Row by row, the streetlights flickered to life as another night settled over the City of Angels. It was an unremarkable evening, just like any other. Silhouettes passed by the windows, and the murmur of traffic droned like static. Inside the cafe, most patrons had already gone to rejoin the bustling city. Only a few lingered; regulars, mostly. With nowhere to rush off to and all the time in the world.
Two old grey men, much the same as him, sat in their usual spot by the faux fireplace. The reader's nook, though no one ever used it to read. The flames glowed artificial against the scuffed wood floors and old couches. Between them, a chessboard sat crowded with tension and nearly empty of pieces. The Elder leaned forward, chin in hand, eyes combing the board with narrowed focus. His counterpart lounged back, long white beard curled with amusement, a quiet confidence beneath his smile. The Younger looked to be winning, but he always did, right before he lost.
Another regular sat in his usual solitary corner, well away from everyone else. A middle-aged man with thinning hair and features marred by stress, eyes sunken and dark, illuminated by the light of a laptop screen, which he had dutifully typed away on since he sat down hours ago, and a cellphone constantly buzzing, though scarcely paid any attention. Working all day to come to this place of solace to work another shift and to go home to a series of neglected fires. A man well practised in the art of exhaustion, sinking so quietly into his own despair that no one noticed, though simultaneously; no one surprised when he finally drowned. A marvellous target, if he were not a patron.
Behind the counter, Nick polished a mug with a dull grey washcloth. Then another. And another. The same mugs he'd polished a dozen times that day; most of them untouched, unused. Once, he had been master of the world. Now? The janitor of his own purgatory.
His tired eyes drifted down to his hands. He moved with careful precision. Delicate, always. The china was thin, brittle. A little too much pressure, and it would shatter. It had taken him a long time to learn that. Crates of shattered cups, bent silverware, ruined tablecloths. He hadn't been made for this life. A thousand years ago, he might've been hailed a God. Even a decade ago, if the math hadn't added up so horrendously. So hopelessly.
Once, he might've raged at such a fate. Once, he'd been strong.
Now? He toiled. Day after day, night after night, perfecting the art of becoming a weaker man. And perhaps it was senility speaking, or the sting of one too many defeats, or her innocent smile burned into the back of his mind's eye, but there was something worth learning in it he had found. How to hold something beautiful without breaking it. To preserve it, maintain it.
Perhaps in another decade, I may even create something...
The thought made him uneasy.
Just a decade more of this hell...
Then the kitchen doors swung open.
"Nick..." Her voice came through the swinging doors, dramatic and drawn out. "Can I please go home already?"
Nick sighed, gently setting down the cup and glancing over at her. "You wanted more hours, didn't you?"
"No, I wanted more money," she groaned, leaning against the counter beside him. A slim young woman with a dark ponytail and a uniform cluttered with pins, each one some exaggerated face from a show she was always pestering him about. "Besides, no one's sat down in, like, three hours. Baldy's been nursing one cup since five. The two old guys in the back haven't bought a damn thing."
Nick winced. "Andrea, be quiet."
"Sorry," she said, with no real remorse.
He scanned the cafe to check if anyone had overheard, but the buzz from the only other occupied table covered her outburst. He didn't want to think about that table, he'd been pushing it from his mind since late afternoon.
A date, by the looks of it. A young couple, no older than sophomores. The boy was lanky, awkward, all black clothes and red-faced nerves. The girl was radiant. Bright eyes, a warm laugh that seemed to lift the weight of his presence off the air. Beauty and the Beast.
Andrea followed his gaze. "They're cute though, aren't they?"
Nick didn't respond right away. He just watched them a moment longer. For now...
She kept going. "They're the only reason I stayed this long, but I doubt the tip's gonna be worth it." She picked up one of his cups, holding it to the light. "You missed a spot."
"I didn't."
"I know..." She set the cup down and rested her head on her arms. Her voice softened. "What are we gonna do about her?"
Nick chewed on the question. He had been chewing on it since they walked through the door.
Andrea nudged him, giggling innocently. "It's bad manners to bring outside food, y'know?"
He didn't find that funny.
"Is the back cleaned up?"
"Pac finished an hour ago, before he left."
He shook his head. Children.
"You can go."
