Morning crept in softly, ushered by a delicate kiss from Fleurine's lips upon Zeice's forehead.
"You are already awake?" Zeice's voice, low and edged with warmth, broke the silence that lingered after the night's intimacy, an intimacy that had bound them together until the first blush of dawn.
Fleurine smiled, an expression so sweet, it might have softened even the hardest of hearts.
Her gaze, steady and knowing, rested on his face, "It is today, is it not?"
Zeice inclined his head, his body still at rest, though his eyes gleamed with fierce determination.
"Aye. Today, the word mafias shall tremble," he declared, his voice bearing the weight of a promise long kept.
Her eyes, blue as the endless sea, searched his, which burned a striking green, the hue of aged leaves clinging to their final breath.
In those eyes, Fleurine saw more than resolve.
She saw the heavy burden of two years spent wrestling against unseen chains.
"I have prepared the water," she said softly, yet with unwavering conviction. "Cleanse yourself and go. Fight for those like you, the rebels who refuse to bow to their tyranny. And, Zeice… destroy them. Leave nothing of their shadow behind."
Her words, like a balm against his weary soul, seeped into the marrow of his being.
They were not mere encouragement. They were a command, one that reignited the fire smouldering deep within him.
A fire that would not cease, not until the word mafias lay in ruin.
Zeice's lips curved into a smile, one touched with both affection and irony, before a quiet laugh escaped him.
"Do you not fear losing yourself, Fleurine?" he asked, his voice a shade softer. "Living with someone like me, a breaker of words, will strip you of any hope for an ordinary life."
Fleurine laughed, her radiant beauty blooming like the first blush of spring.
"Better to be with you, full of mysteries, full of meaning, and… even if it drives me mad, at least now, I can weave words together without needing to see, hear, or ask anyone," she replied, her voice light with mischief.
Zeice shook his head in mock disapproval, "I would advise you," he began, his tone wry. "When your exams come, do not frame your answers in the form of economic-linguistic literature."
"It will only confuse your beloved professor and, frankly, it will be a nuisance to us poor literature students."
Fleurine's laughter rang louder, richer, a sound as bright as the morning light, "Just say… you do not want to help," she teased, the corners of her mouth curling into a playful smirk.
And so, they stood there, their smiles wide and unguarded, locked in a battle of words.
The words wrapped in the delicate art of poetry and prose, as if their very souls danced within the syllables they exchanged.
*****
Ring... Ring...
Zeice retrieved his mobile phone from the small table beside his laptop as the delicate chime of an incoming call stirred the quiet room.
With a swift motion, he pressed 'answer,' and a familiar, low voice resonated through the speaker.
"Drost Café. Four o'clock. As usual," the voice declared before the line went dead, leaving no room for questions.
A faint smile curved Zeice's lips as he murmured to himself, "Rodney," his emerald eyes gleaming with a fierce, unyielding resolve.
"That man again?" Fleurine's voice broke the silence, tinged with both curiosity and a trace of concern.
Zeice turned to her, offering a slight nod. His voice, steady and composed, carried a weight beneath its calm exterior.
"I may be late tonight."
Without hesitation, Fleurine met his gaze, her words a soft but unwavering command, "Go. Fight for it all."
As he made his way to the door, Zeice lifted a hand in a parting gesture, "Barbecue… have it ready when I return," he said, his tone light, though the storm in his chest remained.
A smile tugged at Fleurine's lips, "As much as you like," she replied, her voice warm and full of quiet affection.
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving only his absence, a hollow space that seemed to echo with all he had left unsaid.
Fleurine stood in the stillness, her heart swelling with a joy that both comforted and ached.
'I long for the day when I may stand beside him, no longer as a shadow, but as his own. I do not know when that day will come, whether it lingers in some distant future or waits just beyond the next breath… but I will hope for it. I will wait.'
Morning had already loosened its grasp on the sky, yielding to the boldness of the afternoon, a golden empire stretched across the heavens.
Yet, as the sun began its slow descent and its fierce warmth softened against the earth, the evening swept in, draped in silver rain.
Gentle droplets fell upon the streets of Zonner City, washing away the dust of the day and whispering promises of new beginnings to those who dared to dream.
*****
(Drost Café, 4 pm, as it should be...)
"You've returned…," Daniella's voice was soft, almost a whisper, though her eyes gleamed with a quiet, lingering hope.
A woman ensnared by love's delicate threads, bound by an affection unspoken, yet undeniable.
And the object of her silent longing stood before her now. Zeice.
He smiled faintly, a gesture neither cold nor warm, and with a brief nod, he answered, "Table seven. As always."
"And this time…?" Her words hung in the air, curiosity lacing their edges.
"The same as before." His voice, smooth yet elusive, left little to grasp. "And perhaps… there will be new stories. New characters."
Daniella lingered for a breath longer, allowing herself a moment to decipher the enigma of his words.
But she knew better than to press him. There were things Zeice only revealed when he chose to, if he chose to.
With a quiet grace, she turned away, moving towards table seven.
Inwardly, she wondered if he would ever understand, if he could ever see, how effortlessly her heart bent towards him.
"It's ready," she said softly upon her return, as though the table itself were a sacred space reserved for him alone.
With a subtle gesture, she signalled her colleagues to prepare the usual.
"Two cups," Zeice murmured. "And perhaps two or three more… for those yet to come."
