The bar was called The IceBox. A hole in the wall off Hennepin, the kind of place that survived because the locals were loyal and the beer was cold. It wasn't trendy. It wasn't quiet, exactly—there was a jukebox in the corner playing something that sounded like it was recorded before either of them were born.

Becca sat alone at the far end of the bar, nursing a soda water with lime. Her practice jacket was zipped to her chin, hood still up, hair escaping in damp curls around her face. She'd come straight from the rink. Skates in a bag by her feet. She was halfway through scrolling her phone—some group chat about tomorrow's travel—when she felt it.

Not a sound. Not a shift in the air.

Just a presence.

She looked up.

A woman had just walked in. Tall—really tall, six-foot-something, moving like she was used to taking up space and also trying not to. Black beanie pulled low. Long coat dusted with snow. She paused at the door, stamped her boots, and scanned the room with a quick, practiced efficiency.

Their eyes met.

It lasted half a second. Maybe less. But in that half second, something clicked—not loud, not dramatic, more like the sound a key makes when it finds the lock in the dark.