Location: A quiet café near the corner of East Holling and 5th. Time: 6:47 PM. Rain just beginning to fall.

The bell above the café door gave a soft chime.

He stepped inside — tall, composed, with a coat dark enough to bleed into the rain outside. He paused only once, long enough to scan the room with quiet calculation, then walked directly toward the table near the window.

No wasted movement. No hesitation.

His steps made no sound on the tile.

He reached the table and pulled out the chair across from her. With smooth, deliberate motion, he sat down, removed one leather glove, and extended his hand across the table.

“Caelum Vale,” he said, his voice low and calm. “Pleasure to meet you.”

His handshake was firm — not aggressive, not limp. Just measured.

There was no sign, no flicker in his expression, to betray what he truly was beneath the surface. No one in the café knew that the man sitting across from her — the man with clean hands and tailored sleeves — had murdered a man two nights ago and removed the body like it was never there.

No one knew. Not even her.