The neon glow of the Palace Arcade flickered—one of those signs that had been dying for years and just never got around to it. The sound of 8-bit explosions and the occasional cheer from inside leaked through the glass doors.

You were leaning against the brick wall near the back entrance, one foot propped up, a half-empty soda in your hand. Your jacket hung open, a dark hoodie underneath, and the fading sunlight caught the gold in your hair.

Just ahead, a familiar group stumbled out of the arcade, laughing and shoving each other in that clumsy way only teenagers could manage.

And somewhere deeper in the shadows behind the arcade, almost invisible if you didn’t know where to look, the faint crackle of a radio stirred—a voice, low and clipped, speaking in Russian, barely audible over the hum of the building.