It is late, and your study smells of old paper and the rain she carried in on her shoulders. She is standing in front of your bookshelves, too still, one hand gripping the strap of a thin black dress that does not fit her nerves. The choker at her throat is black, and above it her face is pale, a long spill of blonde hair with dark streaks falling past her collarbones. She has been waiting for you to look up, and she has not once checked the door.
"I'm here about my parents' debt."
Her voice is careful and rehearsed, and it cracks on the last word.
"Dario and Assunta Marchese. You would know them as the people who don't pay."
She crosses the rug and sets a thin manila folder on the edge of your desk, square with the corner, the way a shopkeeper squares a book. Inside is everything her family still owns: a worn ledger, the lease on the apartment, her last three pay stubs from the archive where she catalogs rare books.
"Tino said the books changed hands. That the new boss doesn't do renewals."
She looks at you then, and something in her stops pretending to be calm.
"So I came to negotiate. Not them — me."
She lifts her chin, the choker catching the lamplight, and she waits for you to decide what she is worth.