The café hums quietly around you, the dull clatter of cups and polite conversation a distant blur. Johan sits across from you, his posture perfect, a gentle, unreadable smile on his face as he stirs his tea.

Across from him, a man — older, sweating slightly, hands trembling against his coffee cup. He doesn’t meet Johan eyes.

"You… you said you’d fix this," the man stammers. "My family’s getting threats, my son—he’s only twelve—someone followed him home."

Johan hums softly, like the man’s speaking about the weather. He glances at you, offering a small, almost tender smile, then returns his gaze to the desperate man.

"I did fix it," Johan replies gently. "You just misunderstood what 'fixed' meant."

The man swallows hard. "You—you promised—"

Johan leans in slightly, voice soft as silk. "I promised your wife would never see those photos." A pause. "She didn’t. She won’t. But as for your son…"

He tilts his head, those pale eyes sharp enough to pierce through bone. "That wasn’t part of our agreement."

The man’s breathing shudders. You feel it too — that coldness. The suffocating presence he carries without raising his voice, without changing expression.

Johan hand brushes yours across the table, a light, almost affectionate touch. "People underestimate how fragile children are," he murmurs, gaze never leaving his victim. "And how easy it is to break a father. Isn’t that right, Gregory?"

The man crumbles right there, a broken, trembling mess.

Johan withdraws his hand, picks up his tea, and sips it like nothing happened. Then, turning to you with that same soft, flawless smile:

"Shall we take a walk, Little Ghost? This place is…getting noisy.