She went straight to the counter. Serving tables had never been her favorite part of the job. It demanded more smiles than she had saved up. More attention. More presence. And Bea was tired. A tiredness that couldn’t be solved with hours of sleep. It weighed on her legs, her shoulders… her soul. She needed to sleep. She needed to switch off. Soon.

She began wiping some bowls, the cloth gliding mechanically across the glass, while his mind wandered far away. It was then that she noticed the change. Subtle, but undeniable.

A low murmur spread through the hall, concentrated, like small waves forming before a storm. Bea looked up more out of instinct than curiosity – and saw him.

He was walking across the hall with excessive calm.

She didn’t know him, of that she was certain, but she recognized him instantly. He’d been in the coffee shop earlier, sitting near the window. He’d ordered a coffee and stayed too long. Watching. Not blatantly, but with a serenity that bothered her more than any persistent stare.

At the time, she thought: just another strange customer. Coincidences happen.

But the body disagreed.

The pain came without warning. A sudden, brutal burning sensation exploded in her wrist, as if red-hot needles were being driven under her skin. The shock was so intense that her legs gave way before she could think. Bea crouched behind the counter, her heart racing, her breath too short to contain the panic.

With trembling hands, she tugged at the sleeve of her dress shirt.

Nothing.

No mark. No name. No scar. No sign that the pain had ever been real.

But she knew that’s what had happened.

Because depression had taught her many things – and one of them was that not every wound needs to be visible to exist.

The relief that should have come with this realization did not. There was no sense of security. No comfortable rationalization. Only fear – raw, nameless – stuck in the pit of my stomach like something that didn’t intend to go away.

What if I’m going crazy?

The question arose without panic, almost wearily. As if it were just another unpleasant possibility on a list that was too long. The place where she had felt the burn still throbbed, sensitive, like a recent memory that her body refused to let go of. The pain no longer screamed, but it remained there, insistent. A silent reminder that something had happened. Even without proof.

The discomfort increased when Bea heard footsteps approaching.

Steady. Slow. Too calculated for someone so indecisive. Each step seemed deliberate, as if he knew exactly where he wanted to go, and as if she were included in that journey.

Still protected by the shadow of the counter, Bea raised her gaze slightly and saw him more clearly.

He was handsome. Irritatingly handsome. The kind of handsome who doesn’t ask permission to be noticed. There was something about him that couldn’t be explained by his features alone: a dense, elegant presence that was dangerously so.

But that didn’t make sense.

Beauty did not cause pain.

The attraction didn’t burn the skin from the inside.

She wasn’t easily impressed. At least not like that. And even if she were, her body wouldn’t invent such real pain. Depression had deceived her before – about worth, the future, the will to exist – but never about physical sensations. Pain was pain.

Still crouching, Bea pulled her shirt sleeve back into place and took a deep breath. Once, twice. It took her a few seconds to gather enough courage to stand up. Not because he was threatening, but because she was too tired to deal with anything that required a reaction.

When she finally stood up, he was already there.

Sitting across from her, at the counter.

Of all the empty places in Montenegro that night, he had chosen that one. Too close. Too intentional. His eyes were already fixed on her, as if they had never looked away.

The world around her lost focus. The voices, the clinking of glasses, the soft music – everything dissolved into a distant haze. Bea took another deep breath, searching for solidity where there was almost none.

“What would you like?” she asked.

Her own voice came out more stable than she felt, and that almost irritated her. She hated when her body pretended to be better than her mind.

He didn’t answer immediately. He just watched her. A second too long to be polite. Enough time for Bea to feel… measured.

Evaluated.

Not in a vulgar way.

It was worse than that.

His eyes were dark, a deep gray, too heavy to be just a color. There was density there. Layers. As if they hid an entire universe that Bea didn’t want to, or shouldn’t, touch. The burning sensation in her wrist returned with force, throbbing like a living scar, though nonexistent to the eye. A silent warning from the body, one of those that doesn’t ask permission.

Still, she remained upright. Serene on the outside. Depression had taught her this trick well: to appear whole while everything inside slowly gave way.

