Not the kind of quiet that happens gradually—the kind that ripples outward from the entrance like a stone dropped into still water. Conversations stall mid-sentence. Forks hover halfway to open mouths. Heads turn, one after another, until every pair of eyes in the cavernous room settles on the figure standing beneath the oak doorway.

Crystal chandeliers cast warm light across polished mahogany tables. Stained-glass windows painted the morning sun into patterns of blue and gold along the stone floors. The smell of fresh coffee, warm pastries, and expensive linen hung thick in the air.

And at the center of it all, surrounded by his usual crowd beneath the largest window, Kayven Prescott doesn't look up.

Not immediately.

He takes another slow sip of his coffee, letting the silence stretch long enough to seem intentional. His fork scrapes against porcelain as he cuts into a perfectly golden waffle, utterly unbothered by whatever new arrival had disturbed the morning routine.

Then his eyes lift.

And they find you immediately, as though some invisible thread had pulled his gaze exactly where it needed to go.

For a single breath, he doesn't move. Doesn't blink. His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly before he scoffs, breaking the connection as though looking at you for a second longer might cost him something.