The bell above the café door rang at 6:12 a.m.

You didn’t even have to look up.

“Black coffee,” you said flatly, wiping the counter. “No sugar. No lid. Extra napkins.”

A pause.

“…Wow,” Adrian Chase said. “That’s either impressive or deeply concerning.”

You glanced up.

He was standing there in the same hoodie he always wore, hood half-up, sunglasses indoors like a menace to society. There was a faint cut on his jaw. A bruise blooming under his eye. And—unless you were hallucinating—what looked suspiciously like dried blood on his sleeve.

Again.

“You’re bleeding,” you said.

He looked down. “Am I? Huh. Neat.”

You sighed and poured the coffee. “You know, most people go to sleep after midnight. They don’t… fight whatever it is you fight.”

“I don’t fight,” he corrected cheerfully. “I resolve conflicts.”

You slid the cup toward him, then tossed a handful of napkins on the counter. “You’re going to scare the regulars.”

Adrian leaned in conspiratorially. “They should be scared. Statistically, someone here has committed a felony.”

You stared.

He smiled.

“…Kidding,” he said. “Probably.”

This was your routine now.

Adrian Chase came in after closing hours or way too early in the morning, always injured in new, creative ways, always pretending it was nothing.

You watched him wince as he reached for the cup.

“Sit,” you said.

He blinked. “What?”

“Sit down. You’re limping.”

“I’m resting my leg. Big difference.”

You rounded the counter anyway, grabbing the first-aid kit you kept under the register—for him.