The next morning, the sun didn't so much rise.

Jun-ho arrived at the cafe at sharp 7:30 AM, his scooter’s engine coughing a plume of white exhaust into the chilly air. He was exhausted. He had taken two extra delivery shifts the previous night just so he could drown out the memory of Jace’s DM. Every time his phone had buzzed with an order, he had half-expected it to be another message from Jace.

When he walked into the staff room of Café 90s, he found Si-woo already standing by the lockers, staring intensely at a cracked tablet screen.

"Are you trying to solve a murder or something?" Jun-ho grunted, hanging his helmet up.

"Worse," Si-woo said, not looking up. "I’m looking at the academic calendar. The mock exams are in exactly three weeks. Min-ah is going to be living in that corner booth. If she’s stressed, she’ll rely on her old habits. And her oldest habit is calling to America."

Jun-ho tied his denim apron, the thick leather straps settling over his shoulders like an armour. "That’s why we keep her distracted. We already talked about this."

"Distraction is a temporary solution, Jun-ho. We need something solid." Si-woo finally turned the tablet around. He had drawn a crude grid with a red digital marker. "I call this the Calculus of Attention."

Jun-ho blinked at the screen. "You made a graph?"

"A strategic matrix," Si-woo corrected. "Jace’s primary advantage is legacy and distance. Because he’s far away, he stays perfect. He doesn't have bad breath, he doesn't burn the milk, and he doesn't have a delivery scooter that smells like fried chicken."

"Hey," Jun-ho muttered.

"What is our advantage? It’s proximity," Si-woo continued, ignoring Jun-ho. "We are real. We are three-dimensional. When she drops her pen, we can pick it up. When she needs a coffee, we make the perfect coffee. We must maximise the value of our physical presence so that his digital presence feels like an interruption."

Jun-ho looked from the graph to Si-woo’s face. The "Prince" was entirely serious. For a guy who looked like he spent his life looking out of windows, his tactical mind was somewhat terrifying.

"Okay," Jun-ho said slowly, walking out to the main counter. "But what about the guy in the suit? We still don't know who he was."

Si-woo followed him; he was also concerned. "I asked Grandmother Jung this morning if she was planning on selling the building. She looked at me like I was insane and told me if anyone came around asking questions, she’d hit them with her copper ladle. So it's not a real estate developer."

"Then who is that guy?" Jun-ho asked, turning on the espresso machine. The boiler hummed to life, a low, comforting vibration beneath his palms. "We just have to wait and see. If he is someone to be wary of, He will come again."

By 9:00 AM, the cafe was half-full with university students and local regulars. Min-ah hadn't shown up yet, which was unusual for her strict schedule.

Every time the bell chimed, both Jun-ho and Si-woo snapped their heads up, their bodies stiffening in unison. But it was never her. It was a postal worker, then an elderly lady, then a group of loud freshmen.

"You're twitching," Si-woo remarked as Jun-ho accidentally knocked over a metal spoon.

"I'm not twitching. I'm alert," Jun-ho snapped, retrieving the spoon and throwing it into the sink. "What if that car comes back?"

"If the sedan returns, we will handle it with dignity. We won't look like two meerkats scanning the horizon."

At 9:45 AM, the bell gave its familiar, heavy clack.

It wasn't Min-ah. It wasn't the man in the suit either.

A young guy about their age walked in, wearing an oversized vintage leather jacket and carrying a heavy canvas messenger bag. He had a camera—a high-end one—slung over his shoulder. He looked casual, but his eyes were sharp, immediately taking in the entire layout of the shop before his boots even hit the rug.

He walked straight to the counter, ignoring the menu entirely. He looked at Si-woo, then shifted his gaze to Jun-ho, his eyes lingering on the heavy denim aprons.

"Nice place," the guy said, his voice easy and conversational. He tapped his fingers against the wooden edge of the counter. "You guys the owners?"

"We just run the floor," Jun-ho said, his instinct from the morning deliveries kicking in. This guy didn't talk like a regular customer. "What can we get for you?"

"Just a black coffee. Whatever's fresh," the guy said, pulling a small, leather-bound notebook from his jacket pocket. He flipped it open, his pen hovering over a blank page. "I’m doing a small piece on the older neighbourhoods around here. Capturing the... local flavour, you could say."

Si-woo leaned forward, his eyes dropping to the camera lens. "That’s a vintage prime lens. German, right? Seventy-year-old glass on a modern body. That's an expensive way to take 'local' photos."

The guy paused, looking at Si-woo with a slow, amused smile. "You know your gear, Prince."

The nickname hit the air like an electric shock. Neither Jun-ho nor Si-woo had told this stranger a single thing about themselves.

Before Jun-ho could demand an answer, the front door opened again, and the bell chimed. Min-ah walked in, looking flustered and out of breath, her eyes instantly searching for the counter.

The guy with the camera didn't turn around immediately, but he tilted his head, listening to the sound of her footsteps. He closed his notebook with a soft thud.

"Looks like your regular is here," he murmured, sliding a bill across the counter. "Keep the change, boys. I think I'm going to love the flavour of this place."