The air inside the backroom carried the stench of stale tobacco, ozone from overheating server racks, and the faint, bitter tang of cheap espresso abandoned in a cracked ceramic mug since noon. A single halogen bulb dangled from a frayed black cord directly over the wooden table's center, casting a harsh, conical glare that surrendered the room's corners to heavy, shifting shadows. The darkness there seemed alive, breathing with the weight of secrets.
The woman sat perfectly still in the middle of that light, her small frame dwarfed by a massive, high-backed leather swivel chair that had weathered better decades. Her fingers, tipped with dark plum nail polish, tapped a slow, erratic rhythm against the edge of a rugged tactical laptop.
