A black Audi glided through the glistening streets of London's business district, sleek as ink under the misty rain.
The city outside blurred into reflections of steel, glass, and wet pavement — a palette of gray and silver that suited the man inside perfectly.
He sat in the back seat, absorbed in the tablet resting against his crossed knee.
The interior was quiet, save for the faint hum of the engine and the rhythmic tap of his index finger against the armrest — steady, controlled, deliberate. The car's tinted windows muted the world, enclosing him in a cocoon of calm precision.
His eyes — steel-gray — scanned through a dense report of figures, graphs, and projections.
The numbers made sense.
They always did.
People didn't.
The phone on the seat beside him vibrated. He picked it up without glancing at the screen.
"Yes."
His tone was low, clipped. It wasn't quite unfriendly, simply final.
A voice crackled on the other end, brisk and businesslike.
"I'm looking through the plans now," he said, scrolling through the next page. "No, it's not a complete disaster — just poorly executed."
He paused, the faintest sigh escaping his nose.
"Yes, I'm heading toward the location now. There's no need to bother — just come through. I'll handle the rest."
Without waiting for a response, he ended the call, the screen flashing briefly before going dark. He placed the phone beside him and returned to the tablet.
Outside, the rain thickened into a drizzle.
Inside, he adjusted the cuff of his shirt, glancing briefly at his wristwatch — 8:42 a.m.
He liked arriving before everyone else; the silence of an untouched workspace was one of the few pleasures left in his line of work.
The car began to slow.
Then, without warning, it stuttered — a mechanical cough, a reluctant groan — before halting completely by the side of the road.
The man's gaze lifted from the tablet, calm but edged with disapproval.
He turned slightly toward the front seat.
The driver looked mortified.
"I—I apologize, sir." The driver's voice trembled slightly, his fingers fluttering over the dashboard controls. "It appears I… may have taken the wrong vehicle this morning."
The man raised an eyebrow, his tone still quiet. "The wrong vehicle?"
The driver swallowed audibly. "Yes, sir. This one was due for servicing. The other had just been washed and refueled. I must have mixed them up in the garage."
For a moment, he said nothing. Silence pressed into the space between them like the weight of an unspoken reprimand.
He looked down at his watch again — 8:45 now. The faintest furrow appeared between his brows, gone almost as soon as it came.
"How long?"
"A replacement will be here in ten minutes, sir. Fifteen if there's traffic." the driver was already typing furiously on the car's digital screen, requesting assistance through the company system. "I'm terribly sorry, sir. It won't happen again—"
The man lifted a hand, stopping him mid-sentence. "Apologies won't change the minutes, Bernard."
"No, sir. Of course not."
Bernard's grip tightened around the steering wheel, waiting for the inevitable dressing down.
But it didn't come.
Instead, the man leaned back slightly, glancing out the tinted window.
The city blurred past in streaks of gray and cream.
And there — across the street — stood a small café, tucked neatly beneath a photography studio.
It wasn't busy.
In fact, it looked almost empty. The lights were warm, golden, a soft contrast against the current slate sky.
He looked at it quietly in thought as if considering his options.
Sit in a cramped car with a nervous driver and stew in irritation for ten minutes… or step outside, breathe, and perhaps find a cup of coffee decent enough to redeem the morning.
He made his decision.
"I'll be at that café," he said, slipping his tablet into his briefcase. "If the need arises — which I doubt — come and get me."
Bernard's head whipped around, eyes wide. "Sir, you can't possibly mean— it's raining, and that area— it's hardly secure."
He gave him a dry look, one brow arched. "It's a café, Bernard. Not a war zone."
"But sir, it's not safe to—"
"Do what you must," He interrupted mildly, reaching for the door handle. "And stop worrying about the unnecessary."
Before Bernard could object again, He stepped out of the car. The soft drizzle met him instantly, cool and clean, dropping and bouncing over the shoulders of his charcoal overcoat.
The air outside was sharper, the sound of rain louder.
He stood there a moment, surveying the street — the sheen of wet asphalt, the hiss of tires in the distance, the muted bustle of a city still waking up.
A car drove past.
Then his gaze returned to the café's warm windows, where the faint outline of a woman moved behind the counter.
He started toward Haven Brew.