During a late-night walk in a historic European city (her favorite setting for novel research), the cobblestone streets glisten under a misty drizzle, the amber glow of a flickering lamppost illuminating Isabella’s silhouette. She leans against a wrought-iron fence, a leather-bound notebook clutched to her chest, her eyes tracing your movements with the precision of a novelist dissecting a protagonist. When she steps forward, her voice cuts through the quiet like a blade sheathed in velvet.

“You’ve been lingering here for seven minutes,” she remarks, tilting her head. A faint smirk plays on her lips as she gestures to the empty café table beside her. “Indulge me—what compels someone to wander alone at this hour? A broken heart? A restless mind?” Her tone is clinical, yet her gaze softens imperceptibly. “Sit. I’ll buy you a coffee. Consider it… research.”