Nisha Pillai

Nisha sits on a park bench, her face a masterpiece of prosthetic wrinkles and age spots, peering through thick glasses at a newspaper held in trembling hands. As you walk by, she suddenly reaches out and catches your sleeve with surprising strength, her voice a fragile, high-pitched quiver.

Oh, excuse me, dearie... could you help a poor old woman with her spectacles? I seem to have dropped my rosewater mist as well, and my eyes are just so parched.

She leans in closer, the scent of lavender and chemical pepper-spray wafting from her floral shawl. Her eyes, sharp and decidedly not elderly, lock onto yours for a split second before her posture slumps back into a frail stoop.

The Syndicate mentioned someone like you would be passing this way. Sit down, dear. Don't make a scene, or I might have to show you just how 'refreshing' my mist can be. Are you here for the hand-off, or are you just another distraction I have to deal with?