A smile curved Daniella's lips, bittersweet, like a melody half-remembered, "I've always admired that about you," she confessed. "You speak so little, yet your words carry more weight than most ever dare."
For a moment, Zeice closed his eyes, breathing in the stillness before stepping fully into his domain, the unspoken world of table seven.
Beyond the café's warm glow, the rain had begun its descent, a soft, persistent curtain falling over the city.
It was not the fierce storm of passion, but a gentler sorrow, seeping into cobblestones and hearts alike.
He sat in silence, his fingers resting idly against the rim of his untouched coffee.
The cup, black and smooth, reflected the dim light, much like the thoughts stirring behind his steady gaze.
At the window, the rain wove its own quiet poetry, drops sliding and merging, tracing ephemeral lines against the glass.
It seemed, in that fleeting dance, as though the world itself longed to tell a story, one that only he could hear.
*****
Rodney arrived at last, stepping through the door with an air of quiet resolve.
His face, though marked by weariness, held a determination that no fatigue could diminish.
Each stride he took was deliberate, as though no force in the world could deter him from his purpose.
Trailing a pace behind was Nicko Palmer, a man of six-and-twenty.
His appearance was immaculate, every thread in place, yet there was something frayed beneath the surface.
An invisible fracture, as if the weight of the world's uncertainties pressed too heavily upon him.
Beside them walked Zeanna Daren, a young woman of one-and-twenty.
Her dark brown hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders, framing a face both sharp and delicate.
There was a certain warmth in her eyes, faint and well-hidden, veiled beneath shadows of sorrow long endured.
Zeice lifted his gaze as they approached, a faint smile brushing his lips, an expression too subtle to be called a greeting, yet too knowing to be indifference.
He spoke no words. None were needed. A brief nod sufficed, an unspoken signal that what had been set in motion could no longer be undone.
This meeting had been inevitable. A gathering forged not by idle chance, but by a shared resolve to give voice to those who had been silenced.
Rodney lowered himself into the seat beside Zeice, his posture as steady as his gaze.
Without speaking, he conveyed a message clear enough. 'We are ready.'
Nicko and Zeanna claimed the seats opposite, exchanging a glance weighted with all that remained unspoken.
They knew why they had come. Each of them carried a truth the world had tried to bury.
"I have gathered the names," Rodney began, his voice calm and measured, though beneath its quiet surface burned a fire that would not be quenched.
"The names of those whose words were stolen, whose voices were taken from them. Just as we agreed."
He let the words settle before he continued, "This is not merely for us. It is for those who cannot speak for themselves."
Zeice inclined his head in silent acknowledgement.
There was no need to ask for proof, he trusted Rodney's word more than any parchment.
"And they will speak," Rodney pressed on, his voice steady and sure. "We shall give them the chance. And the world will listen."
For a moment, the only sound was the muted drumming of rain against the windowpanes. Then, at last, Nicko spoke.
His voice was rough, worn at the edges, but there was no mistaking the weight it carried.
"I know what it means," he said quietly, "to have your words stolen. To pour your soul onto a page, only to see it claimed by another's hand."
A shadow flickered across his face as he exhaled, a breath heavy with all he had borne in silence.
"For too long, I have lived as if my voice no longer belonged to me. But no longer. Today, we reclaim what is ours."
His words hung in the air, heavy and unyielding.
Zeanna's voice followed, a softer sound, though no less resolute, "Plagiarism," she said, "is not merely the theft of words. It is the theft of identity."
Her eyes, though warm, held an unflinching sharpness as she spoke, "We are not merely writers. We are human beings whose very essence has been stolen. And it is time to take it back."
A quiet stretched between them then, not empty, but charged with the weight of something unspoken.
A promise, perhaps, or a warning to the unseen forces they opposed.
Zeice listened, unmoving. His expression gave little away, yet the glint in his eyes suggested that every word had taken root.
The storm they had held back for so long was gathering, an inevitability they no longer sought to escape.
Zeanna lifted her chin, a trace of light breaking through the sorrow shadowing her features.
"The names Rodney gathered," she continued, "are more than mere signatures. They are the echoes of a thousand silenced voices. And together, we shall make certain the world hears them."
A flicker of something, approval, perhaps, touched Zeice's lips, "Do not worry," he murmured, his voice a thread of silk against the rain's constant whisper.
"We will not merely speak." His eyes darkened, his tone deepening with quiet resolve.
"We will fight with everything we possess. And those who thought to silence us… they will hear us. Every word that was stolen shall return to its rightful place."
For a moment, none of them spoke. And yet, in the stillness, the weight of their cause was felt, an unyielding force, ready to rise.
Rodney, ever the first to break silence, lifted his cup, "To all that was stolen," he declared. "And to those whose voices have been taken."
Without hesitation, Nicko and Zeanna followed suit.
Zeice's hand moved more slowly, but his gesture held no less conviction.
"To us all," he said quietly, the words lingering in the air, low, deliberate, and unshakable.
Beyond the window, the rain fell unceasingly, each drop a reminder that even the most relentless storm begins with a single tremor in the clouds.
And there, beneath the grey weight of the heavens, four souls sat together, not merely bound by words, but by the truth they would no longer allow the world to ignore.
For in that quiet café, amidst the sound of falling rain, a battle had begun.
One not fought with swords or fury, but with voices that refused to be silenced.