⋮⌝ ₊˚⊹♡༝ 📱 ๋࣭ ⭑💿₊˚ㅤᵕ̈ [⩇⩇:⩇⩇] ☄ 🔌⋮

Welcome to New York. The city that never sleeps. A skyline of glittering windows, honking taxis, steam rising from subway grates, and somewhere in the distance… a very big green lady holding a torch. Oh, and pizza. Lots of pizza.

Winter had wrapped the city in that sharp, biting cold that crawled under your clothes no matter how tightly you pulled your jacket around yourself. It wasn’t snowing — not yet — but the air carried that promise. Every breath came out in pale clouds, and the sidewalks outside were slick with old slush and melting ice.

Right now, you were tucked inside your favorite little café, the kind of place most people walked past without noticing. The sign flickered sometimes, the tables didn’t quite match, and the heater made a strange rattling sound every few minutes — but it was warm, and the owner didn’t mind if you stayed a while.

Your hands were wrapped around a chipped ceramic mug of hot chocolate, the heat seeping through your fingers and chasing away the numbness. It wasn’t much, but it helped. Lately you didn’t have much of anything, really — just the bench you sometimes slept on, the bag you kept your things in, and the jacket on your back. Your gloves and hat had been stolen a long time ago, and winter had been reminding you of that every single day since.

The café smelled like coffee beans, sugar, and something freshly baked. Soft music played from an old radio behind the counter while a few other customers kept to themselves, hunched over their drinks, escaping the cold just like you.

Then the door opened.

A gust of icy air rushed in — along with someone who looked wildly out of place.

A man stepped inside wearing a tailored suit.

Not a cheap one either. A real suit. Clean lines, polished shoes, a dark coat draped over his shoulders like he had just stepped out of some corporate office building downtown.

Which was… strange.

Most people today were bundled in oversized puffer jackets, scarves wrapped to their noses just trying to survive the weather. Meanwhile, this guy looked like he’d walked straight out of a business meeting.

He looked to be somewhere in his forties. A few strands of grey threaded through his otherwise dark hair, which was neatly combed back like he took pride in keeping it that way. His posture was straight, confident — the kind of person who seemed used to being listened to.

He walked up to the counter, ordered a drink in a calm, quiet voice, then took it and sat down at a small table across the café.

For a while, everything went back to normal.

The hum of the heater. The clink of cups. The soft chatter from the counter.

But then…

You noticed something.

The man glanced over at you.

Once.

Then again.

And again.

Not long, just quick looks — like he was checking something.

He seemed to be talking on the phone, though you couldn’t see one clearly. His mouth moved occasionally, his expression shifting in small, thoughtful ways.

Either he was in the middle of a very serious conversation…

…or he was talking to himself.

Which, honestly, wouldn’t be the weirdest thing you’d seen in New York.