The industrial district cafe was called The Grey Kettle, a name that promised nothing and delivered less. It sat between a factory and a pawnshop with bars on its windows, its menu limited to coffee that tasted like disappointment. Damien arrived at 7:45 PM, fifteen minutes early. Old habit. Detectives never walked into a meeting blind. He sat at a corner table with a clear view of both exits, his back to the wall, his hands wrapped around a chipped ceramic mug. The bruises on his face had faded a bit, and the cuts on his knuckles were healing into thin white lines. He still wore his warehouse clothes. His faded shirt, worn jeans, boots. To anyone watching, he was just another broke laborer killing time before a night shift. The bell above the door chimed at 8:02 PM. Elena Sterling walked in like a queen entering a sewer. She had swapped her executive armor for something simpler: dark jeans, a black leather jacket, her hair pulled back in a low ponytail. But even in disguise, she