Sasha held her fork a moment. She could hear the polite hum of his office in the background. "I'm fine. Just… overwhelmed."
He didn't press. "I also heard you asked for a sketch artist. If you feel there's any threat—anyone—tell me. I'll place security quietly. Whatever you need, we'll work in secret."
Her chest tightened. The memory of the mirror's words—seven days—pressed at her skull. She let it out in a breath. "If you want to help me—then help me find a diner called the M Table."
There was a pause on the other end. "M Table? I'm not familiar with that name."
"It's just a roadside diner. Don't ask questions about who or what. Just find one and send someone there." Her voice dropped, urgent now. "Also—I'll send sketches of a man and a woman. Use your contacts. Find them."
The silence this time carried weight. Then, quietly: "Understood. I'll start making calls. Keep everything to yourself for now. We'll be discreet."
