The night descended over Brooklyn with a calm stillness, the city lights flickering to life as the hum of traffic echoed faintly in the background. Inside his modest apartment, Jack stood in front of a mirror, adjusting the collar of his button-up shirt.
He frowned at his reflection, running a hand through his hair to smooth down a stray lock. "Casual but not lazy," he muttered to himself, tilting his head. "Too much? Nah, looks fine."
The faint sound of his phone vibrating on the nightstand pulled his attention. Jack glanced over, seeing the name "Hannah" light up the screen. He swiped the message open:
Hannah: Hey! I'll be at the restaurant in about 30 minutes. Looking forward to it!
A small grin tugged at Jack's lips as he tapped out a quick reply:
Jack: Sounds good. I'll be there soon.
He placed the phone down, returning his focus to the mirror. As he straightened his shirt, a sudden flicker of light danced across his vision, followed by fragmented images flashing in his mind—a room engulfed in chaos, objects flying, and Alastor standing in the center of it all, radiating an almost blinding energy.
Jack froze, his fingers still gripping the fabric of his shirt. His chest tightened as the memory grew sharper—Alastor's clap reverberating through the room, sending waves of power that shattered everything in its path. He blinked rapidly, the flashes fading as quickly as they came.
"What the hell…" Jack whispered, gripping the edge of the dresser for support. His reflection stared back at him, his brow furrowed and beads of sweat forming at his temples.
He shook his head, forcing a breath out through his nose. "You're just tired. It's nothing." He rubbed his temple, his fingers brushing over the faint bruise from his head injury. "Hallucinating. Overthinking. Just… let it go, Jack."
With a final glance at his reflection, Jack grabbed his jacket and phone, glancing at the time. "Fifteen minutes to spare. Let's not screw this up," he muttered to himself, stepping out of his apartment and into the cool night air.
Meanwhile, several blocks away, the Brooklyn Brew café stood as a skeletal frame of its former self.
The structure's charred remnants had been cleared, leaving behind an open space bustling with activity. Workers in hard hats moved around the site, hammering, drilling, and hoisting beams into place under the floodlights. The scent of sawdust and metal lingered in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of coffee from a nearby food truck parked for the late-night crew.
At the center of it all was Mr. Thompson, sleeves rolled up and grease smudging his forearms. His practiced hands guided a power drill, the sound sharp and precise as he secured a wooden plank to the framework of what would soon be the café's new counter.
He stepped back, inspecting his work with a critical eye before calling out to one of the workers. "That beam's still loose on the west side. If we don't secure it now, it'll give us trouble when the roofing starts."
The worker, a young man barely out of his twenties, nodded quickly. "On it, Mr. Thompson."
Thompson nodded in approval before returning to his own task. The café had been his pride and joy—a place where he had poured his heart, sweat, and years of experience as a former mechanic into creating something meaningful. Seeing it reduced to rubble weeks ago had been a blow, but tonight, as he worked alongside the reconstruction team, a flicker of hope stirred in his chest.
"Boss," a familiar voice called from behind. Thompson turned to see Marcus, one of his old employees, carrying a clipboard. "Blueprint adjustments came in. You want to check 'em before we start on the foundation extension?"
Thompson wiped his hands on a rag tucked into his back pocket, taking the clipboard with a small grunt. His eyes scanned the pages, his mechanical mind quickly piecing together the changes.
"Looks good," he said after a moment, handing it back. "Let's keep moving. We're burning moonlight."
Marcus grinned, giving a quick salute before heading off. Thompson watched him for a moment before his gaze shifted to the café's bare bones. The structure stood defiant against the night sky, a testament to resilience and rebuilding.
He exhaled deeply, his hands resting on his hips as he allowed himself a brief moment of reflection. "Brooklyn Brew," he muttered under his breath, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "You're gonna stand tall again. Just you wait."
