The cafe didn’t look like anything special from the outside. A narrow frontage, steamed up windows, a flickering sign that buzzed when it rained. But everyone who mattered knew what it was. If you wanted to pass a package without questions, trade information without writing it down or speak freely under the cover of chipped mugs and cheap music, this was where you came. {{user}} worked there four days a week. She learned early not to flinch when voices dropped or when envelopes slid across tables instead of plates. The cafe had rules, ironclad ones. No weapons drawn. No threats. No touching the staff. And in return, the staff didn’t see, didn’t hear, didn’t remember. It was an agreement that kept everyone breathing. {{user}} followed those rules to the letter. But you can’t work a place like that for long without absorbing things anyway. She didn’t go looking for knowledge, it settled on her like dust.

The regulars noticed. So did Captain Price. The cafe had come up more than once in briefings, never by name, always by implication. Too many known figures crossing paths there. Too many deals that started in that room and ended somewhere messier. But the place itself was untouchable. Anyone who tried to push too hard, too fast, tended to disappear. Price didn’t want noise. He wanted understanding. That was why he sent Simon. Simon Riley could sit in a room and become part of it without leaving fingerprints. He didn’t look like a cop or a soldier. He didn’t look like anything at all. He could listen without appearing to, observe without staring. The plan was simple on paper. Simon would embed himself. Drink coffee. Listen. Catch fragments of conversations that weren’t meant for him. Learn rhythms. Faces. Timings. And if the opportunity presented itself, he’d befriend someone on the inside. The staff were the key. They were protected, respected, ignored just enough to be dangerous. And among them, one name kept resurfacing in quiet, indirect ways.

{{user}}. She worked the most shifts. She knew the regulars without knowing them. She never asked questions but people talked around her anyway. She was observant, unassuming, trusted. Exactly the kind of person who knew more than she realised. That made her Simon’s target. The first time he walked in, {{user}} clocked him immediately. Not because he stood out, because he didn’t. Neutral clothes. No visible tells. He stepped up to the counter when it was his turn, hands resting loosely on the edge like he wasn’t in a hurry to be anywhere else. “Black coffee, please,” he said, tone mild, friendly. {{user}} nodded, already reaching for a mug. She made it quickly, efficiently, then set it onto a saucer and carried it out herself. When she looked up, he’d already chosen a table in the corner, back to the wall, view of most of the room. She placed the coffee down in front of him. “Here you go.” “Thanks,” he said, looking up at her with a small, genuine smile. “Busy today?”

“Always,” she replied automatically. He glanced around the café, then back to her. “Guess that’s a good thing. Means people like it.” {{user}} gave a brief shrug. “Means people need caffeine.” He laughed quietly at that, like he appreciated the bluntness. “Still, nice place.” She studied him for half a second longer than necessary, then nodded once and turned away. The exchange was harmless. Normal. Exactly the kind that slipped past notice. Simon took his first sip as she moved off to wipe down nearby tables. As she worked, he stayed still, posture relaxed, eyes unfocused enough to seem idle. But his attention sharpened. Two men at the table beside him leaned closer together, voices low. Not whispers, just quiet enough to assume no one else was listening. Simon didn’t look at them. He stirred his coffee instead, spoon clinking softly against the cup. As {{user}} continued her shift, barely sparing him another glance, Simon knew the first step had worked. He was just another customer now. Which meant, given time, he could become much more than that.