4. Zyran
ZYRAN
I’m barefoot, leaning against the kitchen counter in yesterday's shirt and joggers, trying to remember what not being exhausted felt like when footsteps hit the bottom of the stairs. Seconds later, Rhys appears like he always does—quiet, awake, and already functioning at a level I won’t be able to reach, no matter how much caffeine I ingest.
He doesn’t say anything, not even a mutter of ‘good morning’. He just walks past me, pours himself a cup of coffee that always seems to be hot and fresh, and then drops a thin folder onto the counter.
The thing lands with a soft thump; my gaze drops to it and then back to him.
“That’s it?” I ask, raising a brow.
“That’s it.”
I reach over, opening it there, flipping through the pages—three pages, to be exact. A frown creeps between my brows—there’s nothing here. I mean a few pages worth of information, but this isn’t?—
“This is a pamphlet,” I say, looking up at Rhys. “This is literally something you hand out at college orientation. Dude, I asked for information, not a damn brochure.”
Rhys doesn’t flinch at my tone; he just leans back against the island, taking a sip from his mug. “You asked for basic things, Zyran.”
I peer down at the folder in hand, shaking my head. “No…no… I asked for everything.”
“No,” he says, a little too nonchalant. “You asked for her full name, age, work history, and address.”
I flip it open again, slower this time, like things that I didn’t ask for might pop out and scream at me.
“You didn’t have to staple the stupid pamphlets,” I mutter.
Rhys raises a brow over the rim of his cup. “If you wanted her dental records and childhood trauma, you should’ve clarified. I don’t read minds.”
I snort. “You’re a dick.”
“And yet you’re the one doing background checks on a coffee shop employee,” he says. “Very perceptive.”
I flip the first page, scanning every word, dates, and two addresses, but there’s like nothing here. Nothing.
Before I can say anything else, he turns and starts heading back for the stairs, only when he’s in the entryway of the kitchen does he stop and peer over his shoulder.
“For what it’s worth,” he starts, “there’s nothing alarming in there. No criminal record, no restraining order, no red flags. Just your normal run-of-the-mill girl.” And then he disappears upstairs, leaving me alone with the folder and the sound of the coffee machine clicking off.
I want to yell at him for calling her a run-of-the-mill girl, because she’s not. But according to the paperwork, she is, and I don’t understand why I hate that.
Finally moving to the kitchen table, the chair scrapes quietly against the tile as I pull it out and fall into it. Elbow resting on the table, I open the folder again, eyes falling on her name at the top.
I already knew it; it’s stitched onto the black apron she wears at the coffee shop. The one she fiddles with when she’s overwhelmed—I’d watched her for hours, seeing her thumb rub over the letters multiple times.
My eyes drift down, glancing over her age, twenty-three. Her mother, Kendra, and father's name is Evan.
Turning the page, I continue reading on and find her employment history. Wicked Co.; she’s been there for the last three years. And then the bar?—
“What the fuck?” I mutter under my breath, squinting my eyes as if they were the problem. Though it can’t be, I have twenty-twenty vision.
But sure enough, Esperr’s been working at the Rusted Nail, a dive bar in town, for the past seven months.
Moving on, there are two addresses and some medical notes that list brief chronic pain, but she never went to the follow-ups.
She’s either stubborn or stupid.
I linger there longer than I mean to, irritation creeping in where concern has no business being. Chronic pain isn’t something people usually ignore, not unless your doctors aren’t listening to you, or you can’t afford the help. Which could make sense as to why she has two jobs.
I sit back in the chair, file resting open on the table. The house is quiet in that early morning kind of way where everyone else is still asleep and your thoughts just get louder and louder because there’s nothing to drown them out.
And nothing in that folder screams danger, no alarms, no bold warnings. Just your typical gal, one that builds—she works and hurts, but she just keeps going. But why do I keep closing the damn file and then reopening it like something just might change?
And for some reason, that bothers me more than if it were messy or dramatic.
I exhale through my nose and push the chair back, standing, snatching the file up.
Exiting the kitchen, I head upstairs, telling myself the entire time that this is where it ends, that my curiosity is satisfied, all loose threads noted.
But even as I push my door open and set the thing down, I still change my clothes and grab my boots knowing that I’m driving an hour to that coffee shop to see her.
I don’t rush; that would feel like I’m not thinking clearly. Instead, I move slowly and deliberately, like it’s just another morning routine—like how it used to be.
A clean shirt, a jacket I don’t hate, a pair of jeans, and my boots laced tight enough to keep some part of me grounded. I catch my reflection in the mirror by the door and pause, brow furrowing as I exit my room.
This is stupid. I tell myself, but it doesn’t stop me.
Not as I shut the house door, and not as I climb into my truck.
The drive stretches long and quiet, trees blurring past as the sun climbs higher until it’s fully up and alive.
I don’t bother turning on the radio, not wanting the noise.
My mind fills the silence, replaying things I tell myself that don’t matter.
Like the way she smiles or tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s nervous.
Or the way her shoulders tense when the door rings and then disappointment furrows through her brows.
I tell myself I’m just checking, making sure she’s okay, that nothing is off. It’s a totally normal reason to drive an hour before most people even have breakfast.
