Chapter 3:
The café was quieter than I expected.
Soft music hummed through hidden speakers, blending with the low murmur of conversations and the occasional hiss of the espresso machine. Warm light spilled from hanging lamps, casting a comfortable glow over wooden tables and cushioned chairs. It was the kind of place people came to relax.
I didn't relax.
Mia walked a step ahead of me, her movements easy, unguarded. She pushed the door open and glanced back with a small smile, as if checking to make sure I hadn't disappeared.
"Hope you like coffee," she said lightly.
"I drink it," I replied.
She laughed—not loudly, but genuinely—and that sound unsettled me more than it should have.
We ordered at the counter. She went first, studying the menu with focused seriousness.
"Caramel latte," she said. "Extra foam."
Then she turned to me. "What about you?"
I barely glanced at the menu. "Black coffee."
She raised a brow. "That's… intense."
"It works," I said.
"That sounds like something a middle-aged businessman would say."
I almost smiled.
Almost.
We took a small table near the window. Sunlight streamed in, catching on her hair and turning the raven-black strands glossy, alive. She sat across from me, resting her elbows on the table, chin propped on her hand as she studied my face with open curiosity.
"So," she said, "Evan Carter."
I met her gaze evenly. "Mia Anderson."
She smiled. "You sound like you're confirming my identity."
"Habit," I said before I could stop myself.
Her eyes flickered with interest. "What kind of habit?"
I took a sip of my coffee, letting the bitter heat ground me. "I move around a lot. New places. New people."
"That explains the 'new' vibe," she said. "You looked like you were mapping escape routes in class."
I stilled.
Just for a fraction of a second.
She noticed.
"I'm kidding," she added quickly. "Mostly."
I leaned back slightly. "You're very observant."
"Psych major," she said proudly. "I notice things."
That was… inconvenient.
"Why business administration, then?" she asked. "You don't really give off 'future CEO' energy."
"That's because I'm not trying to," I said. "It's practical. Versatile."
"Safe," she guessed.
"Yes."
She nodded, as if that answer satisfied her. Then her coffee arrived, and she took a careful sip, foam brushing her lip.
I forced my eyes away.
"So," she said after a moment, "where are you from?"
Here it was.
The first real lie.
"Out of state," I said smoothly. "Moved around a lot growing up."
"Military family?" she asked.
I almost laughed.
"Something like that."
She tilted her head. "You don't talk much."
"I listen."
"That can be dangerous," she said. "People might start telling you things."
"I'm good at keeping secrets."
She smiled at that, unaware of how true it was.
"Okay, my turn," she said. "You can ask me anything."
Anything.
I studied her face—the openness, the lack of masks. People like her didn't survive long in my world.
"What made you choose Ravenwood?" I asked.
Her smile softened. "It was close to home. My dad didn't want me too far away."
Protective.
Expected.
"And you agreed?"
She shrugged. "It was easier."
"Do you always do what's easier?"
She considered that. "No. But sometimes it's nice not to fight."
Something in her voice shifted—not sadness, but restraint. Like there was more beneath the surface.
Noted.
Her phone buzzed on the table. She glanced at it, then frowned.
"Everything okay?" I asked.
"Yeah," she said quickly, turning the screen face down. "Just my dad checking in."
Of course.
I felt a familiar, dark satisfaction stir in my chest. Being close to her would make him careless. Vulnerable.
Then she looked at me again, and that feeling twisted into something uglier.
"Can I ask you something kind of personal?" she said.
"You already are."
She smiled. "Fair. You just seem… guarded. Like you're always holding something back."
I met her gaze steadily. "Everyone does."
"Not like you," she said softly.
Silence stretched between us.
I could lie again.
I always lied.
"Old habits," I said instead. "Hard to shake."
She nodded slowly, accepting the answer without pushing. That alone made her different.
We talked for a while after that—about classes, professors, how awful campus food was. Normal things. Mundane things.
I found myself responding without calculating every word.
That was dangerous.
When we finally stood to leave, she hesitated near the door.
"I'm glad I sat next to you," she said. "You're… interesting."
"That makes one of us," I replied.
She laughed again. "Maybe I'll see you around?"
"I'm sure you will."
We stepped outside together. The campus buzzed with afternoon energy—students laughing, bikes whizzing past, life unfolding without violence.
Her phone rang again.
This time, she answered.
"Hi, Dad," she said, rolling her eyes playfully. "Yes, I'm on campus. No, I'm not alone—"
She paused.
I stopped walking.
She looked at me, question in her eyes.
Then, into the phone: "I'm with a friend."
A friend.
Something in my chest tightened.
She hung up and smiled apologetically. "Sorry. He worries too much."
"That's understandable," I said.
We reached a fork in the path.
"Well," she said, rocking back on her heels, "this is me."
She hesitated, then added, "Same time tomorrow?"
Tomorrow.
I nodded. "Sure."
She beamed, waved, and walked away.
I watched her until she disappeared into the crowd.
Then my phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
I answered without hesitation.
"Report," the voice said.
"I'm in," I replied. "She trusts me."
"Good," he said. "Don't forget why you're there."
I ended the call and slipped the phone into my pocket.
The mission was progressing perfectly.
So why did it feel like I was already losing control?
As I turned back toward my dorm, a chill ran down my spine.
Across the courtyard, a man in a dark jacket stood near a lamppost, pretending to check his phone.
He wasn't a student.
And he wasn't subtle.
Our eyes met.
He looked away too quickly.
I memorized his face.
The game wasn't just beginning.
It had already noticed me.