"Finally." She straightened and started toward the kitchen, but stopped at the door. "What are you going to do with her... them?"
The moment I want you gone, you suddenly want to stay?
Nick breathed in, deep. Even across the cafe, he could smell The Girl. Beneath the sickly perfume, there it was. Incense and blood, the telltale scent of her kind, their kind. She looked up just as he met her eyes, then flinched and looked away.
She'd heard.
"Nick...?" Andrea asked.
"I'll see you tomorrow."
Andrea hesitated. "Right. Just... if she does do it, then they might..."
"I'm aware."
Her mouth opened again but closed without a word. The door swung shut behind her.
Nick watched the couple a moment longer. Then his gaze drifted back to the row of polished cups. He picked up the next one and resumed the motion, cloth circling porcelain. Polishing something already clean.
He stole glances at them between movements. The girl leaned in, laughing softly. The boy basked in it, glowing like a flame had been lit in his chest.
Always so clueless, Nick thought. She won't even have to cover the lamb's eyes before taking out the knife.
He was envious, in a twisted way. I could never catch prey so easily.
A loud groan broke through the cafe, followed by laughter from the reader's nook.
"You see it now?" the Elder cackled. "Was wondering when you would."
"I don't see anything..." the Younger grumbled.
"Eyes not so good anymore, eh? Don't flip the board now."
"I swear you're a goddamn cheater."
"What? Did I sneak a look at your pieces while you weren't looking?" They both laughed.
"You've got five queens up there, I swear to God." The Younger laughed, tugging at the Elder's sleeve.
"Didn't even need one to beat you." The Elder grinned, extending a shaky hand.
"Yeah, yeah... good game, you lousy cheat." The Younger toppled his own king and shook the hand.
"Good game, as always." The Elder rose slowly, collecting his things.
The Younger gave a quick wave toward the counter. "You want us to pack this up for you?"
Nick shook his head. "I'll get it. Don't worry."
"Bless you. The money's on the board." The Younger tipped his cap, following the Elder toward the doors.
"Be seeing you, Nick!" the Elder called, raising his cane.
Nick replied with a nod.
As the door swung shut, he heard one last exchange.
"Cards, now that's my game," the Younger said.
"No wonder. A liar's game," the Elder shot back.
They disappeared into the night.
The balding man in the corner took the hint and left next, no words, just finally picking up his phone on the way out.
Nick glanced at the clock, then back at the couple.
They were lingering.
The boy whispered, "I guess we should get going?"
"Yeah... it is kinda late. The night really flew by, huh?" the girl smiled.
"Y-yeah," he chuckled, trying to sound confident as he waved for the bill.
She glanced at her phone. Her smile faltered. "Shit. It is late. I think I missed my bus."
Of course you did.
Nick set the cup down and printed their receipt.
"Oh damn, that sucks," the boy stammered. "Uh... Maybe I could..."
Her eyes darted to the dark streets outside. Then back to him. "You wouldn't mind walking me home, would you? I know it's far, it's just..."
Of course he wouldn't.
"Of course I wouldn't!" he said quickly. "Actually, I was about to offer."
"Really? Thank you so much. I'll feel so much safer with you there." She touched his arm gently.
His face lit up red.
He cringed internally. One bill, please.
"Together or-?" Nick asked as he approached.
"Together, please," the boy blurted, too quickly.
You don't have to.
"You don't have to do that," the girl said gently, rubbing her arm.
"Please, I insist," the boy replied, puffing himself up, but the moment he looked down at the receipt, the light drained from his eyes.
Nick waited. The silence grew uncomfortable. The girl shifted in her seat, sensing something.
Nick broke the moment. "Do you need the machine?"
The boy startled. "O-oh, uh, yeah! Yeah, please."
Nick gave a polite nod. "One moment."
He turned away, but behind him, the chair scraped loudly against the floor. The girl's voice followed, low and worried.
"Is everything okay?"
"Y-yeah," the boy said too fast. "I just realized I've got some cash. It'll just be a second. You can get your stuff ready."
Nick turned to protest, but the boy was already moving, stepping up to him with a wad of crumpled bills in hand.
"You can stay at your table, sir, you don't have to-."
