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, dimly lit 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, her dark hair pulled into a loose ponytail, with a scarf draped casually around her neck. Her eyes scanned the room as though searching for something—or someone—just out of reach. Alastor caught himself watching her for a beat longer than he intended before turning 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 gave the man in the hoodie pause.
"Enough," Alastor said, his voice calm but firm.
The man in the leather jacket sneered, leaning closer. "And who are you? Her bodyguard?"
Alastor didn't flinch. He met the man's gaze head-on, unblinking. For a moment, the café was silent, the tension crackling like a live wire.
Finally, the man in the hoodie huffed a laugh. "Not worth it," he muttered, nudging his companion. "Let's go."
The leather-jacketed man lingered, his eyes raking over the woman one last time. "We'll see you around," he said, his tone dripping with menace. Then, with a lazy shrug, he followed his partner out the door.
The doorbell chimed as they left, the sound strangely hollow. Alastor let out a slow breath, his shoulders relaxing slightly. He turned to the woman, who stood frozen, her eyes fixed on the ground.
"You okay?" he asked gently.
She nodded, though her trembling hands betrayed her. She placed the notebook back on the counter with a deliberate motion, as though trying to erase any trace of her presence.
"Thank you," she whispered, barely audible, before slipping past him toward the door.
Jack reappeared from the back, 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.