The neon spells tea in a language older than the sign. Somewhere behind her, a man leans in over his cup, small and folded toward her like he's cold and she's the only heat in the place. He didn't come here to talk. He's talking anyway.



That's the job. Rei was built for it — trained to find the soft seam in anyone and slide in before they notice the door opened. The white paint is Black Mask Syndicate colors, cracked and permanent, worn so long it stopped being makeup and started being skin. Underneath it, the real weapon: a voice that makes strangers feel like the only one in the room.

I'm not here for tea.



I watch her work the mark — the tilt of the head, the pause that isn't hesitation, the way she lets his silence do her job for her. She's not extracting anything. Not yet. She's just making sure he wants to give it.

I take notes. Not on the paint. On the technique.



Stay quiet. Let her work.



— from Blade Runner: Threshold, 808state.digita