They finished their coffee not long after that.

Sansa stretched like a very satisfied cat, looking ten times more alive than when he'd walked in.

"Best decision we made all night," he declared.

"Morning," Tsukauchi corrected.

"Same thing."

I collected their empty plates while they stood up.

Tsukauchi reached for his wallet again, but I shook my head.

"You already paid more than enough."

He paused, then nodded once.

"...fair."

Sansa grabbed his coat and glanced around the café one last time.

"We'll be back."

"I figured."

"And we're bringing people."

"...you mentioned that."

He grinned.

"You'll thank us later."

That remained to be seen.

Tsukauchi adjusted his jacket and gave me a small, appreciative nod.

"Thanks again, Izuku."

"You're welcome."

They headed for the door.

The bell chimed as they stepped outside.

And just like that—

They were gone.

I stood there for a moment, staring at the closed door.

Then I exhaled slowly.

"...well."

I turned back toward the café.

Empty again.

Quiet.

Peaceful.

For now.

I walked behind the counter and started washing the dishes.

Water running.

Plates clinking softly.

Normal sounds.

But my brain wasn't quiet.

Police officers.

Breakfast groups.

Lunch crowds.

Regulars.

I dried a plate and set it aside.

"...this is going to complicate things."

A lot.

Because up until now, my schedule had been... simple.

Daytime: empty.

Evening: villains.

Clear separation.

No overlap.

No problems.

Now?

I leaned against the counter and stared at the door again.

"...yeah."

That separation wasn't going to last.

Police in the morning.

Villains in the evening.

Same place.

Same tables.

Same coffee machine.

I rubbed my face.

"As if that won't eventually collide."

Because it would.

Of course it would.

That was how things worked.

I glanced at the clock.

Still early.

Plenty of time before the next customer showed up.

Whoever that would be.

I sighed and grabbed a cloth to wipe the already clean counter.

"...my life just got complicated."

I paused.

Then huffed quietly.

"...not like it wasn't already."

Still.

There was a difference between controlled chaos...

...and whatever this was about to become.

I looked at the door one more time.

"...as if I didn't see that coming."

Except—

I hadn't.

Not really.

Chime.

Right.

Of course.

I didn't even look up immediately.

"Welcome—"

I wiped the last spot on the table where Tsukauchi and Sansa had been sitting, then straightened and turned toward the door.

The words died halfway out of my mouth.

...oh.

Well.

That was new.

The man who had just entered didn't belong here.

Not in the "this is a quiet café" sense.

Not in the "normal customer" sense.

Not even in the "villain with questionable life choices" sense.

No.

This one was different.

Gloves.

Full coverage.

Face mask.

Sharp posture.

Every movement controlled, deliberate, like even breathing was calculated.

Clean.

Too clean.

I stared at him for exactly one second longer than I should have.

Then I looked away.

Because I knew exactly who that was.

Overhaul.

Kai Chisaki.

Yakuza.

Dangerous.

Extremely.

And currently standing in my café.

Great.

Fantastic.

Love that for me.

I grabbed the cloth again and continued wiping the table like nothing was wrong.

Because nothing was wrong.

Not yet.

And I wasn't suicidal.

No way was I acknowledging that I knew who he was.

I liked being alive.

Very much.

"Take a seat wherever you like," I said calmly.

My tone didn't change.

Didn't react.

Didn't hesitate.

Behind the mask, his eyes flicked over the café.

Sharp.

Observant.

Taking everything in.

Empty tables.

Clean surfaces.

No customers.

Just me.

He walked in fully, the door closing softly behind him.

No rush.

No wasted movement.

Then he chose a table.

Not too close.

Not too far.

Strategic.

Of course.

I walked back behind the counter, placing the cloth aside.

"Menu's on the table."

He didn't touch it.

Figures.

For a moment, silence stretched between us.

Then—

"Coffee."

His voice was low.

Flat.

Controlled.

I nodded once.

"Black?"

"Yes."

Simple.

I turned to the machine and started preparing it.

My mind, however, was very much awake now.

Because this?

This was not a coincidence.

People like him didn't just wander into random cafés.

They chose places.

Carefully.

Which meant—

He either knew about this place...

Or he was about to.

I poured the coffee into a cup and set it on a small tray.

Then I walked over and placed it in front of him.

"There you go."

He didn't thank me.

Didn't acknowledge me at all.

Just picked up the cup and took a slow sip.

Then—

He paused.

Very slight.

Barely noticeable.

But I saw it.

Interesting.

He set the cup down again.

And for a moment, neither of us spoke.

I turned away and went back to the counter.

Calm.

Neutral.

Unbothered.

Inside?

Yeah.

No.

My brain was very loudly screaming.

Why is Overhaul in my café.

But outwardly?

Nothing.

Just another customer.

Because that was the rule.

No matter who walked through that door.

Hero.

Villain.

Police.

Yakuza.

They all got the same treatment.

Coffee.

Food.

And silence.

I wiped the counter slowly.

"...let's see how this goes."

It took me a minute to notice.

Which, in hindsight, was embarrassing.

Because I prided myself on observation.

But he was... controlled.

Too controlled.

No twitching.

No visible discomfort.

No sound.

Just sitting there, drinking his coffee like nothing was wrong.

It was the chair.

That's what gave it away.

Dark.

Too dark.

Spreading slowly into the fabric.

I stilled.

...oh.

Oh.

He was bleeding.

A lot.

I stared at it for exactly half a second.

Then I sighed.

Of course he was.

Because why wouldn't a high-level yakuza boss walk into my café at six in the morning actively leaking blood onto my furniture.

Normal morning.

Totally fine.