“A whiskey. Neat.”

His voice was deep, almost guttural. It carried too much time, too much silence. Bea nodded and turned to pick up her glass, forcing her gaze away from his. It was no use. She could still feel him – his gaze fixed on the nape of her neck, his presence filling the space as if the air around them had changed density.

As she poured the drink, her fingers trembled. A brief moment. Too short to attract attention.

Too small, but not for him.

He noticed. And he kept watching.

There was no explicit desire in that look. Nor arrogance. It was something worse: attention. A kind of careful, analytical attention, as if each of her gestures were a piece of data being stored. As if Bea were a problem to be understood.

When she placed the glass in front of him, she slowly moved her hands away. Their eyes met for just a second, and that was enough.

He brought the glass to his lips with a restrained, almost automatic elegance. The golden liquid slid down his mouth in a controlled gulp, burning just right – enough to remind her he was still there, enough to keep her mind sharp. Throughout the movement, he didn’t look away.

He watched.

He always watched.

Bea felt her chest tighten as if something invisible had closed a fist around her heart. The air seemed heavier, too thick to easily enter her lungs. The space around the counter, which had previously seemed merely cramped, now became suffocating, narrowing little by little, pushing her inward.

Her pulse throbbed.

It wasn’t ordinary pain. It was as if something beneath her skin wanted to escape, pulsing in its own impatient rhythm. Bea swallowed hard, trying to ignore it. Trying to exist.

“B…,” he murmured, his voice low, almost lazy.

His eyes slowly descended, calculatedly, to the small silver tag pinned to her vest. There was no hurry in the gesture. It was the look of someone who already knew where to look.

“How about a game?”

The sound of her own breathing seemed too loud in Bea’s ears. She frowned, surprised, feeling her whole body go on alert.

“Huh?”

It wouldn’t be the first time she’d heard something strange from a customer. Drunk, lonely, bored people – she’d seen it all. But this man… this man was different. There was something about the way he occupied the space, as if the environment had molded itself to his presence. Something that made her nerves scream, without words, without logic.

Run.

It was a primal warning, buried too deep to be rational. Still, she ignored it. As she always did.

“Sorry… what did you say?”

“Would you like to play a game with me?” he repeated, with the same controlled calm.

“A game?” The word sounded strange coming from her mouth.

“Yes.”, he took another sip, slowly, assessing. “If I get your name right on the first try, you give me your phone number. If I get it wrong…”, he tilted his head slightly, as if he were really pondering, “…a ten thousand tip. Does that seem fair?”

Bea let out a short, dry, almost incredulous laugh. There was no humor in her, only weariness.

“You rich people are truly fascinating,” she said, with a disdain that didn’t hide her exhaustion. “Is this what you do when you’re bored?”

Rhodes smiled sideways.

It wasn’t a pretty smile. It was sharp. Restrained. Laden with something that didn’t need explaining.

“Oh, don’t compare me to the others.” The voice came out soft, but there was bitterness there, buried deep. “So?”

She shrugged, feeling a strange weight settle on her shoulders. A kind of ‘whatever’ that came from afar, from years of accumulated energy.

“Go ahead.” she said. “I have nothing to lose.”

And it was true.

She just wanted to end it quickly. She wanted the night to end. She wanted to disappear from there, dissolve her own body under the hot water of a bath, forget that look that seemed to pierce too many layers of her.

He leaned slightly, resting his forearms on the counter. The gesture was minimal, but the impact, immediate. The distance between them decreased enough for Bea to smell his perfume – something sober, expensive, dangerously clean.

His eyes fixed on hers with an almost hypnotic attention. There was no hurry, no doubt. Only certainty.

And then he smiled.

A wide smile. Too genuine.

Terribly wrong.

As if he knew things he should never know.

The pain in her wrist increased, sharp, insistent. Bea recoiled discreetly, crossing her arms behind her body and squeezing the spot tightly, as if she could contain it there, as if she could hold back whatever was trying to emerge. Her heart pounded in her chest, too fast. Goosebumps sent clear, desperate signals.

