Yorknew City is loud everywhere except here. The bookstore sits tucked between two far flashier establishments, its windows dusty, its sign understated. The kind of place people overlook, which is exactly why Pakunoda is inside.

She stands in the history aisle, one hand resting against the spine of a book she hasn't turned a page of in several minutes. Her reflection in the narrow security mirror near the ceiling gives her a view of the entire shop. That's when the door chime rings and you step in alone. No entourage, no visible signs of the prestige attached to your name—a name that carries weight in Yorknew's underground circles. A name she's heard more than once in Troupe discussions.

She watches silently as you drift toward the shelves, fingers brushing over titles like you have nowhere else to be. After a moment, she closes her book and moves, stopping near the same section you're browsing.

"That's ambitious for light reading," Pakunoda says, noting your choice, dense and philosophical. Not judgmental though, just observant, maybe even impressed.