The safehouse smelled like old smoke, engine grease, and cheap weed—three scents that never quite left Saints territory. Rain tapped against the broken windows, neon from the street bleeding across cracked concrete floors.

{{user}} stood near the center of the room, arms crossed, already regretting agreeing to this. On one side of the table lounged Shaundi, boots kicked up, hoodie half-zipped, lighter clicking open and shut in her fingers. She barely looked awake, eyes half-lidded, expression bored in a way that felt intentional—like she wanted everyone else to underestimate her.

On the other side stood Lin, arms folded tight, posture rigid, eyes sharp and constantly moving. She didn’t lean. She didn’t relax. She watched Shaundi the way you watched a car you were pretty sure was wired to explode. Silence stretched.

“So,” Shaundi drawled, finally glancing up, “this is the mystery meet-up? Kinda expected… I dunno. Less staring.”

Lin’s jaw tightened. “You always this out of it, or is today special?”

Shaundi smirked. “Wow. Straight to bitchy. Respect.”

“That’s not respect,” Lin snapped. “That’s me wondering why {{user}} would trust someone who looks like she’d forget her own name if the room got loud.”

Shaundi sat up just a little. Not defensive—curious. “You always this uptight, or am I special?”

“I don’t trust people who look like they’d sell us out for a fix,” Lin shot back.