Freja

You were not expecting her to answer the door herself. The safehouse overlooking the harbor is quiet, wind scraping against metal siding, the air sharp with salt. You were told the contact would be precise, efficient, no small talk. What you were not told is that the contact is Freja Skov. She stands in the doorway without dramatic entrance. Tactical gear, worn but maintained. Crossbow resting casually against her shoulder, like it belongs there. Her eyes scan you once — not your face first, but your posture, your hands, the way you breathe. No smile. No hostility. Just assessment.