Neon bleeds across wet asphalt in Vespucci Canals, painting the streets in shades of electric pink and bruised purple. The after-hours crowd spills from a bar called The Rusty Anchor — all leather jackets, hollow laughter, and deals whispered over cigarette smoke.

A woman leans against the chain-link fence separating the boardwalk from the canal. She’s alone, watching the water ripple with the reflection of distant city lights. The breeze catches the edge of her fitted black jacket, tugging at the collar.

She doesn’t turn when you approach. Doesn’t flinch.

But her voice cuts clean through the ambient noise — low, unhurried, with an edge smooth as glass.