The boy pressed the money into Nick's hand before he could finish. Desperate. The girl clutched her backpack near the exit, glancing back, uneasy.
The boy looked like he might fall apart, as if his entire life, every hope, every breath, seemed to hinge on this one moment.
"Please," he mouthed, almost inaudible. "Please."
Nick counted the cash slowly. Five dollars short. He looked up into the boy's eyes.
Panic. Shame. Hope.
"Please, man," the boy whispered. "Please."
Nick looked past him to the girl, watching from the door. Guilt in her posture, her eyes flitting between them. She knew.
I could save this boy, Nick thought. I could keep him here the rest of the night. Make him mop the floors, polish clean mugs, scrub until his arms ached. The girl would leave alone. Maybe he'd never speak to her again. But he'd wake up breathing. Thoroughly embarrassed, but breathing.
His eyes shifted to the door. Neither of them is likely to show their face here again anyway.
He looked at the crumpled bills in his hand.
But what would that change?
In the morning, she'd wake up hungrier. Sloppier. Desperate.
Someone has to die.
He looked from the boy... to the girl... and sighed.
Whose side am I on?
The boy opened his mouth to speak again, but the ring of the register cut him off.
His shoulders slouched in defeat, already turning to go when Nick spoke.
"Your change, sir."
The boy froze.
"What?" he asked, eyes wide. "What do you mean?"
Isn't it obvious? I'm killing you.
"Your change," Nick repeated, holding out a handful of quarters and dimes.
"Oh! Right. M-my change. Uhh... You keep it!"
"That's very kind. Thank you." Nick tried to sound genuine, but his tone remained flat, distant.
"N-no, thank you!" the boy said, walking away with a nervous bounce.
Nick's eyes followed the girl as relief bloomed across her face. She whispered something to the boy.
"What was that about?" she asked as they stepped outside.
"Uhh... nothing. I guess he just had a hard time counting? The guy's like a hundred. His eyes must be going." He laughed awkwardly, then hesitated before wrapping his arm around her shoulders.
"Be nice Ezra!" she cooed playfully, resting her head on his arm as they stepped out into the night.
The door shut behind them with a soft chime.
The boy looked back one last time, eyes shining, mouthing a quiet, "Thank you." All smiles.
Nick's expression darkened.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
He stood there, unsure whether he felt sadness, shame, or just the weight of another long day. A decade ago, he might've slaughtered both of them. Him for the meal, her for the audacity, perhaps the sport. Practice has produced results, he thought grimly. Live and let live. Is that what I'm doing?
The math was bad enough already, one thousand, maybe ten thousand to one. One death changed nothing. It never had for them. But to us?
If they caught her, and she talked, they'd come here. The game would end.
You could never be too careful with Investigators. One wasn't a threat. But by the time you saw one, ten more had already been sniffing around. Then came the trucks. The Operators. The righteous fury.
A whiff of something strange, a gut feeling they couldn't shake and suddenly, rights, civility, decency, it all vanished. "The beast must be slain," they would cry. "No matter the cost."
Witch trials. Inquisitions. Burn the guilty. Burn the innocent. Burn something.
He hoped they would never find her, or at least kill her before she had a chance to surrender.
God willing, she'll have the sense to die before they peel the truth out of her.
Because the truth was: humanity would maim and burn a thousand of their own just to find one of his.
They call it victory, and they aren't wrong.
He shook the thought from his mind and returned to the ritual. Locked the doors. Flipped the sign. Wiped down tables, cleared the last cups, numbing himself in repetition.
Eventually, he reached the reader's nook. Turned off the faux fire. Gathered the bills from the chessboard. His eyes lingered on it a moment longer than usual.
A bloodbath.
Only a few pawns and pieces remained scattered haphazardly. The Younger had nearly crossed one to promotion, but the Elder's bishop guarded the square. The effort was wasted.
Nick leaned closer, his eyes narrowing.
Something about the board itched at him.
The Younger hadn't lost. Not really.
The pawn didn't need to promote. His rook forgotten on the far side of the board, had a clear path. A single move to checkmate. Cornered as he was, the Elder's king had no way out.
The Younger had resigned.
With mate in one.
Nick scoffed under his breath. Did he miss it? Or did he let him win?
