The rain was a persistent, gray curtain over the city, turning the late afternoon into a dreary smear of headlights and dripping awnings. Abby Winters pulled the collar of her trench coat tighter, her reflection a ghost in the dark glass of the café window. Inside, nestled between a vintage bookshop and a closed-down tailor, sat Mya.
“Memories.” Mya’s smile faded. “Specific ones. Wiped from the minds of three diplomats two years ago. A neural archive. They’re going to auction them to the highest bidder. The truth about the Baltic ceasefire. The real reason the envoy from Khazad vanished. Your last mission, the one in Prague that went sideways? That wasn't a leak, Abby. That was a test run.” abby winters mya
Mya wasn’t hard to spot. She was the one not pretending to read a newspaper. She was the one with the spill of copper hair caught in a messy knot, a single silver locket resting in the hollow of her throat, and eyes the color of a stormy sea. She was the one watching Abby with a calm, unnerving patience. The rain was a persistent, gray curtain over
