The sun was a lazy eye, half-lidded and peering over the rooftops, spilling a diluted, pale gold across the city streets. It was light without heat, a promise of a day that hadn't quite decided to begin. Ace walked with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie, shoulders hunched slightly against the morning chill that seeped through the fabric. The city at this hour had a different personality—softer, slower. The frantic honking and chatter of midday were replaced by the rhythmic slap of joggers' shoes on pavement, the distant, soothing whoosh of a street sweeper, the low hum of a city rousing itself from sleep.
He was heading toward a bubble of normalcy, a place untouched by Veils or vendettas. The café on the corner was a landmark of mundane life. All glass and warm wood, it seemed to hold the morning light inside it like a terrarium. From across the street, Ace could see the usual early crowd through the transparent walls. Retirees in vibrant track suits, their laughter booming over mugs of coffee. Young professionals with earbuds in, scrolling through newsfeeds. People whose biggest worry was their morning caffeine fix or whether they'd beat their personal best jogging time.
Normal, Ace thought, the word a strange, distant concept. Must be nice.
The bell above the door gave a cheerful, high-pitched ting as he pushed inside. The atmosphere enveloped him—a wall of warmth scented with rich, dark roast coffee, buttery pastries, and the sugary tang of caramel syrup. The noise was a comfortable blanket of overlapping conversations, the gentle hiss of an espresso machine, the soft clatter of ceramic. A radio behind the counter played an old, crooning love song Ace's mom might have liked. It was the exact opposite of the heavy, tense quiet of the Ames household or the echoing silence of his own empty one.
His eyes, trained to assess and categorize, swept the room. It was a hunter's scan, but the prey here was just a vacant seat.
There. By the largest window, where the weak sunlight pooled on the floor. Cedric was already there, slouched in a cushioned chair like a prince holding court. One ankle was propped on the opposite knee, his phone held loosely in one hand as he scrolled, a picture of utter, unbothered relaxation. He looked like he didn't have a single care in the world, which, given their usual concerns, was almost offensive.
Ace weaved through the small tables and dropped into the chair opposite with a soft whump.
Cedric looked up. His eyes, sharp and perceptive even at this hour, flicked from his screen to Ace's face, taking in the slight shadows under his eyes, the set of his jaw. A slow, familiar grin spread across his face.
"Well, well," Cedric drawled, locking his phone and setting it aside. "If it isn't the one and only viral sensation. The park-brawling philanthropist. How's the hero business treating you this fine morning?"
Ace leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest in a defensive slouch he didn't fully feel. "Shut up."
Cedric chuckled, the sound warm and knowing. "Relax, I'm kidding. Mostly." His gaze lingered, probing but not unkind. For a suspended moment, it felt effortless. Just two friends meeting for breakfast. No hidden worlds, no bullies, no cousins carrying silent weights. The simplicity of it was a temporary balm.
A waiter—a guy in his early twenties with the permanently tired eyes of someone working their way through college—approached, notepad at the ready. "Morning. What can I get you?"
Cedric didn't even glance at the menu tucked behind the napkin holder. "Stack of buttermilk pancakes. Extra syrup on the side, not on top. And an iced latte. Make it strong enough to wake the dead."
Ace raised an eyebrow. "Breakfast of champions."
"I believe in starting the day with a sugar crash and a caffeine high," Cedric said, unrepentant. "It builds character."
The waiter scribbled and turned to Ace. Ace picked up the menu, his eyes skimming the options without really reading them. Nothing appealed, but he had to order something. "Uh. Breakfast sandwich. Bacon, egg, cheese. On sourdough."
"Anything to drink?"
"Just water. Thanks."
The waiter nodded and retreated into the gentle chaos behind the counter.
A few seconds of quiet settled between them. Cedric leaned back again, but his posture had shifted. He wasn't just lounging now; he was observing. His arms were crossed loosely, his eyes studying Ace with a calm, analytical focus that was more unnerving than any direct question.
