The morning sun filtered through the dusty windows of the Brooklyn Brew café, casting long shadows on the wooden floors. Alastor stood behind the counter, absently wiping down the already spotless surface. The memory of the previous day lingered, heavy and unshakable. The way those two men had cornered the mysterious woman, her fear palpable, and the strange energy he had called upon to protect her—it all played on an endless loop in his mind.
His hand paused mid-wipe as the image of the incident came back to him. The cosmic energy had surged through him, raw and untamed, leaving him unsettled. It had been warm at first, almost comforting, but then it burned, like molten iron coursing through his veins. The men had been thrown back, not by his fists but by something far more primal and unexplainable. The woman's wide, fearful eyes had looked straight into his, searching for answers he couldn't provide. He had left the scene quickly, unsure if she had even noticed what had truly happened.
Jack, who had seen the aftermath but not the incident itself, had made light of it later, laughing about how Alastor had played the part of a "hero." Alastor hadn't responded, his thoughts too tangled in the unease of it all. How much had Emily seen? Did she suspect anything?
The door chimed, drawing him out of his thoughts. A young woman in a floral dress approached the counter, her cheeks flushing as her gaze flicked to Alastor's broad shoulders and striking blue eyes.
"Hi," she said, her voice wavering. "I—I just wanted to say your coffee here is great. It's become my favorite place."
Alastor gave her a polite nod, his expression calm. "Glad to hear that. Anything I can get you today?"
The woman blinked, her train of thought seemingly derailed. "Uh, yes, just… an espresso. Please."
As he moved to prepare her order, another customer—a middle-aged man with a neatly trimmed beard—approached. "Hey, Alastor, right?" he said warmly. "You're new here, yeah? Haven't seen you before."
"I've been here a while," Alastor replied, his tone neutral. He handed the first customer her espresso with a small smile before turning his attention fully to the man.
"Well, the place is lucky to have you. Most folks around here don't put so much care into what they do," the man added, nodding appreciatively.
Before Alastor could respond, the café began to fill with more regulars. A trio of college students whispered among themselves, occasionally glancing in his direction. One of them—a young man with tousled hair—gathered the nerve to approach. "Hey, uh, can I ask where you work out? You look like you could bench press a car."
Alastor blinked, taken aback. "I stay active," he said simply, offering no further explanation.
The group laughed awkwardly, clearly charmed. As they placed their orders, a woman in her late 30s, wearing a sharp blazer, entered. Her sharp gaze softened as it landed on Alastor. "Excuse me," she said with a confident air, "but has anyone ever told you that you'd make an excellent model?"
Jack, who had been listening nearby, leaned over the counter with a grin. "Oh, you'd be surprised how often he gets that," he teased, clapping Alastor on the shoulder.
Alastor's brow furrowed slightly. "I don't think so," he replied sincerely, oblivious to the compliment.
The woman chuckled. "Well, consider it a suggestion. And I'll have a latte, please."
The café buzzed with light chatter, many customers sneaking glances at Alastor while he remained entirely unaware of the attention. His focus was purely on his work, chatting briefly with each customer, his answers polite and efficient.
The door chimed again, and his gaze instinctively flicked to the entrance. His chest tightened as he recognized her—the woman from yesterday. She glanced around the café briefly before her eyes found him. Her movements were hesitant, guarded—but not as tense as they had been the day before. Still, there was a stiffness to her posture, a sign that her trust in the world was fragile.
Jack, ever the extrovert, greeted her first. "Hey, hey! It's the lady from yesterday. You know, the one who almost got attacked by those weirdos. You good?"
The woman managed a tight smile, her gaze flicking toward Alastor before she turned back to Jack. "I'm fine, thank you," she replied softly. Her voice was calm but carried an edge, like someone who wasn't used to leaning on others.
Then her eyes returned to Alastor. "I… I just wanted to thank you," she said, her tone sincere but hesitant.
Alastor gave a small nod, keeping his demeanor calm. "No need," he replied evenly. "I'm just glad you're okay." The memory of the previous day tugged at him, but he held back. Whatever trouble she was in, she wasn't ready to share it. And asking now might only drive her further away.
