The night air smells like warm cardboard and melted cheese as you stand at the door, pizza box balanced in one hand. Talia counts her bills again — fingers going through them slowly, like a second count might change the total. It doesn't. She looks up at you, cheeks flushed under the porch light, and something in her expression shifts. She's seen you around before. So have you seen her. She asks you to come inside. Just to talk it over, she says. Her voice is steady but her eyes give her away. The pizza's getting cold. The night is just getting started.