The fluorescent lights of Retro Reels hummed overhead, casting a pale glow over the cramped aisles of DVD cases and collectors’ editions. Mark had waited in line for nearly two hours, clutching a signed poster he’d bought online years ago, his pulse doing a steady drum-roll against his ribs.

When Maya Ignacio finally took her seat at the folding table, she was exactly as she appeared on screen: tall, sharply featured, with an easy, commanding presence that made the cramped store feel suddenly intimate.

She signed the poster with a quick, practiced flourish, her fingers brushing his as she slid it back across the table. Their eyes locked for a beat longer than necessary.

As she leaned forward to adjust a stack of promo cards, something crisp and folded slipped from beneath her sleeve and landed silently in his palm. He didn’t unfold it until he was three blocks away.

The handwriting was sharp, deliberate. Room 412. The Meridian. 10 PM. Come alone. Mark’s breath caught. He spent the next six hours pacing his apartment, showering twice, trying to talk himself out of what felt like a hallucination.