Something was about to happen.

Rhodes opened his mouth.

And said:

“Bea.”

The word came out too naturally. Without hesitation. Without testing. As if pronouncing it were an ancient right, engraved at some forgotten point in time.

“Your name is Bea.”

The world seemed to tilt.

And, for a terrifying second, Bea had the feeling that he hadn't just said her name.

He had recognized her.

Time seemed to close in on itself. Something dense settled between them, silent, inevitable. A mute collision. Two worlds that should never have touched, but which, nevertheless, recognized each other.

It was then that Bea knew: it wasn’t something she had imagined.

She was about to ask. She felt the question rising, scratching at her throat, too urgent to ignore. How do you know my name? Where do you know me from? It was an afterthought of survival, the body trying to defend itself after the impact.

But he was faster.

He raised his hand in a polite, almost old-fashioned gesture, asking permission as if leaving an invisible room.

“Excuse me,” he murmured.

The calm. Always that disconcerting calm. As if nothing there mattered. As if she hadn’t just dismantled something inside her.

His cell phone vibrated in his pocket. A dry sound. Brief. He answered without looking at the screen and stood up with the tranquility of someone who had never had to chase after his place in the world. He walked to the exit of Montenegro in silence, firm steps, impeccable posture.

Bea followed the movement without being able to look away. Her body remained rigid, as if someone had forgotten to give back basic commands. Only then did she realize how long she had been holding her breath.

The pain in her wrist began to recede. It didn’t disappear, it just moved away, like a tired tide. In its place, something worse settled in: a deep, shapeless, nameless restlessness. The emptiness of not knowing.

She stood there, motionless behind the counter, as if trapped in a silent spell. The world went on. She did not. For long seconds, far too long, she stared at the door through which he had left.

She waited.

That he would return.

That he should say something.

Anything.

But he didn’t come back.

The minutes stretched on, sticky, filled with questions that hadn’t been asked in time. Who was he? How did he know her name? What was it in that gaze that seemed to pierce through layers she couldn’t even reach herself?

The air in Montenegro felt heavier now. As if the place carried his absence in a physical, almost palpable way. An echo that refused to fade.

The feeling of something unfinished began to gnaw at her from the inside. It wasn’t anxiety – Bea knew anxiety well. This was different. It was like abandoning a book on the second-to-last page and never being able to pick it up again. Knowing that there’s little left, but not having access to the end.

She looked around, almost expecting someone to say, “You felt that too,” or “He always does that.” but no one seemed to have noticed anything. Conversations continued. Laughter arose. Soft lights reflected off the glasses behind the bar.

Everything’s normal.

Except for her.

Bea sensed, with an unsettling clarity, that something had been set in motion that night. Something that could no longer be undone, even if she wanted to.

And that terrified her.

“Hey… are you okay?”

Rupert’s voice came from beside her, pulling her back. He touched her arm gently, as if testing if anything was still responding.

“Huh?” Bea blinked a few times, as if waking from a bad dream.

“If you’re not ok, you can go. I’ll cover for you.”

The offer was sincere. Kind. And yet, something inside her refused before even thinking. Perhaps out of habit. Perhaps out of guilt. Perhaps because leaving meant admitting, aloud, that she wasn’t okay, and that had already happened too often in silence.

“No… relax. I’m… fine.”

She tried to smile. The effort was visible even to herself. The smile didn’t rise. It didn’t reach her eyes. It was just a flex of muscles, devoid of intention.

“Since you’re here, I’ll go to the storeroom. We forgot to restock the whiskey.”

Rupert nodded, taking his place with a gaze that was far too attentive for someone who completely believed in her.

The rest of the night passed in a blur. Bea forced herself to function – serving drinks, collecting glasses, responding to orders with her usual mechanical precision. Her body obeyed. Trained for it.

The mind, no.

It’d return. It always returned. To the man. To the pain in her wrist. To the way he had said her name as if he had carried it for years, as if it weren’t the first time.

And no matter how hard she tried to hide it, Bea knew: she hadn’t fooled anyone.

Not them.

Much less herself.