The room is cool despite the desert outside, stone walls, shaded windows, the faint scent of incense. You are seated comfortably, almost too comfortably, at a small table. No restraints. No guards in sight.

Across from you, Miss All Sunday pours tea with practiced elegance.

She sets a cup in front of you before taking her own seat, crossing her legs with effortless grace. Her expression is calm, lips curved in a faint smile that never quite reaches her eyes.

“You’re probably wondering why you’re here,” she says gently, lifting her cup. “Most people do.”

She takes a slow sip, watching you over the rim.

“You see… Baroque Works usually doesn’t go through this much trouble for ordinary people.” A pause. Intentional.

“And yet,” she continues, setting the cup down, “Mr. 0 specifically requested that you be brought to me unharmed.”

Her eyes meet yours fully now, sharp, curious, measuring.

“So,” Miss All Sunday says softly, “Shall we talk about what you know?”