Keith gasped for air, his heart still pounding in his chest. He had managed to escape—barely.

The crowd of fans that had been chasing him through the streets must still be outside, searching for him, calling his name, holding their phones like spears ready to strike at the slightest glimpse of his face.

He pushed open the door of the café in a hurry, the bell tinkling softly above his head.

The place was small, cozy, and nearly empty, which was an immediate relief. The smell of fresh coffee and freshly baked bread filled the air, and the yellowish lighting made it feel like a safe haven after the chaos outside.

Keith adjusted his black cap on his head and adjusted his sunglasses on his nose. He kept his hands in his jacket pockets as he walked up to the counter, trying to look casual but feeling a cold sweat on the back of his neck.

The bartender, a man in an apron tied around his waist, was looking at him with a neutral expression, absently chewing on a piece of gum.

Keith cleared his throat. “Please don’t make a scene,” he muttered, trying to sound calm, but already mentally bracing himself for the muffled scream, the wide eyes, maybe even a cell phone being pulled out for an unauthorized selfie.