7. Chapter 7
Jace
I'm late. Catastrophically, embarrassingly late.
The code that was supposed to be a simple fix turned into an all-night debugging nightmare. One error cascaded into seventeen others, and by the time I finally squashed the last bug, sunlight was streaming through my apartment windows and my eyes felt like they were full of sand.
Plus, I might see her.
Wren.
Silence.
The quiet barista with pink hair who's also the silent sniper who's had my back in countless virtual firefights. The revelation still feels surreal, like finding out your favorite book character suddenly works at your local library.
I push open the door, the familiar bell jingling overhead. As predicted, the place is nearly deserted. Just a couple of students with laptops in the corner, and a businessman talking loudly on his phone by the window.
Maya isn't at the register today. Instead, it's Marcus, the shift manager who always looks like he's one spilled latte away from a meltdown. He nods at me, recognizing a regular even if I'm hours off schedule.
And then I see her.
Wren is at the espresso machine, her back to the counter as she cleans.
Her pink hair is pulled into a messy bun, exposing the delicate curve of her neck.
Even from here, I can see the tension in her shoulders, the meticulousness of her movements that reminds me so much of how Silence operates in-game—methodical, aware, always scanning for threats.
I approach the counter, rehearsing what I'll say. Should I reveal that I know sign language? That I know she's Silence? That I'm WrathSpawn? The possibilities make my heart race uncomfortably.
"The usual?" Marcus asks, scowling at me and already reaching for a cup.
"Yeah. Thanks." My voice comes out rougher than intended. I clear my throat. "Black coffee and—"
"No ginger scones left," he interrupts. "Blueberry okay?"
I nod, even though the substitution makes me wince internally. Routines matter. Consistency matters. But some things are more important than scone preferences.
Like the fact that Wren has turned around now, and her eyes briefly meet mine before darting away. Does she recognize me as WrathSpawn? Has she made the connection I have? The uncertainty makes my fingers tap an anxious rhythm against my thigh.
I'm about to step toward her when Marcus suddenly reaches for the remote control, turning up the volume on the small TV mounted behind the counter.
"Breaking news," the announcer's voice cuts through the café's ambient music. "After an eighteen-month manhunt, authorities have apprehended serial killer Lucien Cain at the scene of what appears to be his latest victim."
The name hits me like a physical blow. Lucien Cain. The Reaper. The man whose gruesome murders dominated headlines last year before he vanished without a trace. Even I, who actively avoids news, couldn't escape those stories.
My attention shifts to Wren, and what I see stops my breath.
She's frozen, the cleaning cloth slipping from her fingers. Her face has drained of all color, lips parted in silent horror as she stares at the TV screen. The reporter continues, but I'm no longer listening to the words—I'm watching Wren's reaction with growing alarm.
Her chest rises and falls too rapidly. Her hands begin to tremble, then shake violently. She backs up until she hits the wall, eyes wide and unseeing.
She's having a panic attack.
I know the signs intimately—I've had enough of my own. The dissociation. The hyperventilation. The feeling that you're dying, even when logically you know you're not.
Marcus hasn't noticed, still watching the TV with morbid fascination as they show footage of police leading a handcuffed man into a squad car.
"Cain was found at a residence in Cedar Falls, where authorities discovered the body of—"
I don't hear the rest because Wren makes a small, choked sound—not quite a whimper, but close enough—and slides down the wall until she's crouching, arms wrapped around herself like she's trying to hold her body together.
Move. Do something. Help her.
The commands ping through my brain, but my body locks up. Social interaction is hard enough on a good day. This? This is crisis territory. The rational part of my brain catalogs options, probabilities, appropriate responses, while the rest of me fights through the paralysis of indecision.
But then Wren's eyes find mine—wide, terrified, pleading—and something clicks into place.
I don't think. I just move.
Marcus is completely absorbed in the news broadcast, his attention fixed on the TV like it's showing the winning lottery numbers instead of a serial killer's capture. He doesn't even notice Wren sliding down the wall, doesn't see her struggling to breathe.
But I do.
My body finally catches up with my brain, and I'm around the counter before I can second-guess myself. The sensation of breaking rules—customers aren't supposed to be back here—sends a jolt of discomfort through me, but I push it aside. Some things matter more than rules.
I crouch in front of Wren, careful not to touch her without permission. Her eyes are unfocused, pupils dilated with fear. Her breathing is shallow and rapid—hyperventilating. She's going to pass out if this continues.
"Wren," I say softly, keeping my voice low enough that only she can hear me. "I need you to focus on me. Can you do that?"
Her gaze darts to mine, then away, then back again. Recognition flickers there, but it's drowning in panic.
I take a slow, measured breath, then raise my hands where she can see them. I begin to sign, my fingers forming words I haven't used in years.
“You're safe. I'm here. Breathe with me.”
Her eyes widen, surprise momentarily cutting through the terror. She wasn't expecting me to sign. Good. Surprise can interrupt panic cycles.
“Five things you can see,” I sign, keeping my movements slow and clear. “ Tell me five things.”
