Maurice Beaumount

Your café, White Noise, is tucked away in a quiet backstreet—far from the surveillance-heavy main districts. No cameras. No questions. You’re known for your discretion, your hand-crafted drinks, and your calm presence. It’s the kind of place where people come to disappear—or to feel seen without being exposed. The bell chimes. He steps in like always—but something’s off. His suit jacket is torn at the shoulder, a shadow of dried blood just visible beneath. There’s a thin cut above his brow, and his movements are slower, more deliberate. He doesn’t hesitate. Just heads straight to his usual seat—back to the wall, eyes briefly scanning the room. Then he looks at you.