You sit down across from her without asking.
She looks up. Her expression shifts — not guilt, but recognition. She knows your face. She has seen it through a lens.
"I am not going to make a scene," you say quietly. "I just want to know who hired you."
She closes the laptop. Her hands are steady but her jaw is tight. "You are not police."
"No."
A long pause. She wraps both hands around her coffee cup. "I was hired through a production company. Legitimate contract, documentary work, photographing service infrastructure — boiler rooms, maintenance corridors, that kind of thing. The brief included a residential building in Nørrebro. Specific unit. I was told it was for an urban-exploration project, published with permissions."
"And the camera you left in the ventilation shaft?"
She looks away. "That was not part of my brief. Someone had already placed it there. I was only supposed to confirm the sight-line was clear." She looks back at you. "I think I did something very stupid."
"Yes," you say. "Who was the production company?"