I gawk at the words. Read them again. Let them settle.
A bookshop.
My chest does something complicated. Relief. Excitement. Terror.
Books I understand. Books make sense. They have beginnings and middles and ends. They don't expect you to be charming. They just expect you to turn the page.
Coffee is trickier. I've burned water. I've turned scrambled eggs into rubber. I once made tea so strong it dissolved the spoon.
But I can learn. I'm good at learning. That's the whole point.
There's a knock at my door.
I shove the papers aside. Stand. Duck slightly because the ceiling is lower than it should be and I've already hit my head twice.
The man on the other side is human. Tall for a human. Lean. Sharp-dressed in a way that makes my secondhand coat feel like a burlap sack. His hair is dark, swept back. His eyes are darker. Assessing.
"Stone Venn?"
"That's me."
He extends a hand. I shake it. His grip is firm. Practiced.
"Darius Kincaid. City cultural liaison. I'm here to make sure you don't accidentally destroy anything important in your first week."
I blink. "Destroy?"
"Metaphorically." He steps inside without waiting for an invitation. Looks around. Takes in the cramped space, the crates still half-unpacked, the ledger open on my makeshift desk. "Though I've seen it go literal. Orc last year put his fist through a wall trying to hang a picture frame."
"I wasn't planning on hanging any pictures."
"Smart." He turns, leans against the desk. Crosses his arms. "Let's talk about keeping the orc image gentle."
"Gentle."
"Approachable. Non-threatening. The kind of orc people want to buy coffee from, not run screaming from."
I cross my arms. Mirror his posture. "I'm not planning on threatening anyone."
"Good. But it's not about what you plan. It's about what they perceive." He tilts his head, studying me. "You know how to fold a map?"
The question throws me. "What?"
"A map. Do you know how to fold one? Properly. So it actually fits back in your pocket."
"I lost my map."
"Exactly." He produces one from his jacket. Unfolds it with a snap. "Step one. Pay attention. Step two. Follow the creases. Step three. Don't just wad it up and hope for the best."
He demonstrates. Slow. Deliberate. The map collapses into a neat rectangle that slides into his palm.
"Your turn."
He hands it to me. I unfold it. Stare at the creases. Try to replicate his movements.
It takes three attempts. On the fourth, I manage something that resembles the original shape.
"Better," Darius says. "Now queuing."
