Alastor Faramir stood behind the counter, his fingers lightly tapping a ceramic mug as the quiet hum of the café wrapped around him. The scent of freshly brewed coffee lingered in the air, a comforting constant in the small space. Jack had stepped out for a break, leaving Alastor alone with a lone customer by the window, too absorbed in their phone to notice him.
The doorbell rang, its soft chime slicing through the stillness. A woman entered, her footsteps measured against the creaky wooden floorboards. She was slender, with smooth, tanned skin that caught the soft glow of the café's warm lighting. Her dark hair, pulled into a loose ponytail, framed her oval face, softening her features. She wore a scarf draped casually around her neck, complementing her simple but stylish outfit that hinted at an effortless confidence.
At around the same height as Jack, she was a little on the shorter side, her stature giving her an air of approachability that balanced her striking presence. Her dark brown eyes carried a warmth, yet there was something sharp and knowing in them, as though she had seen more than she let on. They scanned the room, her gaze lingering on the cozy details as though searching for something—or someone—just out of reach.
Alastor caught himself watching her for a beat longer than he intended, the quiet grace in her movements momentarily drawing his attention, before he turned back to the espresso machine.
She lingered by the counter, her movements hesitant but deliberate, her fingers brushing along a small stack of notebooks on display. Her presence felt… different. There was a quiet weight to her, like she carried something that didn't belong in the relaxed atmosphere of the café.
"Yo, Al! Grab me a soda, will ya? I'm dying over here," Jack's voice broke through the quiet from the back.
Alastor acknowledged him with a nod but didn't look away from the woman. She had picked up one of the notebooks, her fingers tracing its edges absently, her gaze distant.
The door chimed again. Two men entered. They moved with an air of casual menace that instantly shrank the room. One wore a worn black leather jacket, the other a faded hoodie. Both scanned the café with sharp, calculating eyes.
The woman stiffened. Alastor noticed her grip tighten on the notebook, her knuckles white. Her shoulders hunched, as though trying to make herself smaller. He followed her gaze toward the men and caught the flicker of recognition in her eyes before she quickly looked away.
Mr. Thompson, who had been tinkering in the back, emerged and froze at the sight of the newcomers. His jaw tightened, though his voice remained steady. "Welcome to Brooklyn Brew. Can I help you?"
The man in the leather jacket smirked, his teeth a little too bright. "We're looking for someone." His gaze landed on the woman, his smile sharpening like a blade.
"Well, you won't find anyone here," Mr. Thompson replied, stepping closer to the counter, his presence suddenly more imposing.
The man ignored him, brushing past the counter. The woman shrank further back, but her trembling hands betrayed her. Alastor's breath hitched. He recognized the look in the men's eyes. Predators.
The man in the hoodie spoke, his voice low and mocking. "You've been busy, haven't you? Sticking your nose where it doesn't belong." He glanced at the notebook in her hand, the corner of his mouth twisting into a sneer.
The woman's lips parted, but no sound came out. Her eyes darted toward the door, but the man in the hoodie shifted to block her path, his arms folding lazily as if daring her to try.
Alastor felt his pulse quicken. His grip tightened on the mug, the cool ceramic grounding him as he weighed his next move. He'd seen his share of danger, but something about this felt personal—calculated. The woman was no bystander. These men were here for her.
"Please," she finally whispered, her voice barely audible. "I don't know what you're talking about."
The man in the leather jacket chuckled, low and bitter. "Sure you don't. That article didn't write itself, though, did it?"
Alastor's eyes narrowed. Article? He glanced at the woman. Her face paled, her lips pressing into a thin line. She shook her head slightly, almost imperceptibly, as if willing them to stop talking.
"Get out," Mr. Thompson said, his voice harder now. "You're not welcome here."
The man in the leather jacket turned to him, his smirk widening. "We'll leave when we're done."
Alastor didn't wait. He moved, placing himself between the woman and the men. His presence wasn't imposing—he wasn't as quick or sharp as he once was—but there was something unyielding in his stance that made the man in the hoodie hesitate.
Alastor's eyes locked onto the man in the leather jacket, his gaze unwavering. It wasn't just the coldness in his eyes—it was the sheer force of something older, something vast, that began to seep out of him, like a ripple in the air. His aura twisted, stretching beyond him, pushing outwards, palpable and suffocating. The men didn't see it, but they felt it—a pressure building in the room, invisible yet undeniable. The air became thick, each breath seeming to grow heavier, harder to pull in.
Alastor's voice, low and calm, cut through the tension. "Enough," he said. His tone was simple, but the power behind it sent a shudder through the room.
The man in the leather jacket flinched, his smirk faltering. He took a step back, eyes narrowing as if trying to pierce through the coldness emanating from Alastor. The other man, the one in the hoodie, stiffened, his posture losing some of its cocky ease as the oppressive pressure weighed on him.
The man in the leather jacket blinked rapidly, his hand twitching towards his waist, but he couldn't quite bring himself to reach for the weapon hidden there. Something about Alastor's gaze was making him hesitate, making him question his own strength. The confidence that had led him to walk in here like he owned the place began to unravel, replaced by a growing sense of dread. His heartbeat quickened.
"Not worth it," the man in the hoodie muttered, his voice suddenly lacking its earlier bravado. He nudged his companion, and the leather-jacketed man slowly backed away, his eyes flicking nervously to Alastor as if weighing whether to take another step.
Alastor didn't move. His eyes remained locked onto the man's, a silent, unyielding command that made it clear the room wasn't big enough for both of them.
"Let's go," the hoodie-wearing man hissed, his voice now small, unsure. He grabbed the leather-jacketed man's arm, pulling him toward the door.
The leather-jacketed man lingered for a moment longer, staring at the woman as if trying to regain his composure, but the cold pressure in the air was too much. He cursed under his breath, turning to follow his partner.
As they left, the doorbell chimed, but the sound felt distant, hollow. The tension that had gripped the room slowly began to recede, leaving an eerie stillness behind.
Alastor released a slow breath, letting the pressure of his aura dissipate, though it still hung faintly in the air, like the aftertaste of something unsettling. He turned to the woman, who was still frozen in place, her eyes wide, her hands trembling on the counter.
"You okay?" he asked softly, though there was something in his voice that carried an undertone of something more—something that hinted at a power far beyond the ordinary.
She nodded, but it was hesitant. She looked at him, and for the first time, her gaze lingered on him with a mixture of awe and confusion. There was something about him that unsettled her, something intangible yet deeply powerful. It wasn't just his calm demeanor—it was the way the very air around him seemed to shift.
The woman's curiosity piqued. She had sensed it, that strange aura around him, but couldn't quite place it. It wasn't just his eyes or his presence—it was something in the way the energy in the room had bent around him, something that felt as though it was both vast and ancient. She couldn't put her finger on it, but she knew one thing for certain: Alastor wasn't just another man.
"Thank you," the woman whispered, breaking the silence. Her voice was small, but the gratitude in it was clear. She slid past Alastor toward the door, still shaken but more relieved than she cared to admit.
Jack reappeared from the back, a soda can in hand, his brows furrowed. "What the hell was that about?"
Alastor didn't answer. His gaze lingered on the door long after the woman had gone. He didn't know what she had done to draw the attention of men like that—or why her hands had trembled so fiercely at the mention of an article. But one thing was certain: whoever she was, she carried a secret far heavier than the quiet of this little café could hold.