32 | ☕Anyas Kidnapped and Atlas is About to Lose It! ☕
The morning sunlight poured through the café's front windows, spilling across the worn wooden floors in pools of soft gold.
Each beam of light seemed to stretch lazily, reaching for the counter where pastries were displayed in neat rows, their delicate, buttery scents mingling with the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee.
The air hummed with a quiet energy—customers whispered among themselves, the low murmur of conversation punctuated by the occasional clink of a spoon against porcelain.
A symphony of familiar sounds that always made Kaia feel grounded, like everything was as it should be.
But today, something felt different. The warmth of the sun, usually comforting, seemed to press a little too heavy against her skin. The gentle buzz of the café, usually a soundtrack of solace, felt almost distant, as though it were happening on the other side of a glass wall.
Kaia's gaze drifted toward the back of the café, where Anya was supposed to be.
Every morning, she could count on the sight of Anya's slender figure tucked behind the counter, humming quietly to herself, already working her magic with the coffee machine.
The rhythm of her movements had become a second language to Kaia—predictable, comforting, the heartbeat of the place.
But today, there was nothing. No soft hum, no tapping of fingers against the counter, no sight of her tousled hair or the worn apron she always wore, a little too big for her frame.
A chill settled into Kaia's chest, as if the warmth of the sunlight had all at once been stripped away, leaving only emptiness. Her fingers tightened around the edge of the counter. She blinked, and her breath caught for a moment as she looked again, more urgently this time.
The kitchen door swung open slightly, the hinge creaking softly, but there was no movement.
No sounds of Anya preparing the morning's pastries, no scent of the freshly baked croissants that Anya had perfected.
Kaia's heart began to beat faster, a slight flutter of panic pushing at the edges of her thoughts.
"Anya?" Her voice was tentative at first, barely above a whisper.
She glanced over the café, searching for any sign of her.
She stepped toward the door that led to the kitchen, her feet a little slower than usual, a sense of unease curling in her stomach like a knot being pulled tighter with each passing second.
Her fingers brushed against the cool metal of the door handle, and for a brief second, she hesitated.
"Anya?" The word came again, louder this time, an involuntary crack of worry slipping through.
Her chest tightened, the room seeming to close in just a bit more, until the kitchen door finally opened with a low groan, revealing the empty space beyond.
The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly, casting harsh shadows over the counter and sink, where Anya's favorite cup—bright red with chipped edges—sat untouched, as if waiting for her to return.
But there was no sign of her. No soft shuffle of feet, no quiet laughter, not even the hum of a voice that would have otherwise filled the air.
Silence.
The stillness wrapped itself around Kaia like a thick fog, pressing in on her, stifling the rhythm of the morning.
Her fingers tightened around the phone as she stared at the screen, the dial tone echoing in her ear.
Each ring felt like an eternity, dragging on longer than it should have, as if the universe were conspiring to delay the moment she feared.
The phone clicked through to voicemail, and Kaia's heart skipped a beat. She tried again. Her finger jabbed at the screen, the urgency in her movements betraying the growing knot in her stomach. Another round of empty, hollow rings, then silence.
Her thumb hovered over the screen, trembling slightly. A third attempt. Nothing. The voicemail picked up once more, cold and impersonal.
Anya never ignored calls. Not once. Even when things were rough, she always picked up. Always.
A cold dread began to settle in her gut, heavy and thick, sinking deeper with each passing second.
She shoved the phone back into her pocket, the weight of the silence almost suffocating.
Without thinking, she grabbed her jacket, yanked open the door to the café, and hurried outside, her footsteps quick and purposeful.
The wind bit at her face as she moved through the streets, but she barely noticed, her mind locked on one single destination: Anya's apartment.
When Kaia arrived, the familiar building loomed ahead, its fa?ade unchanged, its windows the same dull grey they'd always been. But something felt different now, something more immediate, more pressing. Her feet felt heavy with the sense that she was walking into something she couldn't take back.
She stood at the entrance for a moment, staring at the front door.
Something about it made her stomach twist in a way that had nothing to do with the chilly air.
