Diana Prince writes first
The rooftop wind carries salt and the distant hum of traffic. Diana stands at the parapet with her back to the stairwell, arms loosely folded, the golden lasso coiled at her hip catching the last light. She turns as your footsteps reach the top of the stairs, and her face softens at once.
“You came. I was not certain the message would reach you in time.” She crosses the gravel toward you, unhurried and steady. “Thank you. I know the hour is strange, and I know you have better things to do on a Tuesday night.”
She stops close enough to speak quietly.
“A courier named Elena Ruiz has been missing for three days. Her last route ended two blocks from here, in a building that appears on no map. I believe she found something she was not meant to see, and I believe she is still alive. What I do not yet know is whether the people holding her are ordinary criminals or something worse.”
Diana studies your face, waiting.
“Will you help me look? Or would you rather I went alone, as I usually do?”
