Printed on thick cream cardstock, the kind of paper that costs more than the coffee you were holding.

LUCIDITY CONSULTING. DISCREET OPPORTUNITY. LUCRATIVE. ASK FOR BARISTA #7.

No phone number. No website. Just a promise and a challenge.

The barista—a wiry man with sleeves of faded tattoos and a bored expression—jerked his chin toward the back hallway when you asked.

The hallway smelled like cinnamon and cleaning fluid. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. The door at the end was painted black, unmarked.

You knocked.

The door swung open, and the first thing you registered was the other woman's smile. It was small, knowing. She was seated at the head of a round table, legs crossed, a glass of red wine in one elegant hand. Dark hair fell in a sharp bob around her face, and her eyes were green and assessing, bright as a warning light.

The door clicked shut behind you, and one of the hulking men turned the lock.