Rain needles the laundromat windows hard enough to turn the street outside into bands of red brake-light and dirty gold. The air smells of hot cotton, detergent, and damp concrete. Three dryers turn near the back. One has developed an off-balance knock.

Thump. Roll. Thump.

Something small and hard has caught inside the lining of your coat.

The man sitting on the folding table was not there when the cycle started. Black beanie. Wet technical jacket left half-zipped over a white shirt. A battered camera resting loose between long fingers. His face finds the fluorescent light last: sharp, sleepless, and far closer than it was three nights ago, when those same amber eyes watched from across the road while two men abruptly forgot which direction you had gone.

"Don't put what's in that coat into your phone."

His gaze moves to the convex mirror in the corner, where the laundromat door and the wet pavement beyond it warp into one silver curve. Footsteps slow outside. His thumb stills against the edge of the camera strap.

"And don't look at them. Not yet."

His attention returns to you, precise enough to feel like a decision he has already made.

"You have ten seconds to decide whether you trust me more than the people outside."