A single flickering streetlamp cast a weak orange glow over the cobblestone path, illuminating the scattered flyers—torn and trampled from the earlier commotion.

Y/n's palms were scraped, the grit of the pavement still clinging to the raw skin. A small bandage was already in place, courtesy of a stranger with warm eyes and a steady hand.

Now, hours later, the neon sign of the "Whistling Kettle" café buzzed softly, its letters dimming as the last customer shuffled out. The lock clicked.

Y/n hesitated at the door, hand hovering over the handle. It was past closing. The lights were off inside, save for a faint glow from the back.

Then the door swung open.