Rain pounded the streets outside, drumming on the diner roof like a nervous percussionist. Steam curled from a half-empty coffee cup, mingling with cigarette smoke and the faint aroma of burnt toast. The neon sign outside flickered, casting patches of pink and green light across cracked linoleum.
Click… drip… hum…
I slid into a booth near the corner, eyes scanning the room. One waiter, hunched and distracted, wiped the same table three times. Another figure lingered near the counter, posture too deliberate to be casual. The diner felt alive in a way I didn't like, as if it was waiting for something, or someone.
"Perfect," I muttered under my breath. "A safe place. Full of strangers who are definitely not watching me."
A chair scraped against the floor. The Detective. Half-smile, dark trench coat, eyes that measured everything like he was calculating my odds of survival versus my stupidity.
"Late night," he said, voice low, smooth, slightly amused. No warmth, no threat yet everything in him felt dangerous.
I sipped my lukewarm coffee, deciding whether to flee or flirt with the potential threat. "Yeah," I said, "the ambiance is killer. Literally, I assume."
He didn't respond to the joke. He only nodded toward the street outside, where the rain beat harder, hiding movement. "You're poking at things bigger than you," he said quietly. "Careful, or they'll notice."
I leaned back, studying him, then the diner, then the street, mentally tallying exits, windows, even the ceiling tiles. "Noted," I muttered. "But poking is kind of my thing. Curiosity killed something once, right?"
He tilted his head, considering me, or maybe the words. Then he smiled just enough to be unreadable. "Curiosity has a way of surviving… if you pay attention."
Click… scrape… tap…
The diner fell silent for a beat. I noticed a small emblem etched into the corner of the counter—a symbol I'd seen before. My pulse picked up. Not random. Never random.
I sipped the coffee again, savoring the bitter warmth, letting the taste anchor me while the threat hovered. The Detective stood, leaving enough coins on the table to cover the tab, but not so much that it looked casual. "I'll see you again," he said, stepping toward the door.
Outside, rain blurred the streetlights into streaks of red and gold. Inside, the diner hummed quietly, oblivious or perfectly complicit.
I muttered under my breath, dark humor creeping through my unease, "Great. Another friendly face. Couldn't have picked a more trusting environment."
Click… drip… hum…
I left the booth, eyes tracing the door, the shadows, the reflections in the puddles outside. Somewhere between ally and enemy, the Detective had slipped into my life, and I had no idea whether I'd thank him or stab him first.
But I knew one thing: I had to keep moving. Curiosity might not kill me this time but it sure as hell was testing me.