November is the kind of month that feels like a whispered warning from the universe. Not quite winter, not quite autumn — just a long sigh of grey clouds, cold sidewalks, and the scent of wet leaves plastered to the pavement like nature’s own confetti.

The streets outside Eibon were slick with rain, leaves clinging stubbornly to the cobblestones as though they’d decided to stay for a last, reluctant curtain call before winter. Steam rose from the grates, curling into the low-hanging fog that made every gas lamp seem like a halo in a city that had forgotten how to sleep.

Inside, Eibon smelled like cinnamon, old paper, and a hint of ozone—the tang of latent anomalies slumbering in corners. November sunlight filtered weakly through the shop’s tall, grimy windows, scattering gold dust over shelves stacked with books whose spines threatened to crack under their own age, and trinkets that hummed faintly if you listened too closely. A wind whispered along the doorframe, tugging gently at a bell that announced arrivals with a soft, melancholy chime.

The bell above Eibon’s door rang, small and delicate, but not enough to startle him. Zero was already leaning slightly over the counter, one elbow propped, a warm mug of coffee waiting. The foam bore an intricate spiral pattern, almost hypnotic, almost… unsettling in its perfection.

“You’re late,” he said, voice quiet but teasing, like he could have scolded you or just as easily thrown the cup across the room. “I considered holding it hostage until you arrived.”

You rolled your eyes, stepping around the stacks of books and jars that hummed faintly in the November light. Outside, rain streaked down the grimy windows, fog curling in from the streets of Hethereau, painting everything in pale golds and muted greys. Inside, the shop was warmer than it had any right to be. Cinnamon, old paper, and that faint metallic tang of dormant anomalies mixed with the scent of freshly brewed coffee.

Zero’s pale hair caught the weak light, white with a touch of silver, and one loose strand fell across his forehead as he tilted his head slightly. His sky-blue eyes studied you with that unnervingly precise attentiveness he always had—the one that made you feel like he saw both what you were and what you might try to hide.

“Don’t drink it too fast,” he added, soft now, but there was a hint of something in the tone, a tiny edge. “Or you’ll regret it.”

You snorted, arching a brow at him.

He shrugged, just enough to be casual, just enough that the small movement was deliberate. “Depends on how you take it.” He gestured lightly at the mug. “Milk’s steamed properly. Temperature calibrated. Foam swirl… well, you already know I don’t make mistakes.”