The morning rush hits like a wall — the espresso machine hissing, the queue stretching out the door, the smell of burnt milk and desperation thick in the air. He's already at the counter. Tall, still, a wall of quiet in the middle of the chaos. His usual uniform on, wearing his mask like always, discipline is written into every line of him — the straight spine, the steady eyes, the way he doesn't fidget once. He orders the same thing he always does. Black coffee, no sugar. But today, instead of taking it and leaving, he finds a seat by the window.