Only minutes passed before the gentle chime of the café’s doorbell shattered the brief peace once more.

  “Welcome, dear gentlemen,” the owner called smoothly, his practiced smile immediately in place—warm, yet distant, the corners of his eyes creasing convincingly with the gesture.

  No greeting answered him.

  Instead, two figures stepped deliberately into the café—bronze silhouettes against the sunlight spilling through the open door.

  Militants.

  What had once been men were now living sculptures of polished metal, the cruel artistry of the Parliament relentless in its pursuit of order.

  Their presence was an unsettling blend of humanity and machinery, their appearance a twisted mockery of the people they replaced.

  Each wore uniforms reminiscent of bygone military traditions—double-breasted coats dyed deep, imperial blue, tailored to immaculate perfection.

  Their brass buttons gleamed coldly beneath the muted café lights, reflecting like miniature suns. Starched collars stood rigidly, as sharp and unforgiving as razor blades, while black leather boots, glossy as obsidian, tapped against the worn wooden floor with cold precision.

  Their movements, though slightly stiff, mirrored human gestures with chilling accuracy, evidence of technology’s merciless march forward.

  Even their voices had evolved to a disturbing mimicry of humanity—almost natural, yet underscored by a metallic, echoing cadence that betrayed their true nature.

  “Pardon the intrusion,” the first Militant stated, his tone hollowly polite, echoing through the quiet of the café.

  The owner inclined his head slightly, maintaining his composed fa?ade. “Of course.”

  “As you may have heard through television, jumbotrons, or similar means,” began the second Militant, identical in appearance, voice, and the eerie, mechanical gleam in his movements, “terrorist activity has notably increased in recent days.”

  The owner released a weary sigh, setting his hands upon the counter’s smooth surface—steady and calloused, betraying no anxiety.

  Beside him, the old-fashioned cash register sat quietly, its glossy black metal a silent witness to countless similar interrogations.

  “Yes… indeed, I’ve heard as much,” he replied evenly.

  “Excellent,” the first Militant responded mechanically. “Then this questioning should not consume much of your time.”

  “We have several routine inquiries directed toward all proprietors within this district,” the second continued seamlessly. “They pertain primarily to observations of suspicious activities.”

  Their gaze fixed unwaveringly upon him, twin sets of glowing blue apertures shining from where eyes should have been—cold, empty, and yet somehow piercing through his very flesh.

  A cruel irony, he thought bitterly.

  “Of course,” he answered, feigning polite patience. “I’ll assist however I can.”

  The Militants stood utterly motionless, framed starkly by the dark wood counter separating them from their subject, as though the slim barrier of polished timber might shield him from their prying, unseen instruments.

  He imagined invisible threads of data flickering from them, scanning every shift in posture, every tremor of heartbeat.

  “Question one,” began the left Militant, voice clipped and emotionless. “Have there been any unusual visitors or occurrences within your establishment recently?”

  The café owner allowed himself a brief, contemplative pause, carefully choosing his words to mask any deeper truth.

  “None come to mind,” he answered with practiced nonchalance.

  “In truth, new faces are rare these days—understandably so, given current tensions.”

  He permitted a nervous, self-deprecating chuckle. “Mostly, it’s only regular patrons who keep this humble place afloat.”

  “Question two,” the second Militant proceeded instantly, dismissing his answer without acknowledgment or interest.

  Their apathy was unsettlingly close to human disregard—yet colder, emptier.

  “Have you experienced recent delays with your supply deliveries? Specifically coffee beans or other related materials?”

  “No more than usual, sir,” the owner replied, shaking his head slightly.

  “Clarify ‘the usual,’” the Militant pressed evenly.

  He shrugged lightly, palms upturned slightly in a placating gesture. “New-world vehicles are still somewhat troublesome, especially for inexperienced drivers. Accidents on the roads are not uncommon. Occasionally, my shipments run late, but only by a matter of hours. Everything always arrives eventually.”

  A faint, calculating pause lingered.

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  “Final question,” the left Militant intoned, emotionless. “Have you noticed any traces of Mana in the immediate vicinity?”

  This time, the silence stretched longer.

  “No,” the owner replied firmly, voice unwavering. “I have not.”

  “Are you absolutely certain?” the right Militant persisted, leaning forward with unnatural deliberateness—a mechanical imitation of insistence that somehow made the interaction even more chilling.

  The owner drew himself up, posture proud, his gaze steady against the twin points of glowing, artificial eyes.

  “Gentlemen,” he said calmly, each word measured and firm, “I lived through the chaos of the old world. I remember clearly what Mana looks like—how it dances in the air like scattered starlight. I know intimately what horrors the Tainted are capable of. If such a thing had appeared here, at the very heart of our capital, I assure you—I would recognize it immediately.”

  For several long seconds, the Militants merely stared, their silence broken only by the faint whirring and humming of unseen gears and electronics beneath their metallic shells.

  “Thank you for your cooperation,” the left Militant finally declared with mechanical courtesy.

  “This interaction has been recorded and archived within the Militant database for the security of our continent.”

  Without another word, the Militants pivoted in flawless synchrony, their polished boots striking the wooden floorboards with mechanical precision.

  The door opened with a soft creak, the bell above it chiming gently.

  And then, with the same abruptness of their arrival, they were gone.

  The café owner’s smile, upheld purely by sheer discipline and years of careful practice, collapsed the instant the door clicked shut behind them, the lines of his face etched deeper with worry beneath the fa?ade he had fought so hard to maintain.

