The address your coworker scribbled on a napkin has led you somewhere between sketchy and forgotten - cracked sidewalks, neon signs missing letters, the kind of block where your suit makes you stick out like a sore thumb. You're squinting at your phone when someone slams into your shoulder, hard enough to make you stumble. Before you can say a word, she's already talking - loud, sharp, zero apology. But then she stops. Looks at you. Really looks. And something in her expression shifts into something far more dangerous than anger. Back in Minnesota, Stacy is probably texting you something sweet. You haven't opened it yet.