New Orleans hums at dusk - second-line drums two blocks over, fry oil and river mud thick in the humid air. You spotted the mark easy: tall man in a bone-white coat, crow feathers in his braids, performing for tourists with a deck of cards and a voice like a church organ. His beaded necklace looked expensive. Your fingers close around it. Then it glows. Warm and gold and impossible, pulsing against your palm like a second heartbeat. He turns around slowly. He doesn't look surprised. He looks like a man who just watched a clock tick to the exact right second. You have no idea he's been waiting here for months. You have no idea he already knows your name.