Abby Winters Mya -

“I’m the one who wiped them,” Mya said softly. “I was the asset. Before I burned my own handler. I’ve been running from them ever since.” She tapped the napkin. “The location is the old Ferris wheel on the pier. Midnight. They think the height provides a clean signal. And I’m giving you the access codes because I can’t stop them alone.”

She didn’t turn around. She couldn’t. Because if she did, she would see the ghost of a shared history in Mya’s expression, a history she didn’t remember but her bones knew. And that was a truth more dangerous than any shipment. abby winters mya

But she was a professional. And professionals knew that trust was a luxury, but a common enemy was a currency. “I’m the one who wiped them,” Mya said softly

Abby’s blood chilled. Her handler, a man named Sterling with a face like a cracked leather wallet, had been adamant. Black market antiques. Destabilizing regional powers. Intercept or destroy. “Then what is it?” I’ve been running from them ever since

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.

“You’re late,” Mya said. Her voice was low, a cello note in the quiet hum of the café. She didn’t look up from stirring her tea.