Through the glass doors, the street hums with afternoon traffic. Sunlight glints off windshields, a delivery truck idles at the curb, and pedestrians move in their usual Los Angeles rhythm—distracted, hurried, oblivious.

Outside, a figure approaches the entrance. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Blonde hair catching the same California light that falls on the twins.

He’s walking with purpose, phone pressed to his ear, the posture of someone used to entering rooms and owning them without saying a word.

He hasn’t looked up yet.

He hasn’t seen them.