For the first time in weeks, Ed woke without an alarm, a mission briefing, or the sound of containment sirens echoing through concrete halls.

The message from **Director Barek Joseph** had been brief, almost unnervingly so:  

*"All new recruits are granted a 48-hour civilian leave. Use it wisely. Visit your families. Say what needs to be said. But remember—your current affiliation is classified. Make up a good story."*

When Joseph had said those words during the morning debrief, his tone had been coldly practical.  

But beneath the surface, Ed caught something else—something heavy, almost human.  

It was the kind of warning that didn’t need to be written down.

*“Say goodbye properly,”* Joseph had added. *“You might not get another chance.”*

Ed had no one to say goodbye to.

His family had been gone for years—an apartment fire, a name in a report, a file long since closed.  

Maybe that was why he’d been chosen. No attachments. No witnesses.

So when the others left for their homes, their lovers, their ghosts, Ed simply walked.

By noon, he found himself in the middle of **Downtown Sector 3**, where the hum of life felt foreign. Crowds moved freely, unaware that the world teetered on invisible edges—oblivious to the creatures sleeping beneath their streets.

He entered a small café on a quiet corner, more out of instinct than desire.  

The bell over the door chimed softly. Warm air, roasted coffee, the smell of something normal.

He ordered a black coffee and took a seat by the wall, his mind adrift.

The fire. Elina’s voice. The way she’d looked at the anomaly not with fear, but with understanding.  

*To understand is to burn.*  

He stirred the cup absentmindedly, watching the swirling reflection of light in the dark liquid.

Then—the bell chimed again.

A woman walked in.

Short black hair. Sharp eyes. A posture that spoke of control and confidence. She wore a tailored jacket, simple but precise, the kind of elegance that came not from fashion but from discipline.

Ed’s gaze followed her without permission.

She ordered quietly, her voice low and steady, and took a seat by the window, where the afternoon sun painted her in shades of gold and shadow.

For a long while, Ed tried not to stare. He failed.

Finally, perhaps to silence the voice in his head that said *don’t*, he stood and walked over.

“Excuse me,” he said, trying for casual but landing somewhere between awkward and sincere. “Mind if I sit for a moment?”

She looked up. Her eyes met his—cool, unreadable, assessing. Then she gave a small nod. “If you like.”

He sat across from her, heart doing its own erratic rhythm.

“I’m Ed,” he said. “Ed Relven.”

“Marline Cain,” she replied simply, stirring her coffee. No smile. No hostility either.

Her tone was composed, practiced. The kind of voice used by people who were used to lying politely.

They talked. About nothing in particular—books, the weather, the way the city never really slept. She answered in short sentences, each one careful, deliberate.  

And yet there was something about her presence that drew him in, something that felt both dangerous and familiar.

When silence fell between them, she glanced at him, a faint curiosity in her eyes. “You look like someone who’s seen too much.”

Ed gave a dry laugh. “And you look like someone who knows what that means.”

That earned him the smallest smile.

When she rose to leave, she placed her empty cup neatly on the tray and said, “If you ever need a reason to stop thinking, try this café again. Same time.”

He hesitated, then managed, “Can I—maybe—get your number?”

She looked at him for a moment longer, then scribbled something on a napkin and slid it across the table.

“Don’t call too often,” she said, already walking away.

He watched her go, the doorbell chiming once more as she disappeared into the crowd.

When he returned to his seat, the napkin was still there—her handwriting sharp and elegant.  

**Marline Cain.** A number beneath.

Ed stared at it, unsure why his hands were trembling.

Outside, the city glowed beneath the fading sun.  

For a brief, fragile moment, he felt almost human again.

But somewhere deep in his mind, a quiet voice whispered:  

*Nothing in your life happens by coincidence anymore.*