The sun rose lazily, brightening the city and waking its people. Alexandra was already up, doing her routine workout - stetches and squats followed by speedy jabs and kicks. After about half an hour she stoped, brow drenched in sweat and got reay for a shower.
Choosing clothes was easy, she only had 5 pairs of tops and pants - all comfortable, loose and easy to move in. She moved silently, the sound of the water bring the only noise she needed.
She stepped out of the shower, the heat of the steam clinging onto her as she did. As she got dressed, her eyes wandered towards the floorboards. She counted 2 from the one near the window and slowly pressed on it - just enough for it to creak and lift up.
Moving the slab of wood, she reached out. Pulling it up, her hand wandered around the metal box, searching for a small latch and flicked it up. Inside she touched the dagger and closed her eyes, reassuring herself this was her past- that now she was just a normal barista. Putting the box inside, she readjusted the floorboard and stood up.
She smoothed her dress and with one final look around the room, she walked out of the door, locking it. She looked at her watch. 30 minutes left for the morning shift, enough for a walk.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Alexandra learned early that coffee punished hesitation.
Milk scorched if you paused too long. Espresso soured if you didn't watch the clock. Customers noticed everything—foam height, cup temperature, the exact shade of brown in the crema. She moved behind the counter with practiced efficiency, muscle memory guiding her hands while her mind stayed carefully blank.
That was the trick to surviving lately.Don't think. Just move.
The café was narrow and warm, all chipped wood and humming machines. Morning rush pressed in from every direction—phones buzzing, orders shouted, coins clinking into the tip jar. Alexandra wiped the counter, rang up a card, slid a cup across the surface, and forced herself not to count how much of her rent that coffee was worth.
Not enough, she already knew.
"Large latte. Oat milk."
She nodded, already reaching for the pitcher. Steam hissed as she angled it just right. Her wrists ached. They always did. Some old injuries never healed properly—another thing she didn't think about.
The bell above the door rang.
Sharp. Metallic. Wrong.
Alexandra didn't look up immediately. She never did. Eyes first were a mistake. Shoes told you more. Heavy soles. Expensive leather. Not rushed. Whoever had just walked in didn't belong to the morning crowd of students and office workers.
Her shoulders tightened.
She finished the pour before turning. Foam settled perfectly. No burn. No spill.
The man stood just inside the doorway, as if the café were a place that required assessment. Mid-thirties, maybe. Dark coat despite the mild weather. His gaze skimmed exits, windows, the counter—then stopped on her.
Alexandra felt it then. That old, crawling awareness between her shoulder blades. The sense of being measured.
"Next," she said flatly.
He smiled. Polite. Controlled. Not the smile of someone ordering coffee.
"Alexandra," he said.
The sound of her name landed too cleanly. Too deliberately.
Her fingers curled around the counter edge. "You've got the wrong person."
"I don't think so."
Behind him, the line shifted. Someone coughed impatiently. The café noise continued, unaware it had just stopped mattering.
"I don't know you," Alexandra said.
"That's intentional."
Her pulse steadied instead of spiking. That worried her more than fear would have. "Order something or step aside."
The man leaned closer, lowering his voice. "I'm here about a promise."
The word slid under her skin.
Alexandra straightened slowly. She took in his face this time—unremarkable on purpose. The kind of man you wouldn't remember an hour later. Professionals favored that.
"I don't make promises," she said.
His eyes flicked, just once, to the faint scar at her wrist before returning to her face. "You used to."
She stepped back from the counter. "Take your coffee and go."
"I'm afraid I can't."
She held his gaze for a beat longer, then nodded toward the back. "Break's over," she called to the other barista. "Cover me."
Protests followed her as she grabbed her jacket and pushed through the side door.
Outside, the alley smelled like damp concrete and old oil. Alexandra kept her back to the brick wall, weight balanced, hands loose. The man followed, careful not to crowd her.
"You're not supposed to exist anymore," he said.
"Funny," she replied. "I'm standing right here."
"You disappeared," he corrected. "Which was wise. But expensive."
Her jaw tightened. "Say what you came to say."
He reached into his coat slowly—too slowly—and withdrew a phone, holding it out flat in his palm. "A job."
She didn't take it. "I don't work."
"You will."
Alexandra finally looked at the screen. A photograph filled it—grainy, taken from a distance. A man stepping out of a black car, city lights reflecting off polished metal.
Tall. Controlled. Alert.
Andre Valentino.
She recognized the name immediately and hated herself for it.
"I don't protect people like him," she said.
The man sighed, as if disappointed. "We tried others."
"And?"
"They failed."
Her gaze sharpened. "Define failed."
"They didn't live long enough to complain."
Alexandra looked away, scanning the alley out of habit. No witnesses. No sudden movements. "I'm not interested."
"You owe a debt."
The phrase struck harder than any threat.
"I paid it," she said.
"You survived," he corrected. "That wasn't payment. That was mercy."
Anger flared—hot, immediate. Alexandra stepped forward until they were a breath apart. "Say that again."
He didn't back away. "Andre Valentino is being hunted. You're the only one who can keep him alive."
"That's not my problem."
The man's smile vanished. "It becomes your problem when the people hunting him start asking about you."
Silence settled between them, heavy and familiar.
Alexandra exhaled slowly. "Why me?"
"Because you're invisible," he said. "And because you don't hesitate."
She thought of scorched milk. Burned hands. Rent notices taped to her fridge.
"Where is he?" she asked.
Relief flickered across his face. "You'll meet him tonight."
"I didn't say yes."
"You didn't say no."
Alexandra turned back toward the café door, fingers brushing the scar on her wrist. She paused.
"If he lies to me," she said without looking back, "I walk."
The man inclined his head. "Fair."
Inside, the espresso machine screamed as if it knew something she didn't.
Alexandra tied her apron back on and returned to the counter, heart steady, hands sure.
She finished the shift without burning a single cup.
But she knew—the past had already started to boil.