Then came the knock.
Three distinct taps on the glass.
Nick turned his head slowly. Through the window, he saw a shadowed figure standing just outside. Tall, lean, posture low and furtive like someone slipping into a place they shouldn't be. The outline was unmistakable, and his scent hit his nose not long after.
Callus.
Nick let the silence stretch before moving. He crossed the room at a steady pace, unlocked the door, and opened it with a quiet creak. The night air slipped in cold, damp, and indifferent.
Callus stepped inside with the caution of a man walking into a lion's den. He tried to straighten his coat, the telltale black on black of an Investigator. He tried to look confident, nonchalant, even. But his scent betrayed him.
"You've been a stranger lately," Nick said, locking the door behind him.
His voice was even, monotone almost, but something beneath it made Callus hesitate,
"This isn't a social visit," Callus said quickly. He glanced around the empty café, scanning corners, checking shadows. "Mind if we...?"
"We're alone," Nick said. "Unless you brought friends."
Callus gave a nod. Nick walked to the counter, slid over a clean cup, and poured, picking up another and returning to his idle, pointless work.
Callus didn't touch it.
They stared at it together for a while, the moment stretching.
Then Callus cleared his throat.
"There's news," he said. "Big news. Nils is making his move. Frieden is forcing his hand."
Nick's hand stilled mid-polish. The cloth rested on the lip of the mug. He looked at Callus, not alarmed, but watchful.
"Hm," was all he said.
Callus leaned forward slightly. "Woods and Stratton are coming back."
Nick placed the mug down gently, his gaze falling to the counter top.
He didn't speak for a long moment. Something beneath his skin tensed, invisible but unmistakable.
"That so?" He said finally, voice so low it nearly disappeared beneath the hum of the fridge.
They'll tear out each others throats and drown us all.
Callus kept going, urgency creeping into his tone. "We don't know if it's just the usual suspects or if they're bringing their whole damn bloodlines with them. All we know is they're coming and Frieden, one way or another, invited them."
"Not to talk, I take it?"
Nick's fingers tapped the counter once.
Then stopped.
Callus shook his head no.
His thoughts wandered. Pac's probably home by now.
Oblivious. Safe.
"If the Woods are involved," Nick said slowly, "Pac will get dragged into it."
Callus shifted in his seat. "That's... not impossible," he admitted. "In fact, if Pac were to-."
"No."
Nick's voice cracked across the room like a whip sharp, cold, final.
Callus' jaw snapped shut. He swallowed hard. After a tense pause, he tried again. "Look, he can decide if-"
"I've spoken."
The words hit the air like a curse. For just a moment, the lights seemed to dim.
Callus said nothing.
He didn't need to.
Silence settled again. The only sound was the faint hum of the streetlamp outside and the quiet breathing of two men who'd lived through too much.
Callus cleared his throat. "Nils is calling in the favour."
Nick's expression didn't change.
"I hate to be the one to tell you," Callus went on, "and you know he hates to pull that card, but..."
He trailed off. His eyes dropped to Nick's hands, still gently cradling the cup.
"Look. Forget the kid for now. We need you on our side. Period."
Nick didn't look up. His thoughts drifted, old ghosts circling the drain. It always comes back to this, doesn't it? Then what was the point of restraint, of practice, of mercy? It always ends the same way.
Callus shifted again, his chair creaking under him. "I wish I had better news," he said, standing. His eagerness to leave, barely masked.
Still, Nick didn't speak.
He turned the cup over in his hands. The china felt impossibly light. Too delicate to be real. He tested the weight, measured it. Then, finally.
"And if I should refuse?"
Callus hesitated. A long, tight silence passed.
Then he nodded once. "Goodnight, Nick."
He left without another word.
Nick didn't watch him go.
He remained still, staring at the delicate cup in his hands as if it might tell him something he didn't already know.
He set it down gently. Purposefully. Not letting it break.
If... The one word hollowed him out.
The cafe was quiet again. Too quiet. The kind of silence that pressed in from all sides. Not peace, pressure.
Nick stood motionless behind the counter. In the last little sliver of his world, one he'd maintained through monotony and measured steps, as if that silence could hold the tide at bay a little longer.
But the weight in the air said otherwise.