"If revenge is called Justice, then that Justice breeds yet more revenge, and becomes a chain of hatred." - Pein (Naruto)

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It wasn't unusual for Timo to see Sera enter his café alone, accompanied by one of her elusive companions, or with Zest in tow.

Over time, the quiet, steel-nerved girl had become something of a familiar fixture in Cross Café's late hours, drifting in and out like a shadow that only certain eyes knew to follow.

What was unusual, however, were the looks on their faces that evening.

The soft chime of the doorbell echoed as Sera and Zest stepped in, but the sound felt strangely hollow, muted by the palpable weight they carried with them—an invisible heaviness that settled over the café like mist on a forgotten grave.

Timo looked up from the counter and raised an eyebrow, already reaching for mugs out of habit. "What's crawled up both your asses and died?" he muttered dryly, even as his hands moved with practiced ease. He didn't need to ask for their orders. Sera and Zest had come in so often that their preferences were etched into the back of his mind like muscle memory.

But even as the words left his mouth, he winced. Earl's death had been barely a month ago. The wound it left in the survivors of Blade was still fresh, raw beneath the surface. Timo had seen that kind of grief before: the kind that settles in the bones and stays, long after the tears stop.

He poured the drinks in silence, the quiet punctuated only by the soft clinking of ceramic and the low hum of the café's late-night ambiance. His eyes flickered to the calendar pinned beside the register, and his hand stilled mid-motion.

A beat passed before it clicked.

"…Today's the anniversary," he said, his voice lower now, and more somber. His eyes met Zest's, then Sera's. "You both went to Elvryn, didn't you?"

He already knew the answer. The Blade remnants always went back, year after year, to the place where everything had ended.

Sera offered a faint smile, barely there. Her fingers wrapped around her coffee, stirring slowly as if she were trying to delay the inevitable ache that always came with remembering. "I go back every year," she murmured. "But it doesn't get any easier."

She hadn't seen Leroy or Alisa, not this time. But the fresh flowers placed beside the memorial stone spoke for them, and perhaps for others too. If her suspicions about Lleucu, or even Jamie, still being alive were true, then they too had come and gone, leaving silent tributes behind.

Zest nodded, his voice quieter than usual. "The place hasn't changed. It's like time forgot about it." He stared into his drink. "Like it's waiting for us to come home."

Timo sighed through his nose, leaning against the counter.

Not for the first time, he considered, half-seriously, recommending they speak to someone. A psychiatrist, maybe. Someone trained in navigating that kind of trauma. But then again, he figured most professionals would walk away from a session with Sera or Zest more traumatised than when they arrived.

People from the underground were already fractured, broken in ways that couldn't always be pieced back together.

But the survivors of Blade? They had rewritten the very definition of broken.

Timo had seen it in their eyes. In the way they moved. In the long silences between sentences. He had no doubt that if not for the handful of people who still tethered them to this world, Sera and Zest would have long since slipped beyond reach—swallowed by ghosts and ashes.

"Maybe…" Timo began hesitantly, tapping a finger against his chest, "maybe you should start limiting your visits to Elvryn." His hand shifted to his temple, tapping again, slower this time. "You've accepted what happened. Up here, I know you have. But in here, it's a different battle."

Sera let out a quiet sigh. "I know."

Timo said nothing more. They were still young—barely in their twenties. But they weren't children. Not anymore. Not after what they'd lived through. They made their choices, and they carried the consequences in silence.

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Changing the subject with a practiced ease born from years of tending to broken people, Timo cleared his throat. "Where are you two headed later? Unusual not to see one of your people with you, Sera."

He never mentioned Aegis by name. Even in the near-empty café, he had long since learned that you could never be sure who might be listening.

"Day off," Sera replied simply, lifting her cup. "Alexis mentioned something about a speech—Albert Nicolosi's supposed to give one in Blackpool later tonight." She exchanged a look with Zest. "Thought we'd check it out."

Timo's frown deepened. "Blackpool, huh?" he repeated, as if the name alone left a bitter taste. "Hunter-affiliated city. Their main headquarters is there."

He knew things, and had heard things, more than most would expect of a café owner. One of his old acquaintances in the ESA had barely made it out of Blackpool alive not long ago.

Elijah Rosales, if memory served. Smart, sharp, and cautious, but even then, something about that city had nearly swallowed him whole. Taylor too. The twins were survivors, yes. But Timo had never understood why either of them joined the ESA to begin with, not with the warnings they'd been given.

Sera, he knew, hadn't been pleased with that decision either.

"I'm not stupid enough to walk into Blackpool," Sera said flatly, much to Timo's relief.

She knew exactly how dangerous it would be. Her name alone would light up the city's alert systems. He wouldn't be surprised if her face was plastered on every corner of every wall. Zest too.

"Knowing the hunters, it'll be broadcast live anyway."

Zest finally spoke again. "How about we check it out from Zhane City instead?" he offered, tilting his head slightly. "Still hunter-affiliated, but not as tightly secured. They'll probably air it on the city screens. And we can see how the public reacts while we're there."

Timo didn't like it. He ran a hand through his hair, his lips pursing. "I've got a bad feeling," he muttered. "Why not wait for Alexis or Ethan to report back? You know they've got eyes in both cities. Especially Ethan."

"True," Zest admitted, sipping his coffee. "But it's Albert Nicolosi. If he's stepping in front of a camera, it means something. Better we see it for ourselves. Assess the mood."

