36 | ☕ Water They Doing? ☕
It felt like a return to an old memory on Anya's first day back at the café—familiar but a little out of reach.
The aroma of warm pastries and freshly brewed coffee enveloped her like a long-lost hug as soon as she stepped through the door.
The steady hiss of the espresso machine, the occasional clatter of ceramic cups, and the gentle murmur of conversations should have been calming.
But something else was below it all. A silent strain.
As soon as she entered, she could feel the weight of worried, inquisitive eyes.
With cautious relief in their eyes, the regulars, who had once been an inconspicuous part of her daily existence, snuck looks at her.
Nobody hurried over to her. Nobody barraged her with desperate inquiries or hushed rumours.
Rather, there was an implicit understanding that permeated the air like the aroma of cocoa and caramel.
Today was about letting Anya find her place in the present.
Still, as she made her way behind the counter, brushing her fingers over the cool, polished surface, she felt the ghost of hesitation lingering in her limbs.
Could she really do this? Be normal again?
The bruises had faded, but the scars—both the ones on her skin and the ones buried deep within—felt as raw as ever.
She inhaled deeply, forcing herself to push forward. The café had always been her safe space. If she was going to rebuild herself, this was the place to start.
Atlas had supported her during every difficult time, his silent presence keeping her rooted when she thought she may lose her way. And now he had made sure to create the conditions for her to come back, even as he allowed her the room she needed to move forward independently.
Prior to today, he had communicated with Kaia and the other café employees, signing his phrases with smooth, purposeful hand movements.
"She has experienced a great deal. Give her a chance to breathe. There is no pressure."
He had maintained a steady look and a composed yet uncompromising attitude.
They were all aware that Atlas wasn't the kind to make lenient demands, but he left little room for debate when it came to Anya.
He was making sure they understood, not asking.
A soft voice pulled her from her thoughts.
"You good?"
Kaia stood beside her, her expression open and warm, but without a trace of pity. That was what Anya loved about her—Kaia never looked at her like she was broken.
Anya met her gaze, forcing herself to breathe past the tightness in her chest. And then, slowly, she nodded. "Yeah," she said, her voice quiet but steady. "I think I am."
Kaia didn't press her. She didn't offer a reassuring squeeze of the hand or any words meant to soothe.
Instead, she simply turned back to the espresso machine, seamlessly slipping into the rhythm of her work—taking orders, frothing milk, scribbling names onto cups.
It was ordinary, effortless. And in that, it was exactly what Anya needed.
Anya took a tentative step forward and gulped, breathing in the aroma of freshly prepared coffee.
Like she was getting to know an old friend again, her fingers skimmed over the cool metal of the register and the smooth wood of the counter.
Beneath weeks of dread and recuperation, the muscle memory was there, just waiting to be reactivated.
The rhythmic swipes of the cloth against the countertop were almost meditative, her thoughts drifting, but not spiralling. Just... settling.
Then she heard it. A shift in the air. The soft but deliberate sound of footsteps behind her.
She turned, instinctively tightening her grip on the cloth in her hand, but the tension melted the moment she saw him.
Atlas stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his hands in his pockets. He hadn't made a sound, but she knew he had been there for a while, watching. Not in the overbearing way most people did when they worried about her, but in his own quiet way—just making sure she was okay.
His gaze met hers, steady and warm, and a silent conversation passed between them. He didn't sign anything. He didn't need to.
Anya swallowed, glancing at the clock before turning back to him. "You didn't have to wait."
Atlas tilted his head slightly, as if to say, You know that's not true.
A small smile ghosted her lips. Of course, he'd wait. That was just who he was.
She set the cloth down and took a step closer. "It was a good day," she admitted softly. "Better than I expected."
As the weeks passed, Anya began to feel more like herself again.
The constant hum of the café became a comforting rhythm in her daily life, a gentle distraction from the chaos that once dominated her thoughts.
There were still moments—small, fleeting—that brought the pain back to the surface, but they were less frequent.
Being here, in the familiar warmth of the café, surrounded by the comforting routine of making coffee and serving pastries, was slowly but surely helping her heal.
