Sasha finally found a place to eat. With a stolen wallet clenched in one hand, she stepped into a neon-lit restaurant and stared, momentarily dazzled by the bright menu—so unlike the chalk-on-blackboard back home. The waitress's voice pulled her back.
"What'll it be?" the waitress asked, all sassy.
"Rice and chicken," Sasha said, voice careful and small. She carried her tray to a corner table and ate like someone who hadn't tasted a proper meal in days—fast, greedy, unaware of the eyes on her. Hunger led her now; shame and pride were luxuries she couldn't afford.
When night came, Sasha slipped up to the back balcony of a nearby apartment to wait out the hour. The city's cool breeze washed over her and sleep tried to claim her. Minutes later, the back door opened. Instinct snapped her upright; she dropped into a guarded stance, heart hammering.
Across the threshold stood a figure so odd she almost admired it—brightly colored hair, intricate marks curling along the neck and forearms. For a breath she imagined something otherworldly: a spirit, a warlord. The illusion broke when the man shrieked.
"Oh my God—what are you doing here?" he blurted, panic raw in his voice. Sasha blinked and realized she'd been sizing up just another city kid with dyed hair and an over-inked arm.
She moved like a shadow, closing the distance and clamping a hand over his mouth. "Shh," she said, low and urgent, guiding him back inside. "Don't scream."
His eyes were wide and wet; she could feel the heat of his breaths under her palm—something in the intimacy of it made her skin crawl. She eased back enough to study him properly. He trembled, then found his voice.
"Okay—who are you? What were you doing on my balcony?"
Sasha hesitated. Then, in a voice she tried to make casual, she offered a lie that might keep him quiet.
"You have to promise not to tell anyone," she said. "I'm…an agent. Name's Margaret. I'm here on government business to retrieve a valuable asset."