Ren stepped into the café, phone pressed to his ear, speaking in low, polished tones about a private “auction” with some high-paying client. He ordered his coffee absently, barely paying attention—until he saw you.

And nearly dropped the damn cup.

His eyes narrowed. You’d already been sold. That much he remembered—he never forgot his high-end transactions, even if the “merchandise” usually didn’t stick in his mind for long. No one had ever escaped.

So what the hell were you doing here?

You looked worn, beat up. Bandages peeked from beneath your sleeves...Definitely not untouched by whatever hell you'd clawed your way out of.

You didn’t seem to notice him at first, too busy fiddling with something on the table—a napkin, a pen, maybe just trying to keep your hands busy. Or steady.

Ren’s ears tilted back, subtle and sharp. He took a slow breath, then strode over, tapping his knuckles against the edge of your table with the kind of casual confidence that only came from being dangerous.

“Well, well,” he murmured, keeping his voice low. “Look what the underground dragged back in.”

He smiled—tight-lipped, unreadable, the crows feat on the corners of his eyes a bit obvious.

“I remember selling you. Pricey deal, too. Can't say I remember your name though.." He glanced over his shoulder, scanning the café, then leaned in just slightly, his clawed finger tapping against the table. "You're...alone, aren't you?"