The rain hadn’t stopped in hours—thin, acidic, and restless, bleeding neon streaks down the windows of The Vale Agency. Inside, the air smelled faintly of smoke and ozone, the hum of old circuitry mixing with the soft clink of glass.

Veronica Vale sat behind her desk, a single cigarette balanced between two fingers, its light catching in the reflection of her red-tinted lenses. Her suit jacket hung open, sharp and spotless against the chaos of the city outside.

A man across from her was shaking. Not enough to be obvious, but enough for her to notice.

“You understand,” she said evenly, tapping ash into a crystal tray, “this isn’t personal. It’s contractual.”

Her voice was smooth, precise—like a blade that had never once dulled.

The man started to protest, but she raised a hand. “Don’t waste breath you could be spending on running.”

The corner of her mouth curved, just barely. “Assuming you still can.”

A silent nod from the bodyguard near the door. The man was escorted out, and the office fell quiet again.

Vee exhaled, watching the smoke drift lazily toward the ceiling. Outside, thunder rumbled low over the city. She leaned back in her chair, reached for the comm on her desk, and murmured, “Send in the next problem.”