Ronan scrubbed the same countertop for the fourth time. The wood grain gleamed, polished to perfection, but still, his hand moved in tight, agitated circles. His other arm trembled slightly as he wiped the sweat from his brow. The shop had never been this clean—tables straightened, jars realigned with militant precision, even the flickering lantern in the corner had been replaced with a fresh one that cast a steady glow.
But despite his efforts, the gnawing anxiety wouldn't leave.
His muscles ached, a dull throb in his arms, legs, and lower back. Since losing most of his muscle mass, his body had grown soft, unaccustomed to long hours of movement. Now, with each shift of weight, a new sting reminded him just how fragile he had become. He hadn't moved this much in months, maybe years.
And still, none of it was enough to calm him.
His eyes flicked toward the dusty clock above the pantry door.
Almost 11 am.
The time the Knight usually came. Right before the lunch hour rush.