The woman hesitated for a moment before stepping closer. "I'm Emily," she said, extending a hand. "Emily Rodriguez. You're… Alastor, right?"
The name on her lips made him pause, though he quickly recovered and took her hand. Her touch was cool, her grip tentative but genuine. "Yes," he said simply. "It's nice to meet you properly, Emily."
Jack, sensing an opening for banter, chimed in again. "Al here's got moves, doesn't he? Bet you didn't know he's the café's official hero."
Alastor let out a soft, forced chuckle. "I wouldn't go that far."
Emily smiled faintly, but something in her eyes lingered—a quiet curiosity, as though she were trying to unravel him. Emily smiled faintly, but there was a weight behind it—a quiet, searching curiosity. As she lingered by the counter, her mind drifted back to the previous day. She hadn't been able to forget how the two men had crumpled to the ground without warning. It hadn't been a fight, not in the traditional sense. There were no punches thrown, no scuffle, just Alastor standing there, his gaze steady and unflinching.
She shook her head as if to clear the thought. Maybe she'd just been too caught up in the moment, too scared to notice what really happened. But even now, standing just a few feet away from him, she couldn't shake the sense that there was something different about him. It wasn't just his calm demeanor or his striking features—it was the way he seemed to carry something heavy, something unseen, just beneath the surface.
Her eyes drifted toward him again. It felt strange, the way her thoughts circled him, but she couldn't help herself. Finally, she asked, "Do you come here often?" She gave a small shrug. "I mean, I just moved to the neighborhood, and I'm still figuring out where everything is."
Alastor thought for a moment. Her question seemed innocent enough, but there was a weight to it, as though she were searching for something more than just conversation.
"I've been here for a while," he replied. "This place has a certain charm. It keeps you grounded."
Her smile softened. "I like it here, too. It's different from where I used to live."
"Where's that?" Jack asked, ever the nosy one.
"Brooklyn Heights," Emily said, her tone careful.
Alastor raised an eyebrow. Brooklyn Heights was an affluent, quiet area—not the kind of place one usually left for a more modest neighborhood like this. She didn't elaborate, and he didn't press, though the contradiction intrigued him. A flicker of unease crossed her face, but she quickly masked it.
Jack, oblivious to the nuance, grinned. "Are you a reporter? You look like one."
Emily hesitated before nodding. "Yes, I am," she said. "I cover local stories—nothing too exciting. Just interviews, neighborhood features."
Alastor sensed there was more to her than she let on. The careful way she chose her words only deepened his curiosity.
"I think I'll be around," she added after a pause. "This café has a good vibe. I like it."
Before Alastor could respond, Mr. Thompson emerged from the back, his heavy footsteps punctuating the moment. "Hey, Alastor. The sink in the back's acting up again. Can you take a look?"
Alastor nodded and turned to Emily. "See you around."
Emily lingered for a moment, her gaze meeting his one last time before she nodded and left. The bell chimed as the door closed behind her, leaving a faint, unsettled silence in her wake.
Jack leaned on the counter, watching Alastor. "She seems nice," he said casually. "You think she's looking for a story or something?"
Alastor didn't answer immediately, his thoughts still on Emily. "I don't know," he murmured. "But I think she's looking for something."
In the back, the smell of rust and damp wood greeted him. Mr. Thompson was already kneeling by the sink, muttering under his breath.
"You think you can fix this, kid?" the older man asked.
Alastor hesitated, his hand hovering over the pipes. The energy stirred again, unbidden, a flicker of light at the edge of his vision. He clenched his fist, debating whether to rely on it. But the hum of frustration from Mr. Thompson decided for him.
A faint shimmer of light danced above the sink, barely perceptible, as the rust dissolved and the pipes realigned themselves. The blockage vanished with a soft hum. The glow dimmed, leaving behind only the faintest scent of ozone.
"Good work, kid," Mr. Thompson said, oblivious to the faint glow that lingered in the air.
Alastor forced a smile, his chest tight. His secret was safe—for now. But with Emily around, asking questions, how long would that remain true?