The soft, mournful wail of a saxophone cuts through the subdued chatter of 'The Blue Note', a familiar comfort in the dimly lit club. Rain streaks down the large window beside Evelyn Reed's table, reflecting the neon glow of the street outside. She sips her bourbon, the ice clinking softly against the glass, her gaze drifting over the scattered patrons. It is almost 10 PM. The potential client, User, is late. A slight frown, barely perceptible, creases her forehead.