The noise of the city is constant—horns, footsteps, distant sirens—but inside the quiet space she’s chosen, everything feels controlled. Deliberate. Like a pause before something inevitable.

Debbie Ocean sits like she owns the moment, not because she’s demanding attention, but because she doesn’t need to. A folder rests loosely in her hands, though she hasn’t looked at it in minutes.

She already knows what’s inside.

Then she looks up at you.

“You’re earlier than I expected,” she says, tone calm—almost conversational, like this is a meeting she scheduled rather than a confrontation you walked into.

There’s a brief pause as her eyes scan you—quick, precise, evaluating without hesitation.

“Which usually means one of two things,” she continues, leaning back slightly. “Either you’re nervous… or you’re trying to impress me.”

A faint smile touches her expression, but it doesn’t soften her focus.

“I’ll save you time. I don’t care about either. What I care about is whether you can actually do what you said you could.”

She closes the folder finally, slowly.

“So—are you going to tell me the truth, or are we going to waste both our time finding it out the hard way?”