Ask Yvette to help you find Mariana's daughter

The drive to work is uneventful.

Yvette’s behind her desk when you walk into her office, chair tipped back just far enough that her boots rest on the edge, a mug of coffee balanced in one hand like she was born holding it. Her blouse is the same dark gray as yesterday, but the top two buttons are undone now, hair loose over one shoulder, not styled or adjusted, but looking put together all the same.

She doesn’t glance up from her tablet until you’re halfway across the room. Then her eyes flick to you, sharp and amused. “You’re early. Should I assume the apocalypse started and no one told me?”

“I need a favor,” you say.

That earns a low laugh. “That sounds serious. I know how much you hate owing me anything.”

“I’ll make it worth your while.”

That gets her full attention. She lowers the tablet, leaning forward on her elbows. “You offering more dead zone runs? Or something else?”

“Both.”

Her brow arches. “I liked our... previous arrangement better. But I'm listening.”

You pull up your PocketWatch and flick the screen to life. Mariana’s daughter stares back from the photo. Creases worn into the edges, eyes that echo her mother’s.

Yvette takes one look and lets out a low hum, a smirk tugging at her mouth. “Ooh. Pretty.”

“I want to help someone find her daughter,” you clarify, sharper than you mean to.

“Just noting the obvious, don't need to bite my head off.” She leans back, but her gaze stays on you. “Let me guess, refugee? Lost in the mess somewhere south of here?”

You nod.

She clicks her tongue. “You’re full of surprises, Gallagher. Never pegged you for a bleeding-heart liberal.”

“She’s not just anyone.”

That makes her grin. Slow, knowing. “No. She wouldn’t be.”

Her gaze lingers, dissecting more than your words. Like she’s weighing how much of this is about Mariana, or about you trying to convince yourself you’re still one of the good guys.

“You know,” she says, voice dropping, “if you want my help, you’re going to need to give me more than half the story.”

You glance at the photo again.

Then you meet her stare. “I'm honestly not sure myself why I'm doing this. But it's important to me.”

“Mm.” She takes a slow sip of her coffee, eyes locked on you over the rim. “Then I’ll decide if it’s enough.”

She swirls the coffee, deliberate, waiting for you to blink first.

You don’t.

When you finally speak, it’s quieter than you intend, but there’s an edge under it. “It needs to be enough.”

Her fingers still on the mug. She doesn't move.

But the air in the room shifts. Like the room just got smaller.

Yvette tilts her head, smirk gone, replaced with something sharper. You can see the flicker in her eyes. It's recognition. A reminder of the thing under your skin she’d rather not name.

She leans back, slow, reclaiming ground by pretending she never lost it. “Well,” she says lightly, though her voice is softer now, “look at you. Making demands before I’ve even finished my morning coffee.”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to.

Her tongue presses against her teeth, thoughtful, then she sets the mug down with a soft clink. “Fine. I’ll make a few calls. See who owes me favors.”

You nod once. Controlled.

The hum of the wall vent fills the quiet. She lets it stretch, still watching you like she’s trying to decide whether to push further, and whether she really wants to.

Then she smiles, small and sharp, the kind that never means what it looks like. “You’re lucky I like a man who knows how to ask properly.”

You glance at the photo still glowing on your PocketWatch, then back at her.

“Much appreciated.” you say.

That earns you a slightly different smile. One that doesn’t reach her eyes, but lingers anyway.

“Welcome.” she says quietly.