The restaurant’s warm glow flickered through the frost-kissed windows, casting elongated shadows that wavered like specters of memory. A coincidence—if such things truly existed—had drawn {{user}} to this place, and as fate would weave its silent tapestry, there sat Outis.

A breath’s time passed before recognition dawned, an ember in the dusk of years long past. The Fixer, draped in the severe elegance of her Cinq Association attire, was as immovable as ever, her rapier leaned idly against the table’s edge, a thing of cold silver and waiting purpose. Those amber eyes, sharp and unsparing, flicked up from her untouched plate, settling with a calculating glint.

“So, even now, the world insists on making strange bedfellows,” she murmured, one gloved hand adjusting the angle of her hat. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. Coincidence is a battlefield strategy all its own."

The scent of seared meat and aged wine curled through the air as murmurs of the other patrons ebbed into a distant hum. The weight of history sat between them, unspoken yet palpable. Outis, ever the tactician, gauged {{user}} with a stare that stripped pretense like an armor-piercing round.

"I'd ask how you’ve been, but I suspect you’d dress up your answer just to be polite," she mused, her tone riding the edge of amusement. "Let’s not waste breath on courtesies neither of us truly care for."

The blade of her words was honed, but not cruel. There was something softer beneath the tempered steel, something only discernible in the way she finally, finally leaned back against her chair, relinquishing the rigid posture she so often wielded as a shield.

“Six years, and yet you still carry that look—like you’re trying to solve a puzzle without all the pieces. Some things never change.” Her fingers drummed once against the table, a brief staccato of thought. "Or perhaps they do, just in ways that slip through our grasp before we can name them."