  ═════ ?? ═════

  Fifteen minutes.

  Precisely fifteen minutes passed before the man finally stirred from behind the café’s counter.

  Every motion he made was deliberate, every sound carefully calculated, betraying none of the anxiety simmering beneath his practiced calm.

  The quiet hum of blenders subsided into silence, and the warm glow of ambient lights softened gradually, dimming until the café’s intimate interior lay suspended in quiet twilight—half awake, half dreaming.

  With a gentle click that felt louder than it truly was, he turned the key in the café’s front door, locking himself safely inside.

  It was far too early to close for the day, but a brief pause for an afternoon break was routine enough to avoid suspicion.

  Half an hour of silence, a few precious moments of solitude—concealed within normalcy.

  The key slipped soundlessly into his pocket as he turned away from the door, his boots muffled against the worn, polished wood.

  He moved steadily past the counter, through the narrow hallway, and beyond a humble back door concealed by shadows and familiarity.

  A second door awaited him, even more discreet—marked only by its plainness.

  He opened it, stepping into the small, modest bathroom.

  It was an unremarkable space, scarcely larger than a closet, yet it held significance far greater than anyone might guess.

  Slowly, he approached the porcelain sink, above which hung an ordinary black panel, featureless and unobtrusive.

  For a moment, he merely stared into its dark surface, his gaze fixed on the emptiness reflected back at him, eyes searching for something he knew lay just beneath the false image he wore.

  Then, gently, his fingertips brushed the edge of the panel. It shimmered beneath his touch, darkness melting into silver, revealing a clear, perfect mirror.

  His reflection greeted him at once.

  Small lines traced subtle paths around the corners of his eyes and lips—marks of a life lived under strain, etched by years he hadn’t truly experienced.

  Yet his hair remained thick, untouched by the creeping silver of time.

  He exhaled softly, feeling a brief pang of irony twist in his chest.

  Strange, wasn’t it?

  To grow fond of this quiet life he’d crafted—here, behind enemy lines, in the heart of danger.

  Methodically, his fingers moved upward, brushing lightly against the skin beneath his right eye. The brown hue smudged gently, fading away to reveal sharp, penetrating grey beneath.

  With practiced precision, he reached behind his neck, gripping an unseen seam.

  A gentle tug produced a soft, unsettling sound—like silk slowly tearing.

  The synthetic flesh of his face peeled away smoothly, revealing youthful features beneath.

  The discarded mask crumpled softly in his grasp, reduced to a lifeless husk as he laid it aside upon the cool marble countertop.

  He inhaled deeply, allowing himself a moment to adjust, then slowly exhaled.

  Now, in the clarity of the mirror’s reflection stood a strikingly handsome man no older than twenty-one, his skin vibrant with a natural warmth no mask could emulate.

  Grey eyes shone clearly, piercing and alert—eyes he had nearly forgotten belonged to him.

  Months had passed since he last saw this face.

  He lingered for only a heartbeat more, indulging a brief flicker of vanity—then pushed aside sentimentality, knowing this was neither the place nor the time.

  Twisting the faucet handle, he splashed cool water across his face, cleansing away lingering remnants of adhesive.

  Droplets clung briefly to his skin, falling from strands of damp hair that now curled gently across his forehead.

  Straightening, he wiped his hands with a small towel and bent toward a drawer subtly integrated into the wall beside the sink.

  A quick press of his thumb activated a hidden sensor, and a soft beep acknowledged him. The drawer slid open smoothly.

  Within it rested only a single, delicate object—a vintage pocket watch, gleaming faintly beneath the dim light.

  An antique relic, rendered obsolete decades ago by the ruthless advance of technology, yet precious nonetheless.

  He lifted it gently, cradling its polished brass case with reverence.

  Roman numerals stood proudly upon its pristine white face, elegant black hands ticking softly, precisely marking the time: 4:37 p.m.

  As he held it, the pocket watch vibrated subtly, sending gentle pulses through his fingertips.

  Soft tendrils of pale blue mist rose slowly from his palm, curling gracefully into the air—almost imperceptible, but unmistakably powerful.

  The mirror caught the transformation—his irises filled with faint sapphire luminescence, eyes shifting briefly into pools of radiant azure.

  The watch responded instantly, matching his own supernatural shift. Its inner casing illuminated gently, filling with the same ethereal blue glow.

  Only seconds passed before the phenomenon faded, the luminous mist dissipating quietly into the air.

  His eyes slowly returned to their original cool grey—steady, calm, and sharply focused once more.

  Raising the pocket watch closer, he spoke quietly, his voice scarcely louder than a breath.

  “Whisper to Mainspring, coming.”

  Silence hung for a moment, tense and charged.

  Then, the pocket watch’s thin, inner face shimmered softly, revealing a translucent holographic figure.

  The projection wavered gently, monochrome and flickering—no taller than his palm, yet unmistakably commanding.

  The miniature figure was broad-shouldered, its posture proud and straight, hair slicked neatly back.

  Its features, though indistinct in monochromatic blue, conveyed authority and maturity—older by several years than the young man who held the watch.

  Certainly less handsome, the younger man thought dryly, though he would never risk uttering that aloud.

  Some jokes weren’t worth the potential repercussions.

  Especially not when dealing with the man known as the leader of Mainspring.

  The hologram remained silent, patient, expectant—its faintly shifting visage holding an intensity that needed no clear expression to convey meaning.

  Enough was visible, despite the limitations of the transmission, for the young man to brace himself for the difficult conversation ahead.