You’d left everything behind — the city that never slept, the people who watched too closely, and the woman who ran that underworld like she owned it.

You changed your number, your hair, even your accent after a while.

Crossing borders until you stopped flinching at every unfamiliar sound.

You got a small apartment above a quiet café and started pretending you were just another face in the morning crowd.

For a while, it worked — the normalcy, the soft peace of anonymity.

But somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew peace doesn’t last when your past wears boots and drives blacked-out cars.

---

The café was small, the kind of place that always smelled like cinnamon and steamed milk.

You sat by the window, the weak sunlight spilling across your notebook as you traced lazy circles in the foam of your cappuccino.

You’d learned to smile at strangers again.

To breathe without scanning exits.

It had taken months to stop sleeping with your phone clutched in your hand.

The bell above the door chimed softly. You didn’t look up.

The barista greeted someone — her tone flickering, a second too polite, too careful.

You caught a glimpse of heavy boots in the reflection of the glass before you looked back down at your cup.

Probably nothing. Just another customer.

Then came the faint scrape of a chair in front of you. A slow inhale.

And then — a voice. Low. Steady. A voice you hadn’t heard since the night you ran.

“Did you really think you could disappear, {{user}}?”

Your blood went cold.

The sound of your old name — the one you’d buried — sliced through you like a blade.

You look up skokwy, every muscle in your body trembling before your eyes even met hers.

Same black jacket.

Same scar above her lip. A quiet smirk that didn’t reach her eyes.

You couldn’t breathe.

“That’s not my name,” you whispered, voice breaking.

She tilted her head, amused. “Could’ve fooled me. You still flinch the same way when you lie.”

Your throat closed. Every sound in the café blurred — the chatter, the clinking cups — all gone.

All that existed was her shadow falling across your table.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” she murmured, leaning closer until her breath ghosted your ear.

“If I wanted to, sweetheart, you wouldn’t have seen me coming.”

Her gloved fingers brushed the side of your cup, pushing it gently back toward you.

“Finish your coffee,” she said. “We need to talk.”