Amber leaned over the sink and splashed water onto her face.
For a second—just a second—the fluorescent light above the mirror felt wrong. Too bright. Too close. Her hands lingered on the porcelain as another image pressed in: a different bathroom, it felt familiar . almost as if her old workplace, she snapped herself out of it .
Amber adjusted her apron and moved toward the entrance.
The trio came in together.
They didn't look out of place, exactly—but they didn't dissolve into the room either. Their eyes moved too deliberately, tracking exits, angles, people.
She approached with menus.
"I'm sorry," she said after checking with the kitchen. "No meat options left today."
Junior blinked. "None?"
She shook her head. "Reuben came in earlier. Cleared the inventory."
They exchanged a look but didn't ask more.
"Classic Reuben" Cassian remarked
"Excuse me , Miss Amber, is it? "
She paused.
"Would you mind sitting with us for a minute?" Christian asked. "If it's alright."
Her first instinct was no. But Cassian and junior were almost like family here
Instead, she glanced toward the register.
Irin stood there, posture relaxed, one hand resting on the counter. He met her eyes. No expression. Then, a small nod.
Go ahead.
Amber wiped her hands once and sat.
Cassian didn't rush.
"Can you tell us," he asked carefully, "what Elias told you that day?"
Not what happened.
Not what he did.
That day.
She felt the room tilt, just slightly.
"He saved me," she said.
The certainty in her own voice surprised her.
None of them reacted. No skepticism. No follow-up.
So she kept going.
"It was my old job," she said. "Different restaurant."
The memory slid into place.
"He was already drunk," she said. "Big guy. Loud. Everyone knew he used to be a cop."
She could hear him again—leaning across the bar, smiling without warmth.
"Back in the day, nobody disrespected us," he'd said.
"You mouthed off, we cuffed you, took you to the back seat, taught you a little something about respect."
Someone had laughed nervously.
"That's why I left the system," he continued.
"They got too soft. Body cams. Policies. Can't do shit anymore."
Her coworker had told him to calm down.
Just that.
"He didn't like being talked to that way," Amber said.
She swallowed.
"One punch."
She saw it again—the suddenness of it. The way the room didn't understand what had happened until it was already over.
Her coworker hit the floor wrong. Jaw slack. Eyes open but empty, like she wasn't fully there anymore.
Someone screamed.
Chairs scraped back. Glass shattered.
The manager came running.
"Call 911," he shouted, already moving. He put himself between the man and the rest of the staff, hands up, voice steady.
Then, colder:
"You need to leave. You're becoming more problem than worth keeping."
The man laughed once. Spat on the floor. Walked out.
The ambulance lights washed the windows red and blue.
Amber stopped talking.
The punch landed again—sharp, final, unavoidable.