The door—slightly ajar—was the first crack in the armour of normalcy she'd clung to.
Anya was always meticulous, careful. Locking up had never been an afterthought for her.
Kaia's hand hovered over the door handle, trembling just enough to make her question whether this was real or just her mind spiralling out of control.
She swallowed hard, steeling herself, then pushed the door open with a creak that echoed down the hallway, too loud in the oppressive silence that clung to the air.
"Anya?" The word left her lips like a fragile whisper, smaller than it had any right to be, as though speaking it too loudly would break the fragile thread that still held her in place.
Her voice seemed to hang in the air for an eternity, stretching out longer than it should have. The silence that answered her was deafening.
The door swung wider, revealing the dim, quiet interior of the apartment.
Everything looked... normal. Too normal.
Her eyes scanned the room, searching for any sign of movement, of Anya—her jacket tossed over the back of the couch, a mug half-filled with cold coffee resting on the coffee table. But there was no sign of her.
Kaia stepped farther inside, her heart racing as she scanned every corner, every surface, hoping for something—anything—that would explain the hollow emptiness that had settled around her like a dark cloud.
But there was nothing. No shoes kicked off carelessly by the door.
No jacket thrown over a chair. Not even a forgotten cup on the counter.
It was as if Anya had simply vanished, leaving behind only traces of her existence—things she had touched, places she had been—but no sign of where she had gone or why.
Her fingers were cold as she reached for her phone, her hands trembling just enough to make the screen blur for a moment. She didn't hesitate. She knew who she needed to call, who would understand the weight of this the way she did.
Atlas.
She pressed the video call button, watching the screen for the slightest flicker of connection.
The moment the call was answered, his face appeared, his deep brown eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that told her he was already expecting something serious.
His face was unreadable, but his body language spoke volumes: tense shoulders, a slight furrow in his brow, the way his hands stayed motionless in the frame, waiting.
Her throat tightened as she tried to speak, but the words came out in a cracked whisper. "Atlas, it's Anya... she's missing."
His hands moved into view, swift and decisive. "Where are you?"
"At her apartment and there's nothing here. It's like she just... disappeared."
"I'm on my way. Don't move."
Atlas arrived just minutes later, his presence filling the apartment with an energy that was both calming and unnerving at the same time.
His usual calm, composed mask—so carefully crafted, so effortlessly worn—was nowhere to be found.
His sharp eyes flicked over every corner, every inch of the room, assessing, calculating, piecing things together with a speed that made Kaia feel like she was standing still.
Kaia's heart squeezed in her chest, her thoughts a storm of panic. She swallowed hard, forcing her voice to stay steady. "How do you know?"
Atlas's sharp eyes shifted to her then, his expression tight with something dark, something she couldn't quite read. His jaw was clenched, his shoulders tense, and in the way he looked at her, there was an undercurrent of something much deeper than simple concern.
The words hit Kaia like a cold slap. A lump formed in her throat, and for a moment, she couldn't breathe.
She had always known Anya to be fiercely independent, but the thought that her best friend would leave without a word, without a trace, seemed impossible.
Anya was nothing if not reliable, grounded.
This had to be connected.
Atlas's stomach churned. His face tightened, and for the briefest moment, Kaia saw something raw in his eyes—guilt.
Regret. This is my fault, he thought, the words forming silently in his mind.
He should have been more careful. He should have made sure Anya was safe, even if it meant pushing her further, warning her more forcefully about the danger lurking just out of sight.
Kaia's voice pulled him back to the present. "Atlas?" she called softly, but he barely registered it. His mind was already ten steps ahead, forming a plan, drafting a list of people who owed him favours, people who could find Anya faster than the police ever could.
But then something caught his eye, something that made his stomach drop and his thoughts freeze.
Anya's phone.
It was lying on the floor in the far corner of the room, half-hidden behind the couch, as though it had been tossed aside carelessly.
But it wasn't the placement that made Atlas's pulse quicken—it was the condition of the phone itself.
The screen was shattered, broken into jagged shards, like someone had deliberately destroyed it, as though sending a message.