White took a final sip of his tea, the delicate clink of the cup against its saucer the only sound breaking the coffee shop's quiet hum. Outside, the rain intensified, its steady drumbeat a curtain of sound that seemed to isolate the space within. He placed the empty cup down with precision and leaned back slightly in his chair, his yellow eyes locking onto Hope without a hint of emotion.
"Hm." The sound was low, contemplative, almost dismissive. Then, with the same calculated precision, White stood, his presence towering yet eerily neutral.
"We've talked enough," he said, his voice calm, deliberate—each word imbued with an unsettling finality. He reached into his coat, producing a crisp, sealed envelope, which he placed on the table before Hope with the same unflinching deliberation.
"This is your first mission," he continued, his tone as detached as though discussing the weather. "Find a place to stay—somewhere safe. A hotel will do, or any location you can secure for now. Buy some clothes. Then, report to the Nyxvale Police Department and mention my name. They'll call me."
He paused, his gaze steady and unreadable, as though weighing her against an invisible scale. "You'll be given a new ID card and required to register your information: age, height, weight, fingerprints, all of it. You'll remain there until further notice. Afterward, find a school and enroll. Learn something useful. We'll talk again once you've completed these steps."
The instructions were delivered with such cold efficiency that they felt less like guidance and more like the binding terms of a contract.
From his coat pocket, White produced two **Nyxvale gold coins**—their edges shimmering faintly even in the dim light. He set them on the table beside the envelope, the metallic clink resonating in the otherwise muted room. "This should cover your expenses," he said simply.
Without waiting for acknowledgment, White retrieved his folded umbrella and slid his laptop into his bag. He stepped toward the counter, settling the bill with a quiet word to the barista. Moments later, he disappeared into the rain, the rhythmic patter of his footsteps swallowed by the mist as the door swung shut behind him.
For a long moment, Hope remained motionless. The envelope and coins lay before her, but her trembling hands refused to move. The weight of White's presence lingered, like a cold shadow curling in the pit of her stomach.
Her mana core throbbed with a dull ache, the damage from earlier pulsing like a second heartbeat. Each poker card he had placed on the table replayed in her mind—not as simple objects, but as triggers for her worst memories. The pain wasn't physical; it was something far worse.
She clenched her fists under the table, trying to steady herself. *He knows everything,* she realized, her thoughts chaotic. Every secret she had buried, every scar—visible and invisible—had been laid bare before him, dissected and cataloged with a precision that was as terrifying as it was inhuman.
Her red eyes flickered darker, shadows creeping into their once-bright hue. She struggled to breathe, her mana faltering as waves of exhaustion washed over her. Each card White had laid down had not just revealed her past—it had *forced her to relive it.*
When her father's fist struck in her memory, she felt the compounded force of every blow, magnified thirtyfold. When the experiments carved into her body and soul, the agony resurged, fresh and unrelenting. Her composure, her carefully crafted mask, shattered with each passing second.
Yet, White had not even spared her a second glance. His yellow eyes—cold, ancient—had regarded her suffering as though it were no more significant than the rain outside. Even now, she realized with a sinking dread, he had left her to pick up the pieces on her own.
The poker cards on the table seemed to mock her, their unique backs emblazoned with the symbol of a white raven holding broken chains. They were more than cards; they were verdicts.
A faint rumble broke through the pounding rain. From the mist outside, a dark shape materialized—a police transfer van, its black frame cutting through the haze like a specter. The van came to a stop near the coffee shop's side entrance, its back doors swinging open with a heavy groan.
Uniformed officers emerged, their movements practiced and efficient. One of them entered the shop, his gaze sweeping the room before locking onto Hope's trembling figure. He moved toward her without hesitation, his footsteps purposeful yet oddly silent.
"Package secured," the officer murmured into his radio as he lifted Hope's unconscious body from the chair. Her head lolled to the side, her darkened eyes half-open but unseeing. A faint red mark on her arm betrayed the use of a sedative.
The officer adjusted her position carefully, ensuring no signs of struggle would be visible to the outside world. Another officer lingered at the counter, exchanging pleasantries with the barista and placing an order for coffee and tea. From the perspective of an outside observer, it was a perfectly mundane transaction.
