The café smelled like overworked espresso and wet wool, the kind of scent that lingered long after you’d left. Ethan sat in the corner booth, his reflection fractured in the rain-streaked glass, fingers curled around a mug gone lukewarm. He’d arrived early—control mattered these days, even in scraps.
The bell over the door chimed, and Marcus Bennett stepped inside looking like the storm had followed him in. His coat dripped on the tile, his face shadowed with fatigue. He slid into the booth across from Ethan and gave something that might have passed for a smile in another life.
“You look like hell,” Ethan said quietly.
“You should see my board,” Bennett muttered, flagging the waitress for coffee. His voice was gravel and late nights. He leaned in, elbows on the table, eyes rimmed red. “
