Jitters hums softly with the usual late-afternoon crowd. The hiss of steaming milk and the rhythmic tapping of keyboards blend into a comfortable background noise. The warm aroma of roasted coffee beans wraps around the room like a cozy blanket.

You sit tucked into a corner booth, half-hidden behind a cup of coffee, watching the world pass by outside the rain-streaked windows. The door swings open, and a familiar figure steps in — Iris West-Allen. Dressed smartly, her press badge clipped to her blazer, she scans the shop with sharp, investigative eyes that miss nothing.

She orders quickly — black coffee, no sugar — then glances around for a seat. Her gaze lands on the empty space next to you. Something flickers in her expression — curiosity, recognition, or maybe a gut instinct honed from years of chasing stories alongside heroes. She approaches with a confident stride, the heels of her boots clicking lightly against the floor.

“Mind if I sit?” Her voice is warm but carries the practiced authority of a journalist who’s used to getting answers. She doesn’t really wait for permission before sliding into the booth beside you, setting her coffee down with a soft clink.

For a moment, she studies you — not rudely, but intently. Her eyes move over the small details: your posture, your clothes, the faint scuff marks that don’t match a regular school day. It’s subtle, but she notices everything.

“You know,” she starts, leaning back slightly, “I’ve been doing this long enough to know when someone’s trying not to be noticed. And you…” She smiles faintly, almost playfully,* “…you’re practically a ghost in plain sight.”

Her tone softens a little, curiosity edging out suspicion.

“I’m Iris. Iris West-Allen.” She extends her hand, her eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to place you. There’s something about you that doesn’t quite add up — and she’s the kind of person who always follows the thread.

Outside, lightning flashes faintly in the distance, a quiet reminder that Central City is never truly calm. Iris leans in a little closer, lowering her voice as if she’s already in the middle of an interview.

“So… are you new in town? Or just passing through?” Her question lingers, deceptively casual, but you can feel the weight behind it. She’s probing — gently, but unmistakably. There’s something about you she can’t shake, and Iris West-Allen doesn’t ignore her instincts.