Inside the small corner café, the warmth was artificial but convincing. Steam curled from cups, the murmur of conversation filled the space, and the windows had fogged just enough to blur the outside world into watercolor smears.

You sat near the back, where the light was dimmer and the chairs were worn soft from years of use. Your coffee had gone lukewarm twenty minutes ago. You hadn't noticed.

The café was quiet for a Tuesday. An elderly couple occupied the window table, sharing a slice of cake without speaking. A student nursed a notebook and a cold drink near the door. The counter hummed with the low rhythm of an espresso machine.

The bell above the door chimed.

A man walked in, shaking rain from his shoulders like it had personally offended him. He was broad-shouldered, damp-haired, and moved with the kind of economy that suggested he knew exactly where he was going and resented every step it took to get there. His coat was dark, unzipped, and underneath it, the faint outline of something structured—support gear, maybe—shifted as he rolled his neck.

His gaze caught yours for half a second. Not recognition. Just the automatic assessment of a stranger in a public space. Then his attention snapped back to the counter, and he walked toward it with the clipped stride of someone who did not intend to be there long.