The Twilight Café felt like a different planet from St. Maria's, but the gravity of exhaustion was the same.
Elena moved behind the counter in a fog of residual adrenaline and lack of sleep. The scent of coffee beans and steamed milk was usually a comfort. Still, tonight it couldn't mask the phantom smell of antiseptic and that strange, ozone-like scent that clung to her memory.
Her shift had been a blur of frothing milk and scribbling orders. Every time the bell above the door chimed, her heart gave a stupid, fearful lurch.
She kept expecting Dr. Evans or a hospital administrator to walk in, demanding an explanation for her actions, for her lies.
The image of the stranger—Lionel Valerian, according to the chart—lying so still and cold in the ICU bed, then snarling with those impossible golden eyes, played on a loop behind her own eyes.
"Order for Mike! Large Americano!" she called out, her voice sounding raspy to her own ears.
As she wiped down the espresso machine during a rare lull, the headlights of a vehicle slid across the café's front window. Not a beat-up sedan or a delivery truck.
A long, black town car, sleek and silent as a shark, glided to a perfect stop at the curb. It looked profoundly out of place in the modest neighborhood.
The driver, a man in a dark suit and cap, stepped out and opened the rear passenger door.
Elena's breath caught in her throat.
He emerged from the car with an unhurried, innate elegance that drew the eye of every patron in the café. Lionel Valerian was dressed down in a charcoal grey cashmere sweater that stretched across his broad shoulders and tailored trousers of the same hue.
The clothes were simple but spoke of obscene expense. He looked utterly recovered, vibrantly alive, and entirely in control. The pale, wounded statue from the hospital was gone, replaced by this formidable, living monument.
He didn't look around. His storm-grey eyes went directly to her, as if he had known exactly where she would be. The connection was a physical jolt, a live wire of recognition and sheer terror that shot down Elena's spine. Her hands, holding a damp cloth, froze.
He entered, the bell giving a soft, almost respectful chime. The ambient noise in the café dipped slightly. He ignored it, walking to the counter with a predator's quiet confidence.
He stopped directly in front of her. Up close, he was even more imposing. He smelled of cold night air and a clean, spicy sandalwood cologne, utterly masking any trace of hospital sterility.
For a long moment, he said nothing, just looked at her. His gaze was an intense, assessing weight, taking in her tired eyes, her practical ponytail, the cheap apron over her sweater. It felt less like being seen and more like being scanned.
"A double espresso," he said finally. His voice was a low vibration, the same polished baritone she remembered, but now laced with a chilling, focused energy. It wasn't a request. It was a statement of fact.
Elena found she couldn't speak. She nodded, turning her back to him to hide the tremble in her hands. She fumbled with the portafilter, her usual grace gone.
She could feel his gaze on her back, a tangible pressure. The ninety seconds it took to pull the shot felt like an hour trapped in a silent, charged cage.
She placed the small white porcelain cup and saucer on the counter. "That's, uh, four-fifty," she managed, her voice barely above a whisper.
He didn't reach for his wallet. Instead, he picked up the espresso, his long, elegant fingers cradling the delicate cup.
He took a small, deliberate sip, his eyes never leaving her face. A faint, unreadable flicker passed through them—something between appraisal and… satisfaction.
He set the cup down, the sound a soft click on the saucer. Then, from the pocket of his trousers, he produced a simple, matte black card.
There were no embossed logos, no raised numbers save one: a ten-digit phone number, rendered in a subtle, silvery font that seemed to gleam under the café lights. Next to it, he placed a single, crisp one-hundred-dollar bill.
"For the nurse who saves lives on and off duty," he said, the words measured, deliberate. They weren't thanks. They were an acknowledgment, a label he had chosen for her.
Then, he turned and walked out. He didn't wait for change. He didn't say another word. The driver had the car door open, and Lionel slid into the car.
The town car pulled away from the curb as silently as it had arrived, disappearing into the flow of evening traffic.
Elena stood rooted to the spot, staring at the black card and the hundred-dollar bill lying beside the barely touched espresso. A 500% tip. A phone number. A message as clear as it was terrifying: I found you. I can reach you. The next move is yours, but the game is mine.
Her coworker, Jake, sidled over, eyes wide. "Whoa. Who was that? And what's this?" He reached for the black card.
"Don't!" Elena's hand shot out, covering the card. It felt cool and unnervingly solid. "It's… It's nothing. A mistake."
"A mistake that pays with Benjamins?" Jake whistled. "Weirdest prank ever. You keeping the tip? House rules say we split anything over…"
"It's not a tip," Elena said, her voice hollow. She picked up the hundred-dollar bill with numb fingers and shoved it into the cash register's tip jar. "Split that."
But the black card she slid into the pocket of her apron, where it seemed to burn against her thigh. He hadn't asked. He hadn't threatened.
He had presented himself as a force of nature in a cashmere sweater. He left a single, silvery thread of connection dangling in the air.
The choice to reach out, to grasp that thread, was nominally hers. But as she looked around the small, shabby café, at her tired reflection in the dark window, and felt the crushing weight of the debt that waited for her at home, she knew, with a sickening certainty, that it was no choice at all.
The summons, in its most elegant and terrifying form, had been delivered.