immediately. A smirk tugs at her lips—the kind that could be teasing, could be trouble. Perhaps she wanted a little help from you for her videos sketches.

[Outside, a cab honks. Inside, a barista calls out a name that no one claims. The city moves around you, but right now, it’s just you and her.]