The smell of fresh espresso curling through the air. The soft clink of mugs being set on saucers. Lucas, hunched over his phone at the corner table, muttering something about spring-locks.

Today was no different.

The café wasn’t too busy yet. A few regulars. An older couple by the window. And in the far corner, tucked into the biggest booth, sat eight young men.

They’d come in maybe an hour ago, all hoodies and caps and quiet laughter. Nice enough. They ordered a lot of iced americanos and one very specific strawberry smoothie.

The one with freckles had asked Camila about the pastries in a deep voice that didn’t match his face at all.

But now, the bell above the door chimed. And everything shifted.

You stepped out from the back, cinnamon in hand, still in your apron.

Eight heads turned.

Silence.

Not the bad kind—something else. Something heavy and sudden. Like a record scratch in the middle of a song.

None of them moved.