Rhea checked her phone for the fifth time in two minutes.
8:41 PM.
She exhaled slowly and locked the screen again.
"He's late," she muttered to herself, tapping her nails against the edge of the café table.
The place was half-full, warm with low music and the soft noise of conversations. The kind of evening that pretended the world outside was gentle.
Kai was never late.
He was careless with many things—money, sleep, rules—but never with people. Especially not her.
She told herself not to think too much.
That was becoming her habit lately.
Across the city, Noah was standing in the middle of a narrow street, police tape fluttering weakly in the cold air.
Another body.
Female.
Early thirties.
Same pattern.
Same careful cruelty.
Noah crouched beside the sheet, his jaw tight, eyes hollow with exhaustion. The city lights blurred slightly in his vision.
He was too slow again.
His phone buzzed.
He ignored it.
Rhea was halfway through convincing herself to leave when the café door opened.
Kai walked in.
Like nothing in the world had ever broken.
His hair was slightly damp, jacket unzipped, scarf loose around his neck. His smile appeared the second his eyes found her—easy, familiar, warm.
Relief hit her before anger could.
"You're late," she said, trying to sound annoyed.
He stopped in front of her, breathing just a little heavier than usual.
"Eighteen minutes," she added.
He tilted his head. "You counted?"
She looked away. "Unfortunately."
"Traffic tried to kill me," he said lightly. "Rude, honestly."
She snorted despite herself.
"You could've texted."
"I wanted to see your face when I apologized in person."
He pulled out the chair and sat across from her.
Up close, she noticed small things.
His hands were cold.
Too cold.
And he smelled faintly of soap.
Clean. Sharp. Like he had just washed them.
"You okay?" she asked softly. "You look… tired."
Kai smiled again.
This one was slower.
"Just one of those days."
A server came. Orders were placed. Normal things.
Rhea talked about her lab work. About a cracked microscope lens. About how Noah hadn't slept in two days.
Kai listened like he always did.
Attentive. Warm. Present.
He laughed in the right places.
Touched her wrist once when she complained about the coffee.
It made her heart stutter.
Across the city, Noah stood up slowly, his knees aching.
Another case file.
Another family that would never be whole again.
Another ghost added to the streets.
He closed his eyes briefly.
Then opened them.
And kept going.
Evan lay on the hospital bed, staring at the ceiling.
His chest still hurt from breathing too fast earlier.
From feeling too much.
From knowing someone else had decided to end a life.
Again.
He turned his face toward the window.
The city lights trembled like distant stars.
He whispered, "I'm sorry."
No one heard.
Rhea walked out of the café beside Kai an hour later.
The air was cold.
She wrapped her arms around herself.
Kai noticed immediately.
He took off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders.
"You'll freeze," she protested.
"I regenerate," he said casually.
She laughed, small and real.
"Liar."
"Only about important things."
They stopped near her apartment.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
The city moved around them.
Cars passed.
Footsteps echoed.
Lives continued.
Rhea hesitated.
Then said quietly, "I'm glad you came."
Kai looked at her.
Something unreadable crossed his eyes.
Just for a second.
"I always come," he said.
She smiled.
She believed him.
Elsewhere, in the evening, in a narrow public restroom near an empty subway entrance, a sink dripped.
Once.
Twice.
The mirror was fogged from earlier steam.
A man adjusted his collar.
Checked his face.
Smoothed his hair.
Practiced an easy smile.
Then he turned off the light.
And walked back into the city—
into warmth,
into noise,
into love,
leaving death behind him like a shadow that never spoke.