The bell above the café door chimed, again and again, until it became part of the heartbeat of the place.
Toma sat behind the counter, sipping burnt coffee and watching the boy mop the floor.
No — not a boy. Not really.
Bari had been working there for four years now. Always the first in, last to leave. Never called in sick, never lost his temper, never said more than he needed to.
There was something… old about his eyes.
It didn't match his age. They carried the calm weight of someone who'd seen storms no one talked about. Not just city trouble — real storms. The kind that carved soul-scars.
Toma had seen Awakened come and go. He'd seen what the city did to the forgotten kids from the outskirts. But Bari? He didn't walk like prey.
He moved like a blade — sheathed in silence.
So one evening, with the shutters drawn and the shop empty, Toma asked.
"What do you think of the Nightmare Spell?" he said, rubbing his sore knee.
Bari didn't respond right away. He kept wiping the counter in that same deliberate rhythm.
"The Nightmare Spell, huh?" he said finally, voice low but clear — like distant thunder on a dry horizon.
"To some, it's the worst thing that can happen. To others, it's a blessing. But to me?
It's an opportunity."
Toma's deep blue eyes closed, shadows shifting across his weathered face.
"I got lucky and never got struck by it. Can't say the same for my friends. Some tuned into Awakened… others I never saw again."
Silence.
Then Bari spoke, gaze steady, words soft and certain:
"When I do get struck — just wait for me."
Toma frowned slightly, hearing the certainty buried in the calm.
"When, huh? Not if?"
Bari looked at him for a long second. And that's when Toma saw it — something flicker behind the boy's eyes.
Not fear. Not pride.
Will.
"I've been preparing," Bari said quietly. "In my own way."
Toma nodded slowly, then leaned back with a tired breath. He looked at the kid — no, the storm — standing in his shop.
"Just don't lose yourself, kid." His voice was rough, but gentle. "Some storms don't pass. They stay. They grow."
Bari didn't answer. But the wind outside shifted.
And somewhere beyond the city, the sky held its breath.
The outskirts had taught him to endure. But the café taught him something else — how to live.
He rented a room above the shop, nothing but a cot, a sink, and a small mirror. In the mornings, he helped open the shutters and prepare the tables. In the evenings, he cleaned, counted tips, and sat by the back exit watching the wind.
Four years passed like a slow breath.
But every single day, he prepared.
Not obviously. Not loudly. Quietly.
Physically, he kept his body sharp. Before sunrise, he would shadowbox in the alley behind the café, barefoot on cracked concrete. He never struck full force — didn't need to. His movements were clean, efficient. Like he was conserving strength for something that hadn't happened yet.
Mentally, he read everything Toma kept in the dusty back shelves. Geography. Biology. City infrastructure maps. He listened in on Hunter gossip, memorized Awakener rankings, watched how veterans walked and spoke. Every little thing filed away.
Emotionally, he trained himself to let go.
There were days he wanted to stay. The café, the regulars, the warm smell of roasted grains and old wood. Toma started calling him son when he was tired. That meant something. But Bari reminded himself: comfort was always borrowed. Never permanent.
He kept a bug-out bag under the cot. Secondhand boots. Knife. Canned food. Water filters. A single notebook, nearly full. Toma saw the box, but never peered inside.
He wrote letters he never sent to Toma. Whenever he found his belongings when the spell hit him. Just in case.
He kept a small box hidden under the café floorboards, labelled only:
"If I Don't Return"
Inside:
- A portion of saved credits
- A note of gratitude to Toma
-A crude map of his hometown slums
-A bracelet made for Toma
And at the bottom, carved into wood: "I will come back stronger."