The hum of machinery filled the air as workers moved with precision around the Brooklyn Brew café reconstruction site. The rhythmic pounding of hammers and the faint whir of drills created a steady backdrop, illuminated by floodlights scattered across the area. Mr. Thompson stood near the partially built counter, clipboard in hand, checking off progress notes with a furrowed brow.
"That beam still loose, Marcus?" Thompson called out without looking up.
"We're securing it now, boss," Marcus replied from the other side of the site.
Thompson nodded, his focus on the task at hand. He barely noticed the figure approaching from the shadows until a familiar voice broke through the din.
"Need an extra pair of hands?"
Thompson turned sharply, his eyes widening as he took in the sight of Alastor. The man looked better than he had in the morning—color had returned to his face, and his posture was steadier—but there was still a shadow of weariness in his gaze. His movements were measured, as if he was testing his own limits with every step.
"Kid," Thompson said, his tone a mix of surprise and concern. "What are you doing here? You should be resting."
Alastor stopped a few feet away, his hands in his jacket pockets. His expression was calm but resolute. "Resting won't help rebuild this place," he said simply. "I want to help."
Thompson frowned, crossing his arms. "Look, I appreciate the sentiment, kid, but you're not in any condition to be lifting beams or swinging hammers. Go back to our place and take it easy."
Alastor shook his head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "I'm not asking, Mr. Thompson. I know I'm not at full strength, but I can still be useful. This place—it's more than just a café. It meant a lot to you… and to me too."
Thompson raised an eyebrow, his skepticism plain. "To you?"
Alastor nodded, his gaze dropping briefly to the ground before meeting Thompson's eyes. "This café… it wasn't just a place to grab coffee. It was a safe haven. You gave me a place to clear my head when things felt… overwhelming. You didn't ask questions, didn't judge. Just offered a seat and a cup of coffee. That mattered more than you know."
Thompson's stern expression softened slightly, though he still hesitated. "Kid, you don't need to do this to thank me. Taking care of you this morning—hell, just looking out for you—that's what people do when they care. You don't owe me anything."
Alastor stepped closer, his tone firm but earnest. "It's not about owing. I want to help because I care too. About you, about this place. Let me do something—anything. I promise I won't push myself too hard."
Thompson studied him for a long moment, his jaw tightening as he weighed the sincerity in Alastor's words. Finally, he let out a gruff sigh, shaking his head. "Fine," he said, his tone tinged with resignation. "But don't make me regret this. And if you so much as stumble, you're done. Got it?"
Alastor's faint smile widened, a glimmer of gratitude in his eyes. "Got it."
Minutes later, Alastor stood near the supply area, sorting through stacks of wooden planks and metal beams. His movements were careful, deliberate, as though testing how much his body could handle. The lingering effects of the Starbreaker were still present—a dull ache in his chest, a slight heaviness in his limbs—but he pushed past it, determined to contribute.
"Pass me that beam," Marcus called from the scaffolding.
Alastor grabbed the metal beam, his muscles protesting slightly as he lifted it. He carried it over, his steps steady, and handed it up to Marcus, who gave a quick nod of thanks.
"Not bad for a guy who looked half-dead this morning," Marcus joked.
Alastor chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Let's just say I've had worse days."
Nearby, Thompson watched the scene with a wary eye, his arms crossed as he leaned against a support beam. Despite his initial reservations, he couldn't deny that Alastor was holding his own.
"You sure you're alright?" Thompson called out.
Alastor turned, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "I've survived worse than this," he replied, his tone light but genuine. "Besides, it's good to feel useful again."
Thompson grunted, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Just don't overdo it, kid."
Alastor nodded, returning to his task with quiet determination. As the hours stretched on, the site began to take shape—a new foundation for a place that had meant so much to so many. And though the ache in his chest persisted, Alastor found a sense of peace in the work, each beam and plank a small step toward rebuilding not just the café, but something deeper.
For now, the night was calm, the hum of reconstruction a steady rhythm that kept the shadows at bay. But both Alastor and Thompson knew that peace, like the café itself, was fragile—and worth fighting for.