I grabbed the first aid kit from under the counter and walked over.

No hesitation.

No dramatics.

I placed it on the table in front of him with a soft thud.

His eyes flicked up to me immediately.

Sharp.

Warning.

Dangerous.

I ignored it.

"Two options."

His gaze narrowed slightly.

Good.

He was listening.

I gestured briefly toward the chair.

"You're bleeding."

Silence.

Then, calmly:

"I am aware."

"Good."

I crossed my arms.

"Option one."

I tapped the first aid kit.

"You let me treat that."

A pause.

"I'm not a professional."

Another pause.

"But I'll stop the bleeding."

His eyes didn't leave mine.

The air in the café shifted slightly.

Tense.

Sharp.

Like a wire pulled too tight.

I didn't move.

Didn't back down.

Didn't care.

"Option two," I continued evenly.

I pointed at the floor.

"You sit down there."

A beat.

"...excuse me?"

I tilted my head slightly.

"Blood is hard to clean."

Silence.

Then—

Very slowly—

Danger crept into his voice.

"You expect me to sit on the floor."

"Yes."

I didn't blink.

"My café. My rules."

The tension snapped tighter.

For a second, it felt like the entire room held its breath.

Overhaul leaned back slightly in his chair.

Even that movement was controlled.

Calculated.

His presence pressed against the space like something heavy and suffocating.

"Do you know who you're speaking to?"

Ah.

There it was.

The intimidation attempt.

I stared at him.

"...a customer."

Wrong answer.

Definitely the wrong answer.

His eyes sharpened.

Danger spiked.

"You're either bleeding on my floor," I continued calmly, "or you're going to let me fix it."

I gestured again to the kit.

"Those are your options."

Another pause.

Longer this time.

He was assessing me.

Weighing something.

Threat?

Risk?

Value?

I didn't care.

I had a chair to save.

"...you are remarkably insolent," he said finally.

"I've been called worse."

That was not even a lie.

He tapped his fingers once against the table.

Then—

"...fine."

Victory.

I pulled the chair slightly back and motioned.

"Don't move too much."

"I am not a child."

"Good."

Less work for me.

I opened the first aid kit and crouched slightly beside him, already spotting where the blood was coming from.

Side.

Bad position.

Probably a cut.

Deep enough to bleed like that.

Not deep enough to kill him immediately.

Unfortunately for him—

Very inconvenient for my furniture.

I started working quickly.

"Next time," I muttered while pressing gauze against the wound, "try not to walk into cafés while actively bleeding."

Silence.

Then, flatly—

"...noted."

Good.

At least he was capable of learning.

Even if it required threatening his dignity with floor seating.

I pressed the gauze a little firmer against his side.

He didn't flinch.

Of course he didn't.

Control freak.

"...this is a one-time occurrence," he said flatly.

I hummed.

"Mm."

"There will not be a 'next time' where I allow this."

I glanced up at him briefly.

His expression hadn't changed.

Cold.

Composed.

Annoyed.

"And yet," I said calmly, "you're still sitting here bleeding on my chair."

His eyes narrowed slightly.

"I am tolerating this because I am... inconvenienced."

"Is that what we're calling it."

"...and because you are proving... adequate."

I snorted.

"Wow."

I grabbed a bandage and started securing it.

"High praise."

"You should consider it as such."

I leaned back slightly to check my work.

The bleeding had slowed.

Good.

"Or," I added, "you're too tired to argue."

A pause.

Then—

"...that is also accurate."

I smirked a little.

"Thought so."

He watched me for a second.

Then said, almost reluctantly—

"You handled it... competently."

I blinked.

Then immediately:

"Wow. You're welcome."

His gaze sharpened.

"Do not misunderstand. This does not place us on equal footing."

I stood up, closing the first aid kit with a soft click.

"Good."

He frowned slightly.

"I wouldn't want that."

Silence.

Then—

"...excuse me?"

I crossed my arms.

"If I end up on equal footing with someone who walks into cafés bleeding and threatening furniture," I said dryly, "I've made some bad life choices."

For a split second—

He looked offended.

Genuinely.

I almost laughed.

"You are remarkably disrespectful," he said.

"You're remarkably high-maintenance."

"I am precise."

"You're dramatic."

"I am controlled."

"You're bleeding."

Silence.

Then—

He actually scoffed.

Not loudly.

But enough.

"...you are insufferable."

"I run a café for a living," I replied. "Comes with the job."

He adjusted his coat slightly, testing the bandage.

"...hm."

I watched him carefully.

No fresh blood.

Good.

Chair saved.

Crisis averted.

He reached for his coffee again, taking a slow sip.

Then he glanced at me.

"...you did not hesitate."

I shrugged.

"You were ruining my chair."

"...that is your primary concern."

"Yes."

A beat.

"...not my condition."

I tilted my head slightly.

"You walked in here."

"Yes."

"Sat down."

"Yes."

"Ordered coffee."

"Yes."

I pointed at him.

"That makes you a customer."

Silence.

Then—

"...that is a simplistic worldview."

"Works so far."

He stared at me for a long second.

Then looked away.

"...you are strange."

"I get that a lot."

Another sip of coffee.

Another pause.

Then he muttered—

"...your coffee is acceptable."

I smirked.

"Wow."

"Careful," I added. "You keep complimenting me like that, people might think you like it here."

His eyes flicked back to me immediately.

Cold.

Sharp.

"...do not push your luck."

I leaned against the table, completely unbothered.

"Too late."

For a moment, the tension returned.

Sharp.

Heavy.

Dangerous.

Then—

He looked away again.

"...insufferable."

I grinned slightly.

"Coming from you?"

High praise.