Timo groaned under his breath. "Fine. But be careful," he warned, his voice more serious now. "Something's coming. I can feel it. And whatever that broadcast is… It's not going to be good news."

Sera said nothing. Just drank quietly, her eyes distant. She trusted Timo's instincts. The man hadn't survived this long without listening to that sixth sense of his.

And then, the café bell chimed again.

All three turned, almost in unison, as the door swung open and another familiar figure stepped inside.

Zest's fingers twitched. A silent signal. Sera glanced toward him and gave a subtle shake of her head.

Lucas Alescio had just entered.

The leader of Team Alpha paused the moment he noticed he wasn't alone. His onyx eyes scanned the room, catching on Sera immediately, and lingering there, uncertain and unreadable.

"Hi Lucas," Timo greeted, ever the composed host. "Been a while since I saw you around here."

"Hey, Timo." Lucas replied, distracted, his gaze still fixed on Sera. "…Sera," he added softly, almost unsure.

The sound of her name on his lips gave both Zest and Sera pause.

Lucas cleared his throat awkwardly, forcing a casualness he didn't feel. "Uh… Who's your friend?"

His eyes shifted to Zest, and instantly, something in his expression changed.

Zest met his stare with calm detachment, but there was something behind those crimson-red eyes. Something sharp. Calculating. Dangerous. The kind of look that made Lucas's instincts flare like a warning siren in his head.

This man wasn't a civilian.

The way he moved, the way he stood, and the atmosphere that clung to him—it was all wrong. Lucas's eyes flickered to the side of Zest's neck, catching a glimpse of something just beneath the collar of his hoodie.

A tattoo.

A dagger, partially concealed by the plain black choker he wore.

A choker that looked…strangely similar to Sera's.

Lucas's breath caught.

Zest offered no further words, no smile, no explanation. Just a quiet, almost dismissive grunt. "…Zest," he said.

Lucas hesitated at the edge of the café floor, fingers flexing slightly at his sides, unsure whether to take a step forward or leave the moment untouched.

There weren't many opportunities for this—moments when he could speak to Sera directly without interference, without masks or half-truths. The few times he had seen her were always brief encounters, snatched in passing within the quiet hum of Cross Café, and never by arrangement.

Always by coincidence. Or perhaps, fate.

He glanced toward her, noting the weariness in the set of her shoulders despite her upright posture, the distant shimmer in her mismatched eyes. Beautiful and tired eyes that had seen too much.

"Sera," he began, his voice low and uneven, "can we have a word?"

There was something in his tone, something uncertain and quietly burdened, that caught Sera's attention. She turned her head slightly, her eyes meeting Lucas's, and for a moment, he thought he saw a flicker of resignation pass through her expression.

The kind of resignation that comes from already knowing what someone is about to ask.

Without responding right away, she stood with fluid grace and gave a faint nod toward the far corner of the café. "Corner seat's free," she said simply, her voice quiet but firm.

As she moved away, Zest rose with her, the motion silent but deliberate, as if following her was instinct—habitual, ingrained, and unspoken.

Lucas's brows furrowed. "I want to speak to Sera alone."

Zest stepped into his path with calm purpose, not with hostility but with a kind of watchful defiance that spoke volumes. "I go where she goes," he replied, his gaze sharp but voice even. "And besides, I think I know what you're going to say. This concerns me too."

Lucas's jaw tensed. He didn't reply, but his silence was loud with frustration. It wasn't Zest's presence that unnerved him—it was the air around the man.

The stillness. Like standing next to a fire that hadn't been lit yet, but could be at any second.

Across the room, behind the counter, Timo paused mid-wipe of a ceramic cup, watching the subtle shifts in posture, the exchange of words that didn't need to be spoken aloud.

He had known this day would come. It had been circling for some time now—like a storm forming at the edge of a horizon.

The day when Lucas would finally begin to unravel the threads, when he'd look at Sera and truly begin to see her—not as a stranger passing through, not as a name whispered in resistance networks, but as something real.

And possibly dangerous.

Timo had never fully trusted the young leader of Team Alpha. Not entirely. Not because of Lucas's actions, but because of his surname. That name came with too many shadows.

But Sera had insisted, He's not like his father. Trust me on this.

So Timo had watched. And waited.

Now, the quiet tension in the café was as thick as the roasted aroma of coffee that clung to the walls. His instincts stirred.

He moved toward the entrance, flipping the sign to Closed with a soft clack of the wooden board against the glass. The motion was deliberate and final. Whatever this conversation was, it wasn't meant for outsiders. Not today.

Back at the corner table, Sera sat first, folding her hands in her lap, her posture calm but unreadable. Zest leaned back in the seat beside her, his arms crossed, his red eyes never leaving Lucas.

Lucas followed, slower and quieter, dragging invisible weight behind every step. He lowered himself into the seat opposite them, and for a brief moment, the three sat in silence—an uneasy triangle of past, present, and unspoken truths pressing in from all sides.

Timo leaned against the counter now, watching from afar, his brows furrowed slightly. "Let's see you live up to her expectations, Lucas," he murmured under his breath, his voice nearly drowned beneath the low hum of the café's old ceiling fan.

Because sometimes, words were more dangerous than bullets. And this… This felt like the beginning of something that couldn't be undone.

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