She found herself laughing again, even if it was just a soft chuckle at the antics of Kaia or a quick, light-hearted comment from one of the regulars. The laughter didn't come easily, but it came, and for now, that was enough.
But healing wasn't without its challenges.
Anya was still adjusting to the presence of Atlas's men, though she knew it was for her own safety.
Every now and then, she'd catch a glimpse of them lingering outside the café, blending into the background, their eyes always scanning the room with an air of subtle intensity.
They were careful not to make their presence known, but she could always sense their watchful gaze.
It wasn't that Anya minded their protection—she understood why it was necessary, and deep down, she knew she was safer with them around. It was just... unnerving, sometimes, when they stepped in a little too quickly.
There were times when a new customer—perhaps an overly friendly one or someone who hadn't yet learned the rules of the café—would venture a little too close.
A hand would rest a little too casually on the counter, or a smile would linger just a beat too long.
Anya would feel her heart rate spike, that familiar knot of unease tightening in her chest, and then, almost as if on cue, one of Atlas's men would appear at the door, eyes scanning, body rigid, alert.
The men weren't overt in their actions, but their presence was undeniable.
Their timing was impeccable, and while it might seem subtle to others, Anya always caught it—always noticed how the newcomer's hand would quickly retract, how their gaze would dart away the moment one of Atlas's men approached.
They didn't say anything, but their eyes spoke volumes.
As the days passed, Atlas and Kieran remained focused on one singular goal: finding Clara and Dante.
The mystery of how Clara—after all the devastation she had caused—had managed to evade Atlas's efforts to destroy her, lingered heavily on both their minds.
Atlas had burned every bridge, dismantled every connection, left her with nothing.
He had assumed that would be the end of her.
Kieran, ever the tech genius, had become a crucial part of their search.
With his company, CipherNet, Kieran had access to some of the most intricate and secure systems in the city—and beyond.
If there were any traces of Clara's movements, any signs that she was still out there, Kieran would find them.
The first breakthrough came when Kieran discovered something buried deep in the encrypted files on Clara's old phone.
It was a long shot, but Kieran never did anything halfway.
Sitting in his sleek office, fingers tapping rhythmically on the edge of his desk, Kieran analyzed every bit of information that he could extract from the wreckage of the phone's data.
"Looks like someone's been careful," Kieran muttered, squinting at his multiple screens, "but even the most careful can't hide everything."
Atlas stood behind him, arms crossed, his gaze unflinching as he watched Kieran work. "Where is she?"
Kieran didn't answer immediately, absorbed in his analysis.
There were fragments of data—hidden messages, traces of calls, encrypted transfers—but they were all useless without context.
Clara was always three steps ahead, and this time, it seemed like she had planned for every eventuality. But Kieran was relentless.
"It's not her, but..." Kieran's voice was quiet, measured, as though calculating the gravity of what he'd just found. His finger traced the coordinates that appeared on the screen, the numbers flickering as if reluctant to give up their secrets. "These lead to an abandoned circus."
Atlas's mind raced. The words didn't seem to make sense at first.
An abandoned circus? A place like that didn't fit into the carefully orchestrated plan Clara had always seemed to have.
She was cold, calculating—a woman who thrived in the shadows, not in a decaying relic of the past, surrounded by forgotten clowns and withered tents.
Kieran continued, his voice lower now, "I'm not saying it's her, but there's something about this location that... doesn't sit right. It's secluded, off the beaten path, and the land's been untouched for years. Whoever's involved here—well, they're hiding something."
Atlas's heart pounded in his chest. He wasn't sure why, but his instincts screamed at him that this was the key. Clara had always been unpredictable, but there was something about this location—a twisted sense of nostalgia, maybe. It didn't matter. All he knew was that she was close. Very close.
Kieran didn't look up from his screen but gestured toward the map.
"This isn't just some random spot. It's not a common place for anyone to go. There's history here—old circus performers, underground dealings, shady people who've made a name for themselves by staying out of sight. It's a place of secrets, Atlas."
A frown tugged at the corners of Atlas's mouth.
He could already see it in his mind—the crumbling tents, the rusted skeletons of carnival rides, the eerie echoes of laughter long gone.