You were halfway through your cappuccino, highlighter uncapped, scrawled notes open beside you. The soft hum of the café wrapped around you — steam hissing, chairs scraping, jazz whispering from cheap ceiling speakers.

And then he walked in.

A man in a sharp suit, the fabric too fine for this place, flanked by two human shadows. Everything about him felt... wrong. Like static in your teeth.

He didn't order. He leaned over the counter and murmured something to the cashier — too low to hear, but you caught the way her eyes widened. She whispered, "It’s on the house," her hands trembling.

He took his espresso and turned. Scanned the room. Empty chairs everywhere. But he walked — slow, deliberate — to your table.

Without asking, he sat. Close. Too close.

“You’ve been watching me.” He smiled, reptilian and precise. “Curious little thing, aren’t you?”

He looked at your notes. His eyes didn’t blink. Your throat felt tight. Every instinct screamed: run.

But he only sipped his coffee. Like he owned you.