By the time the coffee shop comes into view, my jaw aches from clenching it. I pull the truck into a parking spot across from the shop and kill the engine. Through the front window, I see a small group of people in line, some leaving with cups in their hands. And then I see her.
Hair pulled back into a long braid, her apron tied a little crooked—she’s tired again. Not the kind that's falling apart, but the kind you learn to carry around quietly so no one asks questions.
Esperr laughs at something the customer says; when he drops his head to pay, her laugh fades, and her eyes flicker to the door.
Leaning back in my seat, I cross my arms, reminding myself that I only came here to make sure she was okay. But there it is, that familiar tug, the one that tells me something isn’t adding up.
She moves behind the counter again, wiping down the same spot twice like she’s busying herself with something physical instead of thinking.
Her smile flashes when someone thanks her and then fades the second their back is turned.
The bell over the door rings, and she flinches, just a little, before forcing herself to relax.
My phone buzzes in the cupholder, sharp and sudden. Glancing down, irritation flickers until I see the name on the screen—Cyran.
I sigh and answer before it rings again, “yeah?”
“Fucker, where you at?” he asks, a grin in his tone through the phone. “Sybil’s tearing the house apart looking for you; she’s muttering about you just vanishing.”
“I didn’t vanish,” I say quietly, eyes never leaving the window across the street. “Tell her I just went for a drive.”
The shuffling through the phone stops for a second before I hear a chuckle. “At seven in the morning?” he snorts. “You’re either lying or having an existential crisis. Which one?”
“Neither,” I half-lie. “I just needed some air.”
Cyran hums, and I’m not surprised he’s not convinced. “Do you forget we’re one in the same? If you say you ‘need air’, that means you’re up to something.”
I shift in my seat, frowning. “I’m busy,” I say, lowering my voice without thinking.
That gets his attention. “With–with what?”
I watch her tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, fingers rubbing together like she’s trying to ground herself.
“Nothing,” I say too fast. “I’ll be back later; just tell her to calm down.”
“Yeah right, you tell Sybil to calm down.” I can hear the eye roll through the phone. “Just promise me, actually promise me, that you’re okay?”
I open my mouth to say yeah, but that would be a lie. I haven’t been okay since I was shot, and none of it makes sense. I’ve been shot before; stabbed, and hit, basically anything under the sun and the damn moon, but for some reason this hits differently.
“I will be, yeah,” I finally answer.
There’s a pause, one that tells me I’m going to have to explain this to him later. “Alright, Zy, just… don’t disappear all day. Sybil’s got a plan, and apparently you’re supposed to be a part of it.”
“Oh fuck me,” I mutter.
Cyran laughs, “See you later, stalker.”
“I’m not stalking,” I rush to say.
“Sure,” he cheerfully adds before hanging up.
I let out a breath and checked the time on my phone, 07:13 AM. And then again, a few seconds later, like the number would be different. The morning crowd begins to thin slowly, with a few people at the counter and at the tables, the line disappearing.
Esperr wipes down the espresso machine, stretches her shoulders like they ache, and then goes back to wiping the already clean counters down.
I sit there, the truck beginning to grow cold, but I barely feel it as I watch her.
Minutes tick by until it’s a few hours, and then she’s off—end of shift.
I straighten up, not realizing I’d slouched, while I track her movements.
She disappears into the back for a minute and then returns without her apron but an old black coat and beanie.
Right before the door, she tugs her winter stuff on and steps outside, squinting at the day light.
She pauses just outside, checking her phone before tucking it into her pocket and walking down the street.
I wait until she’s halfway down the block before starting the truck's engine, trying to not be obvious as I pull out, as if this isn’t coincidence stacked on coincidence.
Esperr walks fast for someone with little legs, purposefully. She checks her reflection in the dark storefront window as she passes and then pulls her hood tighter around her face before tugging at her sleeves.
I expect her to head for her car, but she doesn't; she turns the corner and starts jogging. Her shoulders hunch against the afternoon air, a sign of exhaustion, like she’s one bad day away from collapsing. She shifts her weight forward, glancing behind her before picking up her pace.
Her running does something ugly to my stomach. Twisting it in knots that crawl up my throat and nearly spilling out of my mouth.
I pull over a block away, putting it into park. I stay close enough that I get a clear view of her but far enough that I don’t look like I’m following the girl. She keeps an easy speed, like she’s done this hundreds of times.
Each time she becomes just out of sight, I pull back onto the road, pass her, and then pull over again.
This is her routine, and she’s too exposed; it’s unpredictable. Anyone paying attention could follow her.
That thought hits hard and sends an ice wave down my spine.
Twenty minutes later she turns left and continues on, only slowing down when a large building comes into view. Her steps even out, and she adjusts her hood like she’s bracing herself.
I ease into a parking spot and kill the engine while watching her in my rearview mirror as she enters the apartment building’s main door.
She made it home, and that should be enough. But the thoughts won’t let go.
She takes runs to work. She lives somewhere people forget to look.
And I sit there longer than I should. My hand rests on the steering wheel, and my jaw tightens as realization wafts through me.
This isn’t about curiosity anymore.