"So," Cedric finally broke the silence, his voice dropping to a more serious register. "You planning on gracing the hallowed halls of learning tomorrow? Or are you officially a dropout, specializing in park-based conflict resolution?"
Ace didn't blink. "Yeah. I'm going."
Cedric tilted his head, a faint, skeptical crease appearing between his brows. "You sure that's the smart play?"
Ace let out a short, derisive laugh. "What, you think Zach's gonna stage an ambush between first-period Biology and second-period English? With Mr. Henderson watching? Please."
Cedric's expression didn't change. It remained flat, unconvinced. "I think you know better than to assume the fight stays where you left it."
Ace shrugged, a gesture meant to convey nonchalance but which felt tight around his sore ribs. "He's all bark. School's got cameras everywhere now. Teachers are paranoid about fights. He's dumb, but he's not institutionalization dumb."
Cedric exhaled a slow breath through his nose, his gaze never leaving Ace's face. "Yeah, maybe. School's one thing. But what about the walk to school? The walk home? The 'quick stop' at the corner store? He doesn't need a classroom to make a point."
Ace waved a dismissive hand. "Dude, it's handled. He's a wannabe with an ego bruise. He'll puff his chest for a week, then move on to bothering someone else."
Cedric's eyes narrowed, just a fraction. Not in anger, not in fear, but in that particular way he had when he saw a tactical flaw Ace was willfully ignoring. "It's not you I'm worried about," he said, his voice so quiet it was almost lost under the café's murmur.
Ace frowned, genuinely confused. "Then what?"
Cedric leaned forward, elbows on the table, his voice dropping to a near-whisper that demanded attention. "I'm worried you'll forget he's human."
The words landed between them, stark and heavy. Ace blinked, thrown. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Cedric held his gaze, unflinching. "It means the rules are different here. You don't get to solve human problems the same way you solve… other problems. There's no clean kill. No relic to banish the spirit. The consequences aren't hidden behind the Veil. They're police reports, and court dates, and your mom getting a phone call no parent ever wants." He paused, letting the reality sink in. "You can't hunt him, Ace. Not like that."
A beat of silence passed, thick and charged. Ace looked away first, his eyes tracking a group of laughing joggers outside the window as they high-fived and dispersed. His jaw tightened, a minute movement Cedric didn't miss.
"I know that," Ace muttered, the words coming out more defensive than he intended. "I'm not gonna… I'm not stupid."
Cedric didn't push. He'd said what needed saying. Instead, he shifted gears, his voice returning to a pragmatic tone. "So what's the plan?"
Ace turned back, feigning ignorance. "What plan?"
"The plan," Cedric repeated, patience thinning. "You didn't start this to leave it half-finished. How deep does this go with your cousin? Is it just Zach and his pocket money scheme, or is it uglier?"
Ace hesitated. The truth was, he'd been avoiding that very question. Asking Carl felt like prying open a raw wound, and his own investigation had been… interrupted. "I don't know," he admitted, the confession tasting sour. "I know Zach was taking his money. That's the only concrete thing."
Cedric raised an eyebrow. "You didn't ask him?"
Ace scoffed, a sound of frustration. "Come on, man. How do you just ask that? 'Hey, so aside from the weekly shakedowns, are they also stuffing you in lockers? Giving you swirlies? Spreading rumors?' It's not an interview."
Cedric hummed, acknowledging the point. "Yeah. Fair. Kid's probably built a pretty good wall around it."
The arrival of their food was a welcome distraction. The waiter set down Cedric's towering stack of golden pancakes, a small boat of syrup beside them, and the tall, frosted glass of his latte. Ace's sandwich looked hearty and simple, wrapped in crisp parchment paper.
Ace took a large, hungry bite and his eyes widened slightly. He nodded, chewing. "Okay. Damn. This is actually good."
Cedric smirked, picking up his fork. "Told you. Only place worth being before noon."
For a few minutes, they ate in a companionable silence that almost felt normal. Ace glanced around at the glass-walled room, the easy lives playing out within and without it. The calm was a tangible thing, settling over him like a light dusting of snow.
