The rain fell hard that night in Brooklyn.
It wasn't the soft, romantic kind of rain that drizzled lazily against windowpanes. No, this was the kind that slammed into concrete with purpose—cold, merciless, and loud. Most of the city was already tucked away, shielded behind thick curtains and glowing screens. But on the quiet corner of Eldridge Street, the lights inside Café Verona still flickered warm.
Ayla Sanders wiped down the counter for the third time in ten minutes, not because it was dirty, but because she didn't like standing still. The evening shift was usually quiet after nine, and tonight was no different. Only two tables were occupied—an old man reading a worn paperback and a college girl typing furiously on her laptop. Neither needed refills. Neither looked up.
With a soft sigh, Ayla turned back toward the espresso machine. The faint jazz playing from the speakers gave the café a cozy ambiance, one that Ayla had always loved. She didn't mind working late; the silence gave her time to think. To dream, even.
She had no idea that her life was about to change in exactly three seconds.
One… Two…
The door slammed open.
A gust of wind and water rushed in before the figure behind it stepped inside. The bell above the door gave a helpless jingle, barely heard over the sudden hush that fell across the room.
Ayla turned, her hands freezing in midair.
The man was tall—easily over six feet. His black coat clung to his body, soaked and dripping onto the floor. Shadows clung to him like secrets, and his dark hair was slicked back, revealing a sharp jawline and eyes that flicked across the room like a blade. But it wasn't his presence alone that made her breath hitch.
It was the blood.
Not much. Just a thin trail staining the cuff of his white dress shirt. But enough to make Ayla's heart skip a beat.
He met her eyes.
There was something feral in his gaze. Something dangerous. But beneath it—just for a second—she saw pain. Not the kind you scream about. The kind you carry in silence, like a wound that never healed.
He moved toward the counter, every step measured. Confident. Controlled. As if the storm outside answered to him.
Ayla swallowed, her fingers tightening around the edge of the counter.
"Um… w-welcome to Café Verona," she said, surprised at how steady her voice sounded. "Can I get you something?"
The man didn't answer right away. He looked around, as if calculating exits, checking corners. Finally, his eyes settled on her again.
"Coffee," he said. His voice was deep—velvety, with just a hint of an accent she couldn't place. "Black."
Ayla nodded quickly and turned to the machine, grateful for the excuse to break eye contact.
Behind her, she could still feel his presence like a storm cloud.
She stole a glance. He stood still, hands resting on the counter now, fingers long and elegant but marked with old scars. His coat was soaked, but his posture remained impeccable—like he wasn't fazed by the rain, or the blood, or anything at all.
"Here you go," she said softly, placing the cup in front of him.
He stared at it for a moment before picking it up. No sugar. No cream. Just bitter, steaming black.
He took a sip.
Ayla waited.
He didn't speak. But after a second, he placed a hundred-dollar bill on the counter.
Her eyes widened. "Um, sir, this is way too much—"
"Keep the change," he said flatly.
She hesitated. "Are you… okay?"
He looked up again, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Do I look like I'm okay?"
The words weren't cruel. Just honest.
Ayla opened her mouth, then closed it. There was something about him—something in the way he held himself, like a man used to hiding behind shadows. Or leading them.
She wasn't stupid. She had seen enough movies. Enough news headlines.
Men like him didn't just walk into cafés unless something had gone terribly wrong.
Still, she couldn't stop the words from slipping out.
"If you're hurt… I mean, if you need help…"
He tilted his head, curious now. "You're not afraid of me?"
Ayla hesitated. "Should I be?"
For the first time, something flickered across his face. Not a smile, exactly. More like surprise. As if she'd asked the one question no one ever dared.
He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping lower.
"You don't even know who I am."
"No," she admitted. "But you look like someone who hasn't had a good day. Or a good week. And… I don't think you came in here just for coffee."
That earned a chuckle. Low. Rough. Real.
"You're not wrong," he murmured.
Then silence stretched between them again.
Outside, the rain softened, tapping gently against the windows like a lullaby. Inside, the café remained still. The old man had left. The girl with the laptop packed up and walked out quietly. And suddenly, it was just the two of them.
Alone.
Ayla shifted uncomfortably. "Do you… do you want me to call someone? A doctor? Or a friend?"
He shook his head. "No one comes when I call."
The words were so final, so heavy, that Ayla didn't dare respond.
He finished the coffee and placed the cup down with a soft clink. Then, slowly, he reached into his coat and pulled out a black leather glove—only one. He slid it onto his left hand with practiced grace.
"I won't be long," he said. "But I might come back."
Ayla blinked. "Why?"
He paused at the door. Then, without looking back, he said,
"Because this is the first place I've felt human in years."
And with that, he disappeared into the night.
Ayla stood frozen behind the counter, heart pounding. She stared at the empty doorway for a long time, rain still falling in silver sheets outside.
She didn't know who he was.
She didn't even know his name.
But something deep inside her whispered that this wasn't the end.
It was the beginning.