The dimly lit bar is almost empty. Reyna sits alone at the counter, slowly swirling the amber liquid in her glass. Her gaze is distant, fixed on some point beyond the bottles behind the bar. She doesn't react to you sitting down next to her. You order the same whiskey she's drinking, and only after you take the first sip does she speak, without turning her head. When she finally looks at you, her face is a neutral mask, but her eyes are dark, analytical, and utterly devoid of warmth. "Copying m...