I push the thought away as I step out into the grey Bristol morning. The air is cold and damp. It smells like rain and exhaust fumes. Traffic is already building up on the main road.
I pull my jacket tighter and start walking. The coffee shop is only fifteen minutes away. If I walk fast, I might even make it on time.
My mind keeps drifting back to last night. To the shadow figure standing by my bed. To the ring. To the overwhelming certainty that I’m losing my grip on reality.
I need to talk to someone. A doctor. A therapist. Someone who can tell me what the hell is happening to me.
But I don’t have time for that today. Today, I have to make lattes and smile at customers and pretend everything is fine.
I can fall apart later.
Thecoffeeshopiscalled Coffeelicious. Which is a terrible name, but the owner thinks it’s an incredibly clever stroke of genius. The shop is a small, independent place tucked between a charity shop and a vegan bakery. The interior is all exposed brick and mismatched furniture. There are fairy lights strung across the ceiling and indie music playing through the speakers.
It’s trying so very hard to be quirky and cool. And somehow, it works.
I push through the door, and the smell of coffee hits me immediately. Rich and dark, and comforting. For a moment, I feel my shoulders relax.
This is familiar. This is safe. This is something I can control.
“You’re late,” says Felix from behind the counter.
I glance at the clock. I’m three minutes late. Technically.
“Sorry,” I mutter as I grab my apron and tie it around my waist.
Felix is staring at me. Which is not unusual. Felix stares at everyone. It’s part of his whole intense goth aesthetic. He is about four-foot nothing with jet-black hair cut into a sharp bob. His makeup is always immaculate. Today he is wearing dark purple lipstick and enough eyeliner to sink a ship.
He is also the most brutally honest person I have ever met. Which can be refreshing. Or terrifying. Depending on the day.
“You look like shit,” he says.
“Thanks. You look lovely too.”
He snorts and turns back to the espresso machine. I take my place beside him and start prepping for the morning rush. Grinding beans. Steaming milk. Wiping down the counter.
The routine is soothing. Mindless. I can do this in my sleep. Which is good, because my brain is still stuck on last night.
Customers start trickling in. The usual morning crowd. Creative types and hustlers grabbing coffee on their way to one of Bristol’s trendy coworking places. Students nursing hangovers. Regulars who come in at the same time every day and order the same thing.
I make cappuccinos and flat whites and oat milk lattes. I smile. I make small talk. I draw little hearts and leaves in the foam.
Sometimes I’m very tempted to draw something rude. A dick. A middle finger. A pair of boobs. Just to see if anyone would notice.
But I never do. Because I need this job. And because despite everything, I actually like working here.
The morning rush is busy enough to keep me distracted. For a while, I manage to forget about Hex and the ring and my rapidly deteriorating mental health.
But then the rush dies down. And Felix starts staring at me again.
I try to ignore him. I wipe down the counter. I restock the milk. I rearrange the pastries in the display case.
He keeps staring.
“What?” I finally snap.
Felix tilts his head. His dark eyes are narrowed. Assessing.
“Dude,” he says slowly. “What’s up with your aura?”
