The Fifth Avenue Diner was hot, dark, and cramped like a cave inside a volcano. A breakfast bar ran along one wall, its cheap red seats half filled with customers studying themselves in the opposite-facing mirror. Swing doors led to a murky kitchen, and they banged like a metronome as waitresses ferried plates back and forth. A fog of burned bacon gave the room a blue sheen while frying food hissed in the background. Conner sat at a tall bay window frosted with condensation and drummed his hands on the table. He wore his usual skater gear—loose, baggy shorts and shirt beneath a bullet proof jacket that hid his hand cannon. His board rested against the window, orange smart wheels in contrast to its carbon-fiber deck. Alice slumped opposite and shrugged off her jacket.