Devin tied his apron tighter behind his back, his heart hammering a frantic, confused rhythm against his ribs. He stepped back out to the front of the house, preparing the counters for the morning rush.
The hours began to bleed heavily into one another.
Devin ran the floor entirely alone. He brewed the bitter beans, wiped down the sticky tables, smiled falsely at the rushing patrons, and waited. The physical toll of doing a two-person job was exhausting, but it was absolutely nothing compared to the psychological torture of the wait.
"Just a black brew today, Zain," an older merchant requested, dropping two copper coins on the counter. The man looked around the bustling room, frowning. "Where's the smiling one today? You look like you're drowning back there."
Devin didn't miss a beat. He smoothly deployed the mask.
"She didn't come by this morning," Devin replied, allowing a perfect hint of concern to leak into his tone. He handed the merchant his steaming mug. "I hope she's not sick."
"Ah, the changing seasons," the merchant nodded sympathetically. "Tell her to get well soon."
Devin nodded, turning away to wipe a counter that was already clean.
He waited for Dunkan to pop his head through the small serving hatch. He waited for the chef to notice the missing canvas apron hanging completely untouched on the back hook. He waited for Dunkan to ask where their vibrant, talkative third member was.
But the entire day went by.
The chaotic morning rush slowly faded into a lazy, sun-drenched afternoon, which eventually bled into the loud, demanding evening dinner crowd.
Not a single question about Emerald came from the kitchen.
Devin was completely, utterly confused by the sheer lack of questioning. The silence emanating from the kitchen was deafening. It felt heavier and far more dangerous than any direct accusation. Devin had already drafted everything he could possibly say. He had every micro-expression perfectly calculated to feign innocent, completely oblivious worry.
But the stage remained entirely empty.
Dunkan just kept cooking. He slid hot plates of food through the wooden hatch with his usual, stoic indifference, ringing the small silver bell to signal an order was ready.
Ding. Ding.
The work day finally finished in an absolute flash. It was a blur of mundane repetition masking Devin's spiraling internal paranoia. The sun dipped completely below the horizon, casting long, bruised purple shadows across the empty cafe floor.
The last patron had left, leaving behind a few silver coins on a table.
Devin flipped the wooden sign to 'Closed', threw the heavy iron lock on the front door, and began wiping down the final table near the front window.
He was finally done. He walked behind the counter, untied his apron, and tossed it into the laundry bin. He shrugged his worn, heavy coat over his broad shoulders, preparing to step out into the cool, forgiving night air.
Then, a voice cut cleanly through the dim, quiet room.
"Zain."
Devin froze. The coarse fabric of his coat slipped slightly from his grasp.
Dunkan had called him back.
Devin slowly turned his head. Dunkan had stepped entirely out of the kitchen. He was standing in the doorway, slowly wiping his massive, calloused hands on a stained, white kitchen towel.
This was the very first time Devin had ever seen the man do anything besides offer a simple grunt, or say anything besides his customary 'good morning' and 'see you tomorrow'.
His voice wasn't loud. But it possessed a heavy, gravelly weight that seemed to instantly suck all the oxygen out of the room.
Devin slowly turned around to fully face him.
Dunkan's eyes, usually dull and singularly focused on his culinary tasks, were now piercing. They were entirely stripped of their lazy indifference. They were locked onto Devin with a terrifying, absolute knowing.
"You killed her, didn't you."
It wasn't a question. It was a statement of undeniable, horrific fact. It was cold, heavy, and brutally final.
Devin's breath caught painfully in his throat. The meticulously rehearsed script he had prepared, the lies he had recited a hundred times in his head, vanished entirely from his mind. They were burned away by the sheer, imposing intensity of the chef's gaze.
Devin couldn't move. He couldn't speak.
"I... I don't know what you're talking about, Dunkan," Devin finally stammered, his voice sounding weak and pathetic. "Emerald is just sick. She—"
"Don't," Dunkan interrupted, his tone laced with absolute authority.
He took a slow, deliberate step forward, casually tossing the blood-stained towel onto the wooden counter. The dim shadows of the closed cafe seemed to actively cling to his tall, imposing frame.
"It didn't take you long," Dunkan continued, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register that made the hair on Devin's arms stand up. "You didn't even try to resist."
The world violently tilted on its axis. The blood roaring in Devin's ears sounded like a crashing, violent ocean.
What did he mean? Resist?
The horrific implications of those words slammed into Devin like a physical blow to the stomach, fracturing his already fragile grip on reality.
Had he—had the monstrous entity known as Zain Ricky—done this before? Was this a documented, recognizable pattern? And if it was, how in the name of a cruel God would Dunkan, a seemingly average, quiet chef working in a mundane sub-human cafe, know if he had?
Devin took a step back, his muscles coiling, the Cyprian venom demanding release.
Who exactly is the man standing in front of me?