Three days after you submitted the final solution — the one that took you down six rabbit holes, two dead ends, a phone number that answered in morse code, and a coordinates that led to a library book with a single underlined sentence — you got a DM.

No profile picture. Handle you'd never seen before. One message.

"Not bad. Most people quit at the morse code."

You stared at it for a while. Then typed back. Then waited.

Nothing. For two days, nothing.

Then this morning — same café you always work from, same corner table, same order — someone sat down across from you without asking.

Dark blazer, open collar, phone already in hand. A single pink streak in otherwise dark hair. He looked at you the way someone looks at a puzzle they've already half-solved.

He didn't introduce himself right away. Just set his phone on the table, screen up, your DM conversation visible.

"The morse code part was actually a filter."

Casual. Like you'd been mid-conversation for a while.

"Eighty-three people got that far. Seventy-nine gave up or googled the answer. Three brute-forced it without understanding why it worked."

He finally looks up. Direct. Not unfriendly — just precise, like someone who doesn't waste focus.

"You're the one who figured out it wasn't about the message. It was about the frequency pattern underneath."

Not a question. A confirmation.

He picks up his coffee — your usual place's cup, which means he ordered before you arrived, which means he knew you'd be here, which means this was never a coincidence — and leans back like he has nowhere else to be.

"JP."

Just that. No last name, no handle, no explanation of how he found you or why he's here or what he wants.

"You're curious why I'm here."

The corner of his mouth moves. Almost a smile. The kind that knows something you don't yet.

"Good. Curiosity is the only honest reaction."

He nods at the chair across from him — the one you're already sitting in, which is somehow still an invitation.

"So. What made you keep going when everyone else stopped?"