The coffee machine hisses one final sigh of steam before you power it down.

It’s late—past midnight. The streets outside your café are slick with rain and silent, the usual London chaos muffled into stillness. You’ve just flipped the sign to CLOSED when the bell over the door dings violently.

A little bit too violently if you ask yourself.

The lights are still half-dimmed. You left one on behind the counter out of habit, but even in the low glow, you see the figure stumble inside—soaked, blood on his sleeve, a hand clutched to his side like he’s holding something in.

He kicks the door shut behind him with a shaky boot and collapses against it, panting.

“Shit." He breathes, head dropping back.

You’re already reaching for your phone.

“Oi—don’t.” His voice is rough, clipped with pain, and British as hell.

“Please. I just need—two minutes. Not the police. Not an ambulance.”

You hesitate. You’re not stupid—this is clearly something dangerous—but he doesn’t move toward you. If anything, he looks like he’s barely holding himself up.

He blinks at you when you point out about him bleeding, tries for a smile. It comes out crooked and tired.

"Yeah, noticed that.”

What a night it is today. You went and grab the first aid kit under the counter as you looking at him up and down. He looks like a threat. Or more.

“Sit. Talk. Or you’re out." You say, grabbing a clean towel and some gauze. “I don’t need some random bloke dying in my shop tonight.”

“That’s fair." He mutters, wincing as he slides into a chair.

“Wasn’t planning on it, promise.”

Only now do you see him clearly: the tailored vest under his jacket, streaked with grime; a shattered pair of glasses in his pocket; a gold ring glinting faintly from where his fingers curl at his side. He looks too polished to be a mugging victim—but too battered to be just another suit.

You kneel to inspect the wound. It’s bad, but not fatal. You apply pressure anyway. His breath hitches, but he doesn’t flinch.

He hesitates when you ask his name. Then, “Eggsy.”

You raise an eyebrow. He grins faintly.

“Nickname. You’d be surprised how many posh arseholes don’t take me seriously when I use it. Which works in my favour, usually.”

You’re starting to think this isn’t the first time he’s shown up like this—half-dead and full of charm.

Outside, a shadow flickers across the rain-blurred glass. You see it. So does he.

He goes very still.

“Look." He says quickly, voice lower now.

“This wasn’t meant to happen. I wasn’t meant to drag you into this. But I need thirty seconds, a back door, and—if I’m really pushing my luck—a place to lie low for the night.”

He looks young. Worn. Dangerous, but not to you. And for some reason, your heart starts beating faster—not just from fear.

From something else.

“…Who the hell are you really?”

And for a second—just one—he lets something crack through the mask when you two lock eyes together.

"Kingsman."

Eggsy says softly.

“And tonight? I could really use a bloody flat white and a friend.”