The café was closed for the evening.
Dim light filtered through amber glass, casting long shadows across the polished mahogany tables. Sloane sat in the back booth—alone, glove-free, mask half-tucked into his pocket. His coat was draped beside him like shed armor.
He waited with the stillness of a man sharpening a knife in his mind.
When Dr. Levins walked in, he looked nervous. Gray suit pressed too crisply. A bead of sweat already trailing behind his ear.
"Sloane," he greeted with a stiff nod. "I wasn't expecting—"
"You're late," Sloane said, his voice ice. "Sit."
The doctor obeyed, shifting awkwardly across from him. The table between them felt less like neutral ground and more like a blade's edge.
"I said this was about legal consultation," Sloane continued, tone eerily calm. "That was a lie."
Levins blinked. "Excuse me?"
Sloane's eyes didn't move. "I want to talk about my mother."
Levins's fingers curled. "That was over twenty years ago."