She blinks rapidly, her breathing still too fast, but her gaze begins to focus. Her hands shake as she signs back:
“Coffee machine. Floor. Your glasses. Light. Cup.”
“Good,” I sign. “ Four things you can touch.”
Her fingers brush the floor beside her. "Cold. Smooth." She touches her apron. "Fabric." Her hand moves to her throat. "Skin."
"Three things you can hear," I continue, watching her breathing gradually slow.
"TV. Music. Your breathing."
I offer a small smile at that last one. "Two things you can smell."
"Coffee." She pauses, then adds, "Sandalwood."
My cologne. I didn't think it was that noticeable.
"One thing you can taste."
"Fear," she signs, and something in my chest tightens.
I nod, acknowledging her honesty. "Keep breathing. Slowly. In through your nose, out through your mouth."
I demonstrate, taking an exaggerated breath and letting it out. She follows my lead, her chest rising and falling in a more controlled rhythm. The trembling in her hands begins to subside.
"You know sign language," she signs, her movements still shaky but clearer now.
"My cousin is deaf," I sign back. "I learned growing up."
Something shifts in her expression—relief, maybe. Or recognition. For a moment, I consider telling her everything. That I understood her yesterday. That I know she's Silence. That I'm WrathSpawn. That we've fought side by side in digital battlefields for months.
But the vulnerability in her eyes stops me. She's already dealing with enough. Adding another revelation might overwhelm her again.
Instead, I sign, "Do you need a minute? I can cover for you."
She nods, gratitude flooding her face.
"Stay here," I sign. "I'll handle Marcus."
I stand, turning to find the shift manager still glued to the TV. The news has shifted to showing photos of Lucien Cain's victims, their faces blurred but the horror still evident.
"Hey," I say, tapping Marcus on the shoulder. He jumps, startled.
"What the—you can't be back here," he snaps.
"Wren isn't feeling well," I say, keeping my voice casual despite the tension coiling in my gut. "She needs to take a break."
Marcus frowns, glancing around as if just realizing his barista is huddled on the floor having a panic attack. "What's wrong with her?"
"Migraine," I lie smoothly. "Bad one. She asked if she could take five minutes in the back room."
He sighs dramatically. "Fine. But who's going to make the drinks? I've got inventory to finish."
"I think you'll survive making your own coffee for a few minutes," I say, my tone sharper than intended.
Marcus mutters something under his breath about "entitled millennials" and "having to do everything myself," but he moves toward the espresso machine, purposely avoiding looking at Wren.
I turn back to her, crouching down again. "He said you can take a break. Do you want help getting to the back room?"
She shakes her head, then signs, "Thank you."
"No problem," I sign back. "Take whatever time you need."
She pulls herself up slowly, using the wall for support. Her legs are still shaky, but she manages to stand. As she passes me, her fingers brush against my arm—the briefest touch, but deliberate. A thank you that goes beyond words or signs.
I watch her disappear into the back room, my mind racing. The news about Lucien Cain. Her extreme reaction. The pieces begin to click together in a pattern I don't want to see.
Her silence. Her vigilance. The way she flinches at sudden movements. How she always positions herself with her back to a wall, eyes on the exits.
And now, a complete breakdown at the mention of a serial killer's capture.
My stomach drops as the truth crystallizes. It's not just coincidence. It's connection.
Wren knows Lucien Cain. Personally.
The thought sends a protective surge through me so intense it's almost dizzying. Silence—my teammate, my sniper—isn't just a random barista with anxiety. She's someone carrying a burden heavier than I could have imagined.
I make my way back to the customer side of the counter, where Marcus is grudgingly preparing my coffee, still grumbling about having to do "everyone else's job."
"Here," he says, shoving the cup toward me with none of the care Wren usually shows. "Anything else?"
"No," I say, then add, "Thanks for letting her take a break. Migraines can be debilitating."
He grunts noncommittally, already turning back to the TV where they're showing footage of police searching what appears to be Cain's hideout.
I take my coffee and find a seat near the back of the café, positioning myself with a clear view of the door to the break room. I'm not leaving until I know she's okay. I pull out my laptop, pretending to work while my mind processes everything I've just learned.
Wren is Silence. Wren has a connection to Lucien Cain. Wren needs protection, whether she knows it or not.
And I, apparently, am now her self-appointed guardian.
The realization should terrify me. I don't do emotional entanglements. I don't rush to anyone's rescue. I code. I game. I maintain careful distance from the messy complexities of human interaction.
Yet here I am, unable to leave, unable to focus on anything except the door she disappeared behind, waiting for her to emerge.
Because somewhere between raiding virtual wastelands and watching her make my coffee every morning, she's become important to me. More important than routines or comfort zones or carefully maintained boundaries.
I take a sip of my coffee, grimacing at the bitter, over-extracted flavor. Marcus clearly has no idea what he's doing.
But that's okay. I can drink bad coffee. I can sit here all afternoon if necessary.
Because Wren might be Silence, but right now, she needs someone to speak for her. To stand between her and whatever demons are chasing her.
And somehow, improbably, that someone is me.