Yet, as the van doors closed with a resounding thud and the vehicle disappeared into the mist, Hope's fading consciousness clung to the fragments of what she had seen.
The coffee shop was no ordinary establishment. In her final moments of awareness, she noticed details she had missed before—subtle yet glaringly obvious in hindsight. A man near the window adjusted his jacket, revealing the distinct outline of a concealed weapon. A woman at a corner table sipped tea, her bearing too poised, her movements too deliberate. A lapel pin on another patron bore the insignia of Nyxvale's government.
The pieces clicked into place as her mind spiraled into darkness: *This isn't just a coffee shop. It's a hub—an information nexus for Nyxvale's elite. Soldiers, agents, assassins, government officials... they all gather here.*
Her last thought was fragmented, a mix of fear and resignation. *Why didn't I see it before?*
Inside, the room returned to its usual stillness. The poker cards and gold coins remained untouched on the table, silent witnesses to the encounter. Patrons continued their conversations, their voices low and measured.
Yet, to the trained eye, there was something unnervingly deliberate about the calm. The coffee shop, with its warm light and unassuming charm, was anything but ordinary.
As the rain poured outside, the events within seemed to fade into obscurity, swallowed by the city's misty embrace. Only the faint glint of the raven-embossed poker cards hinted at the storm that had begun.
The coffee shop exhaled its false serenity like a well-rehearsed sigh. Conversations resumed, smiles exchanged, and the scent of freshly brewed drinks swirled through the air, masking the tension that had settled just moments ago. The illusion of normalcy was seamless. Yet beneath it, the room pulsed with calculated energy, each patron subtly in tune with the mechanisms at play.
The poker cards lay splayed across the table where Hope had sat, their white raven emblem seeming to glow faintly in the dim light, a stark contrast to the room's muted tones. A subtle message, perhaps. Or a warning.
At the counter, the barista wiped the surface with slow, measured strokes, their demeanor unhurried, their eyes darting once toward the table before resuming their task. The officer who had lingered earlier now sat by the window, sipping his coffee with the deliberate air of someone waiting for instructions. The lapel pin on his uniform—a white crescent surrounded by seven stars—glinted briefly under the overhead lights.
Outside, the rain pressed harder, shrouding the van as it navigated Nyxvale's labyrinth of shadowed streets. Inside, Hope's unconscious form slumped against the van's padded wall. Her hands were restrained, but the bindings were more symbolic than necessary. Her mana core still quivered from the earlier trauma, leaving her too drained to summon even a spark of resistance.
The officer seated opposite her monitored a tablet, his finger swiping across screens of data—heart rate monitors, mana suppression readouts, and psychological profiles. Hope's information streamed across the screen like an endless reel of judgment. Beside him, another officer adjusted his weapon holster, his face impassive, though his gaze lingered briefly on her pale features.
"Think she'll make it?" the armed officer asked, his tone neutral, almost bored.
"She has to," the first officer replied without looking up. "White doesn't waste resources. If he picked her, she's useful. Question is, for how long?"
The van rumbled over a pothole, jostling its occupants. Hope stirred faintly, her lips parting as if to speak, but no sound came. The officers exchanged a glance but said nothing.
Back at the coffee shop, White's absence felt almost physical, like a void pulling at the fabric of the room. The patrons remained eerily composed, their movements purposeful. An older man adjusted his glasses and resumed reading a newspaper, though his eyes never scanned more than a line at a time. A woman in a tailored suit set down her teacup with the precision of a clockmaker and pulled out a slim device, its screen displaying encrypted messages.
The white raven emblem on the cards caught her attention briefly. She smirked—a flicker of recognition—and returned to her device. The cards had served their purpose, and their next use was only a matter of time.
Far above, in the city's sprawling skyline, a single light burned in a high-rise building marked with the insignia of VPM. Behind its tinted windows, a shadowy figure watched the rain-soaked streets below. A report lay open on the desk—a detailed dossier on Hope, her history, her potential. Beside it, a photograph of White, his piercing yellow eyes staring through the frame as if he could see directly into the soul of whoever dared to hold it.
The figure leaned back in their chair, fingers steepled, a faint smile curling at their lips.
"The game begins," they murmured, their voice low, almost lost to the hum of rain against the glass.