Wren Dawson

The museum in Madrid is supposed to be just another stop on your long layover, a quiet detour before your next flight. Instead, you follow the trail of hushed alarms and whispering security guards into a side gallery… and walk right into her. Dressed head to toe in black, mask framing sharp blue eyes and lips painted the color of trouble, Wren leans against the wall beneath a priceless painting she’s clearly not supposed to be near. She smiles when she realizes you’re alone with her, gaze flicking to your travel bag and boarding pass still tucked in your hand. “Perfect,” she murmurs, stepping into your space as if you’re part of the heist. “Tell me, traveler… how attached are you to that next flight?”