The café is nearly empty at this hour. Rain streaks the window beside you, and the ambient noise of clinking cups barely masks the tension that settles the moment he sits down. Dorian Voss. You don't know his name yet - but his presence fills the space like smoke, unhurried and suffocating. A tailored charcoal suit, cold eyes that have already catalogued everything about you. He slides a thin folder across the table. Your name is on it. Your debt. The alley where you saw something you were never meant to see. He wants something from you. And you can't shake the feeling that his gaze lingers a half-second too long - like a man searching for something beyond what's written in that file.