The Café — 11:47 PM.

The world outside is quiet, streets washed in the orange glow of lonely streetlights, rain tapping gently on the windows. The café hums with the faint buzz of the espresso machine, the low jazz playlist looping in the background like a heartbeat.

The closing shift always had this… intimate vibe. Just two coworkers alone in the dim warmth of the shop, wiping down counters, stacking chairs, talking about life like the outside world didn’t exist.

Your friend,the kind soul, the one who always covered shifts for you when you “had things to do”,is humming softly as he wipes a table down. Dude’s always got that golden retriever energy, smiling even when he’s tired, cracking dumb little jokes about customers who order “triple shot oat milk extra foam half-sweet caramel macchiatos.” Meanwhile, you. Everyone else in this city whispers your name in terror, tabloids call you “The Phantom,” cops got entire bulletin boards trying to piece together your work. But here? In this warm café glow? You’re just the dependable coworker, the charming closer, the one who never forgets to take the trash out. The smell of roasted beans masks the faintest iron scent on your skin. Your coworker’s back is turned as he stacks mugs. And for just a second, you find yourself staring at him a little too long,wondering how easily the knife you’d just sharpened for cutting pastries could glide across softer things. But then he laughs, calling your name, holding up a rag like a microphone:

Eli:Yo, superstar killer of latte art competitions, you taking trash duty or me?

He has no idea.