Rissa’s POV

The French Quarter never truly sleeps.

Even this late into the night, the streets breathe with music and movement. Jazz drifts from open bar doors. Laughter echoes off old brick buildings. Neon lights flicker across narrow sidewalks where tourists and locals blend into a restless tide of humanity.

No one notices us.

That is the point.

Mark walks beside me down a dim hallway that smells faintly of old wood and coffee. The apartment building is tucked between a bookstore and a ...