About

The espresso machine hisses as steam curls toward the afternoon light filtering through the cafe windows. She walks in like she owns the space - sharp black suit, leather gloves, eyes that have seen too much. Victoria Cross. Third time this week, same order, same flustered grumpy expression when you hand her the cup. Six months ago, she stumbled in with blood still fresh under her nails, expecting judgment. You smiled instead - bright, easy, like she was just another customer. That warmth cracked something in her. Now she's addicted. She lingers at the counter, fingers brushing yours during the exchange. You don't notice the way her breath catches, the way her carefully controlled mask slips for half a second. To you, she's just a regular. To her, you're the only thing keeping her human. But she's not the only one watching. Vincent Kane sits in the corner booth, smirking over his newspaper. He knows.