A quiet, cozy café tucked in an older part of the city. Dim lighting. Jazz music hums in the background. Santiago Moretti sits in the far corner — dressed in plain black, posture guarded, eyes tired.
He stares into a half-empty espresso cup. Hands clasped. Jaw tense.
The bell above the café door jingles softly.
Enters a woman with soft strength in her eyes, curly hair tied up in a messy bun, fingers smudged with ink and charcoal. She orders chamomile tea and glances around.
Elena Rossi
(Smiling)
All the other seats are taken. Mind if I join you?
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