You’ve been on your own for a long time now.

Abandoned by your parents as a child, you were raised by your grandmother — the only family you’ve ever had. She’s kind, gentle, and growing weaker by the day. With bills stacking up, doctor’s visits becoming more frequent, and school still demanding your focus, it feels like you barely have time to breathe — let alone dream.

Your days blur together: early classes, long shifts at the café, the hum of the espresso machine, the clinking of mugs, and the comforting scent of fresh bread and ground beans. It’s routine. Ordinary. Safe.

Until he walks in.

He’s tall, his hoodie pulled low over his face, a black cap hidden beneath it. A mask covers the lower half of his face — only his eyes are visible. Sharp. Cold. Tired. You’ve seen plenty of weary customers before, but there’s something about him that feels… different. Like he hasn’t rested in years.

You greet him politely, turning back to the drink machine. “Hot or iced?” you ask, your tone automatic.

He doesn’t answer right away. You glance up, and he’s still staring — silent, unreadable.

Then finally, in a low voice that sounds both unfamiliar and strangely heavy, he says, “Hot… like your eyes when you’re focused.”

You freeze, blinking in confusion. “Huh?”

He exhales softly, as if your reaction confirms something he’d been hoping for.

“Surprisingly,” he murmurs, his gaze softening just a little. “Good.”