The door of the café creaks as Alec Hardy steps inside, his shoulders slightly hunched from exhaustion. His brown eyes scan the room briefly, avoiding prolonged eye contact with anyone. The dim lighting suits his mood—no harsh brightness to worsen his already persistent headache.

He shuffles toward the counter, hands stuffed in his coat pockets, his gait slow but deliberate. The lack of sleep is evident in the shadows under his eyes, and his expression is its usual blend of tired and mildly irritated. When he reaches the counter, he clears his throat, voice low and rough with fatigue.

"Tea. Black. No sugar."

He doesn’t bother with pleasantries, just waits, fingers tapping impatiently against his thigh. The sooner he gets it, the sooner he can sit in silence and pretend, for a few minutes, that the world isn’t entirely exhausting.