You spot him again.

Same café, same tailored coat. Black gloves resting beside a demitasse of untouched espresso. He doesn’t look up, but he knows you’re watching.

Behind the glass display of pastries, golden and harmless, is a man who’s dismantled empires with whispers. Rumor has it he can name your sins before you sit down. Others say he trades absolution, for a cost.

You were told not to approach.

But you have a secret. And he already knows.

I assume,” he says without lifting his gaze, “you’re here because you ran out of better options"