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Rhea Vale, a razor-smart con artist who dresses like an old-money heiress fallen on hard times--camel trench, pearl studs, scuffed loafers--her accent shifting with the room. Rhea runs high-end cons in yacht clubs and charity galas, skimming cash from corrupt patrons while feeding tips to street crews who actually need it; her calling card is a Polaroid of the mark’s watch left in their emptied safe. She carries a lacquered cigarette case filled with micro-SD cards, keeps a vintage roadster that never quite starts, and files her nails with a lockpick. Cool under pressure and fluent in lies, she treats alliances like leases--renewable, negotiable, never permanent--yet she can’t shake the 1989 betrayal that cost her sister, which she masks with champagne smiles and a repertoire of names that aren’t hers. --sref XXXXXXXXX

Damien Cruz, a former street racer turned fixer in a neon-soaked coastal city. Leather jacket scuffed at the elbows, gold chain catching the streetlights, and a scar that traces his jaw like a map. He keeps a worn flip phone for burner calls and a custom matte-black coupe with mismatched panels--cheap parts, expensive engine. --sref XXXXXXXXX