The apartment had slipped back into routine with unsettling ease.
The kettle clicked off. The sink filled and emptied. The radiator complained at night like it always had. Outside, the city continued—oblivious, indifferent—as though nothing had torn through it days earlier, as though blood had never darkened concrete or the sky burned red.
Yan Qing was still waiting on the email telling him he could return to on-site work.
Chen claimed the kitchen table, dismantling and reassembling human appliances with unnecessary precision. They talked about groceries. About whether the coffee grinder was salvageable. They did not talk about the laboratory.
It felt normal.
That was what bothered Yan Qing most.
On the third morning, he stopped by the café near his building—the narrow one with fogged windows and an espresso machine that screamed like it was dying. He was half-awake, thinking of nothing more consequential than whether he should switch to decaf.
He ordered on autopilot, turned—
—and collided with someone.
Coffee spilled.
“Shit—sorry, I—”
The woman didn’t move.
She was tall—noticeably so—dressed in a long, pale gown that did not belong to the neighborhood. The coffee soaked into the fabric without drawing so much as a flinch.
“It’s all right,” she said.
Her voice was calm. Pleasant. Carefully neutral.
“I can—get napkins, or—” Yan Qing gestured uselessly at the counter.
She shook her head once. A faint smile, indulgent rather than warm.
“No need.”
She took a seat by the window. Set her cup down untouched. Folded her hands.
Yan Qing retreated to his usual table, unsettled in a way he couldn’t name.
He felt her attention before he saw it.
Not staring. Not quite.
Watching.
When Chen entered a short while later—rain still clinging to his coat—Yan Qing lifted his cup in greeting.
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Chen smiled.
It was small. Real.
Yan Qing felt himself relax before he noticed he’d been tense at all.
Across the room, the woman straightened.
Not abruptly. Precisely.
Chen saw her then.
He paused.
The smile remained—but something about it shifted, smoothed into place. He crossed the café toward Yan Qing anyway, took the seat opposite him.
“You didn’t wait for me to fix the coffee machine,” Chen said mildly, as if stating a logistical oversight rather than a grievance.
Chen had broken Yan Qing’s coffee machine that morning during one of his curious probings.
“I needed coffee now,” Yan Qing replied.
Chen huffed quietly. A sound that suggested disagreement, not apology.
The woman stood.
She approached without haste, her steps soundless against the tile. Chen noticed her before she spoke—his attention shifting a fraction, the way a predator adjusts to a change in airflow.
“Good morning,” she said.
Yan Qing looked up.
Up close, she was striking in a way that resisted categorization—beautiful, but not inviting it. Straight blond hair fell perfectly smooth, a blunt fringe casting shadow over pale eyes that missed nothing. Her long dress was unfamiliar in cut and fabric, elegant without ornament, as though designed for a different gravity.
“Good morning,” Yan Qing said automatically.
Her gaze lingered on him. Not appraising. Not leering.
Evaluating.
“You live nearby?” she asked.
“Yes. A few blocks, and sorry about before,” Yan Qing replied, half confused about the woman’s sudden approach.
“Don’t be silly, it was just an accident.”
The word landed oddly precise, as if chosen for reasons Yan Qing couldn’t quite name.
She smiled then, lighter. Almost playful. The shift felt deliberate.
“You look like someone who thinks too much,” she said. “That’s usually dangerous before noon.”
Yan Qing let out a small, uncertain laugh. “Occupational hazard.”
Chen shifted.
The chair creaked—just enough to break the rhythm.
“That’s enough,” he said.
The woman’s attention slid to him at once.
“So,” she said, faint amusement threading her voice, “you’ve decided to stop pretending you don’t know me.”
Chen met her gaze.
His smile was present—perfectly shaped, polite in every visible way.
It did not reach his eyes.
“I’m asking you,” he said calmly, “not to do it here.”
Her gaze flicked back to Yan Qing, lingering a beat longer this time. Curious. Measuring.
“I was only making conversation,” she replied. “Humans value that.”
“You don’t,” Chen said.
The smile she gave him then was soft, almost fond.
“No,” she agreed. “I don’t.”
She stepped back, granting space without conceding ground, and inclined her head toward Yan Qing.
“Forgive my intrusion,” she said pleasantly.
Yan Qing nodded, still trying to place the unease crawling up his spine. “Uh. Sure.”
She turned to leave.
At the door, she paused.
“Chen,” she added lightly, without looking back.
“We need to talk.”
The café seemed to exhale after she was gone.
Yan Qing stared at Chen. “Who was that?”
Chen watched the door a moment longer than necessary.
Then he reached for Yan Qing’s coffee and slid it back toward him, reclaiming the mundane with careful intent.
“My mentor,” he said.
Yan Qing frowned. “She was… intense.”
Chen’s smile shifted.
This one was genuine.
“He always is.”
“Oh.”
Chen didn’t sit back down.
“I’ll be a moment,” he said.
Yan Qing watched him follow her out.
He waited.
Finished his coffee. Let it go cold. Checked his phone. Didn’t check the window.
When Chen returned, he was alone.
He washed his hands at the café sink. Twice.
They walked home in silence.
At the apartment, Chen removed his coat and folded it with care. He did not sit. Did not touch anything.
Yan Qing leaned against the counter, watching him.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
“Yes,” Chen said.
It wasn’t a lie.
It also wasn’t an answer.
Chen reached for the kettle.
His hand hovered for a fraction of a second—then settled.
Life resumed.
Almost.
