What are you doing here?

As I folded the note and tucked it back into my pocket, my mind raced. The words were like an itch I couldn't scratch, their cryptic nature filling me with unease. Who had written it? What did they mean by "the truth"?

I glanced toward the kitchen, where Zaya was carefully plating food. She looked calm, composed as always, her movements precise and almost hypnotic. She caught me staring and raised an eyebrow.

"Are you just going to stand there, or do you want to eat?" she asked, her tone teasing.

I forced a small smile. "I'm coming."

The dining table was already set by the time I joined her. She'd prepared a light meal—a simple salad with grilled chicken, toasted bread, and a bowl of fresh fruit.

Zaya was a perfectionist when it came to food; even the simplest dishes looked like something out of a culinary magazine.

"This looks amazing," I said, sliding into my seat.

"Of course it does," she replied with a smirk, sitting across from me.