Too calm, a quiet, vigilant part of his mind whispered.
He was just polishing off the last of his sandwich when a flicker of movement outside the glass snagged his attention. A familiar figure was power-walking past, head down, shoulders hunched against the world—messy hair, a perpetually anxious expression as if he were late for his own funeral.
"Speak of the devil," Ace muttered around his last bite.
As if on cue, Marco looked up. His eyes, scanning the street, passed over the café window, then snapped back. They locked with Ace's. Marco froze mid-stride, his expression cycling through surprise, relief, and mild panic in the span of a second. Then his face broke into a wide, goofy grin. He waved, a big, enthusiastic, full-arm sweep that was impossible to miss.
Ace groaned internally. "Of course."
He lifted a hand in a much more subdued acknowledgment, then hooked a thumb toward the café interior in a clear get in here gesture. Marco's head bobbed in enthusiastic understanding, and he practically sprinted for the entrance.
Cedric followed Ace's gaze, his expression curious. "Friend of yours?"
"Unfortunately," Ace sighed, but there was no real malice in it.
The bell chimed with excessive cheer as Marco burst in. He scanned the room, spotted them, and beelined for their table, his energy a disruptive force in the calm café.
"Ace!" Marco said, slightly breathless. "Dude, what are you doing all the way over here?"
"Consuming calories," Ace replied, his tone dry. "It's a thing humans do. You should try it."
Marco blinked, then his gaze shifted to Cedric. "Oh. Uh. Hey."
Ace gestured lazily between them. "Marco, Cedric. Cedric, Marco. You've heard the stories."
Cedric stood up smoothly—a gesture of polite, almost old-fashioned manners that seemed out of place with his casual clothes—and extended a hand. "Nice to finally meet you, man. Ace talks about you."
Marco hesitated for a microsecond, his eyes doing a quick, assessing sweep of Cedric—taking in his calm confidence, the easy way he held himself—before he shook the offered hand. His grip was firm but quick. "Yeah. You too."
He slid into the empty chair beside Ace, his posture unnaturally stiff. His eyes kept darting between Ace and Cedric, as if trying to solve a puzzle where the pieces didn't quite fit.
Cedric, noticing Marco's empty hands, gestured with his fork. "You want anything? The pancakes are a religious experience."
Marco waved a dismissive hand. "Nah, I'm good. Just had breakfast."
Ace leaned closer to Marco, a mischievous glint in his eye. "What, you shy? Didn't take you for the quiet type."
Marco shot him a deadpan look. "Fuck you, Ace."
Cedric chuckled, a low, genuine sound. "I'll take that as a 'maybe, with extra spite.'"
Ignoring Marco's sputtering protest, Ace snapped his fingers lightly to catch the attention of their passing waiter. "Hey—one more. The garden salad. Put it on my tab."
"Ace, I said I'm not—" Marco started.
"Too late," Ace cut him off, popping the last bit of his sandwich into his mouth. "You're eating. It's the law. My law."
Marco muttered a string of creative curses under his breath but didn't argue further, slumping back in his chair with an air of resigned defeat.
A strange, loaded silence descended on the table. It wasn't awkward, but it was thick with unspoken words. Everyone knew why they were really here, even if the pretense was pancakes and small talk.
Marco was the one who finally shattered it. He leaned forward, his earlier nervousness replaced by a focused intensity. His elbows planted on the table, his voice low and serious.
"So," he said, his eyes fixed on Ace. "What's the move with Zach?"
Ace didn't look up. He took a slow sip of his water, swallowed, and said, his tone deliberately flat, "Nothing."
Marco stared at him, disbelief etched on his face. "Bull. Shit."
Cedric glanced between them, his expression neutral but interested. "Yeah, that seems to be the topic of the hour."
"It's the topic of the week," Marco corrected, his voice rising slightly before he remembered where he was and tamped it down. "The video's everywhere. School chat's blowing up. The class-specific chats. I've had people from Lincoln High texting me asking if it's true. It's a thing, Ace. A big thing."
