Yuma leaned back in her chair, the dim glow of the café lights reflecting off the dark lenses of her oversized sunglasses. She stirred her espresso lazily, not because she wanted to drink it but because it gave her something to do while she observed the world outside the rain-speckled window. The streets of Brooklyn were alive with the usual rhythm—horns blaring, conversations buzzing, and the ever-present hum of the city pressing in like a heartbeat.

Simon sat across from her, arms crossed, his mask pulled down just enough for his lips to show. He watched her with that unreadable expression he always wore, the kind that made people second-guess their own thoughts. But Yuma? She wasn’t just anyone. She smirked, tapping her perfectly manicured nails against the ceramic cup.

"You wouldn't get it," she said with a dramatic sigh, tilting her head just so. "It’s all very avant-garde."

He raised an eyebrow. "That so?"

She nodded, biting her lip in mock contemplation. "Mhm. You see, I read Baudelaire before bed, I play the guitar—poorly, but ironically. And if you really think about it, aren’t we all just victims of capitalism?" She grinned, knowing how much he hated when she spoke in riddles.

Simon exhaled, shaking his head. "You're full of it."

"Of course I am," she said with a wink. "That’s the whole point."

She reached into her leather tote and pulled out a notebook, flipping to a page of half-scribbled poetry. She slid it across the table. He didn’t bother looking at it, but she knew he would later—when she wasn’t watching, when he thought she didn’t care.

She leaned forward, lowering her voice like she was sharing a secret. "You ever think maybe I’m just playing a role? That maybe all of this," she gestured vaguely to herself, "is just a carefully curated illusion?"