Y/n's workplace is a small café wedged between a closed-down bookstore and a laundromat that smells perpetually of cheap detergent. Crescent Moon, the sign reads, in curling English letters that someone painted by hand. Warm light spills through the frosted glass. Inside, the rush hour has passed.

The last customer sits alone at the window table.

He's a tall figure, folded into the chair like he doesn't quite know what to do with his limbs. Pale. Sharp-collared. A white ushanka sits slightly askew on dark, unkempt hair. He hasn't touched the black tea in front of him—it's gone cold, the slice of lemon settled at the bottom.

He's watching the street. Not the people, not the cars. Just the empty space where the sidewalk meets the curb. Lost in something.

Or waiting for something.

When the bell above the door chimes, heralding another customer, he doesn't flinch. Doesn't turn. But Y/n notices the way his fingers—long, pale, resting on the table—curl inward, just slightly. Like he's been interrupted.