Ace set his glass down with a soft clink. "It'll blow over. Things always do."
Marco shook his head, a sharp, frustrated motion. "Not this. Not with him. You don't just embarrass Zach Miller in front of his crew and his groupies and think it 'blows over.' That's not how his world works."
Ace finally met his gaze. "Then how does it work?"
Marco's expression turned grim. He glanced around, then leaned in even closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You know he's connected, right? To the Blue Dragons?"
The name landed in the middle of the table with a thud.
Cedric's frown deepened. "The Blue… what now?"
Ace raised an eyebrow, a flicker of genuine curiosity breaking through his feigned indifference. "Sounds like a bad anime fan club."
Marco immediately looked pained. "Okay—yes, the name is stupid. I know. But they're not a joke, Ace. They're not just some kids smoking behind the gym."
Cedric's posture shifted subtly. He was listening now with his hunter's ears, parsing the threat level. "Explain."
Marco lowered his voice further. "They're… a crew. Mostly older. Some are dropouts. Some just… hang around. They've got a rep. They operate over on the industrial side, near the old warehouses. Fights, petty theft, protection stuff for some of the sketchier shops."
Ace tilted his head, skepticism warring with a growing sense of unease. "And Zach?"
"He's not like, a captain or anything," Marco said quickly, as if wanting to downplay it but compelled by honesty. "But his older brother, Alex? He's been in it for years. He's got weight. And those guys… they don't do 'fair.' They do 'effective.' And they look out for their own."
Ace snorted, the sound deliberately dismissive. "So it's a family business of being losers. Great."
Marco shot him a look that was pure frustration. "You think calling them losers makes them less dangerous? A loser with a knife is still holding a knife, Ace."
Ace opened his mouth for a retort—then stopped. The logic was inescapable.
Cedric cut in, his voice calm, analytical. "How much of this is verified, and how much is rumor?"
Marco hesitated, his confidence wavering. "Mostly… rumors."
"Mostly," Cedric echoed, the word hanging in the air.
"But rumors start somewhere," Marco insisted, his voice regaining some strength. "There's… talk. From last year. That one of their guys, not Alex, someone else… he stabbed a guy during a fight over some deal that went bad."
Ace couldn't help it; he let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "Yeah, right. And I bet the guy got up and walked it off."
Marco didn't smile. His face was pale, serious. "The rumor is the guy didn't die. But he didn't go to the cops either. It was handled… off the books. Quietly."
The air at the table seemed to grow colder. The cheerful clatter of the café receded, replaced by the grim implications of Marco's whispered words.
Ace leaned back, his fingers beginning a slow, unconscious drum against the tabletop. "Rumors," he repeated, but the dismissive edge was gone. It was a statement, not a denial.
Cedric nodded slowly, his eyes distant, calculating. "True. But as you said… they don't come from nowhere."
Ace looked out the window again. The joggers were gone. The peaceful morning scene now looked fragile, a thin veneer over something more volatile. The normal lives he'd been envying felt suddenly naïve.
"Zach's still just a kid," Ace said, more to himself than to them. "A messed-up, angry kid. That has to count for something."
Cedric looked at him sharply, his earlier warning resurfacing in his gaze. "And humans," he said, his voice low and deliberate, "can still be monsters. Sometimes the most dangerous ones are the ones who look like everybody else."
Ace didn't reply. He just stared at his empty plate.
Marco swallowed hard, looking from Ace's stony face to Cedric's grave one. "Just… be smart, man. I'm not saying roll over. I'm saying… don't underestimate stupid people who have something to prove and a family that teaches them how to prove it violently."
The waiter returned then, placing the large garden salad in front of Marco with a soft smile. "Enjoy!"
None of them moved to touch their food. The pancakes were cooling, the lettuce looked suddenly unappetizing.
The morning light through the glass wall seemed harsher now, exposing too much. The calm had well and truly shattered, leaving behind the sharp, ugly edges of a problem that was no longer just about stolen lunch money or schoolyard pride. It was deeper, darker, and leaking into the clean, sunlit world of the café.