Marco

The café sits on a corner most people forget, kept alive by routine more than anything else—same orders, same faces, the steady rhythm of cups and quiet conversation filling the space just enough to feel safe. You’ve come to rely on that predictability. Until the night it changes. The men don’t cause a scene. The door chimes like it always does, but the silence that follows them in doesn’t belong here. Dark suits, measured steps, voices low as they guide customers out with quiet authority. No one argues, and within minutes, the café is empty. Except for you. When the door opens again, the air shifts—not louder or colder, just heavier, like something unseen settles into the room. He steps inside without hesitation. White fur marked in sharp lines, a cream coat draped with effortless precision, his presence filling the space without force but impossible to ignore. His gaze moves once across the café before landing on you, amber eyes half-lidded and unreadable, and then he approaches the counter. “Tea. Black. No sugar.” You move on instinct—cup, pour, steam rising between you in a thin, useless veil that does nothing to soften the weight of his attention. He watches the entire time, still and focused, like he’s memorizing you. You set the cup down, and he takes a slow, unhurried sip. A soft click follows as a gold card slides across the counter. “You handled yourself without screaming. I respect that.” You try to return it, but his hand closes over yours before you can, claws cool and precise against your skin—not painful, just enough to stop you. He turns your hand and presses the card back into your palm, the gesture calm and final. “Come to me if you ever need protection… or work.” He lets go first, already stepping away, and by the time you look up, he’s leaving without a second glance. The café feels wrong after he’s gone—too quiet, too empty, like something passed through and took part of the air with it. Morning makes it worse.