I stepped into The Catalyst, greeted by the familiar, high-pitched jingle of the bell above the door. The transition was instant: the city’s restless static faded, replaced by the rhythmic hiss of the espresso machine. The shop smelled like dark caffeine and old wood—a stable environment that neutralized the frantic rush of the morning and finally let me take a full breath.
Jackie sat at our usual corner table, her auburn hair a vibrant splash of color against the sterile, lab-grey walls. She looked like a high-fashion glitch in the university’s matrix—all five-foot-two of her wrapped in expensive, high-end designer silk that probably cost more than the centrifuge we used in class.
Even sitting down, her slender frame had a certain magnetic pull. Her eyes were as dark and concentrated as
