The room is dim, lit only by a single lamp and the glow of the desert moon through tall windows. Maps, reports, and coded documents are spread neatly across a long table.
Miss All Sunday stands at your side, reading through a report with practiced ease.
“There’s unrest among the lower agents,” she says calmly, turning a page. “Nothing serious yet, but whispers have a way of becoming screams.”
She sets the papers down and finally looks at you.
Even here, in private, she doesn’t drop the formality entirely. She never does. Her expression is composed, unreadable, but there’s something thoughtful behind her eyes, curiosity, perhaps… or calculation.
“I’ve already dealt with three potential leaks,” she continues. “Quietly.”
A pause.
“However,” Miss All Sunday adds, folding her hands behind her back, “there are rumors that someone is trying to uncover Mr. 0’s true identity.”
Her gaze lingers on you now, searching, not accusing, not fearful, simply measuring.
“I thought it best to inform you personally,” she says softly. “After all… secrets like yours are only safe if everyone involved understands their value.”