"A mind resistant to corruption will not yield to force; it must be led willingly. Become what they need— charming, understanding, the embodiment of their unspoken desires. A whisper of familiarity will make them feel like they've known you forever."

-Excerpt from The Infernal Guidebook: The Art of Unraveling a Soul

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I spot Azrael through the window before I even step inside, sitting at a corner table by the window. He's got two coffees in front of him, fingers lazily tapping the side of one while he stares out at the street. His expression is distant, thoughtful, but the moment I step inside, his head turns like he already knew it was me. His smile spreads effortlessly as he stands, lifting one of the cups.

"Right on time," he says, holding out the coffee. "I took a wild guess based on what it looked like you were drinking yesterday, café latte, right?" though there's something in his tone that suggests he's pretty confident in his prediction.

"Right, thank you," I say, surprised, taking the cup and sitting down across from him. "What's your go-to order?" I ask, peeking into his cup.

"I'm a straight black coffee kind of guy. No cream, no sugar." He takes a slow sip, watching me over the rim before lowering it again steadily, "People say it's bitter," he adds, the corners of his mouth twitching in a subtle smile, "but I like things unfiltered. No masks."

"Interesting," I nod, taking a sip of my milky delight, "Though I've always been suspicious of people who like black coffee. I always assume they're trying to impress people, because I can't imagine willingly subjecting my tastebuds to it," I joke.

A flicker of pride dances beneath the surface of his expression now. "Makes sense," he murmurs, "Most of the time people underestimate how much they can learn just by seeing the little things, what people say and don't say, what they do and don't do. Their tells. But as we've established, you're an observer, right?" He looks at me thoughtfully. "Always being on the outside like that gives you clarity." His voice dips lower, "But it also makes you wonder if anyone's ever really watching you, doesn't it?"

Though the question is gentle, it cuts deep. We're getting right back into the psychological analyses today aren't we? It's like he really wants to force back those layers. A nervous smile grows on my face as I take a sip of my latte.

He leans back slightly, eyes never leaving mine. "I'm guessing that's why you like writing so much. It gives you control over who gets seen and who stays hidden, and you get to create worlds where the dreamers do get noticed." It's actually disarming how accurately he's able to read into me, but before I can respond, he continues, "If you could live inside one of your stories, would you?"

I smile a breath of relief at the easier question, "A hundred percent. And if I could dimension hop between them, even better."

"A dreamer and a traveler," he muses, "That tracks." Then, with a sly grin, he adds, "I'm starting to think you're not just writing stories, you're trying to live one."

The words hang there, laced with meaning that I can't piece together. "So what does your dream world look like? Are you in it or are you still building it?" I ask.

"That's the thing," he murmurs, swirling the dark liquid around in his cup. "I've been chasing that world for longer than I can remember. Thought I found it once, but..." His smile falters, just for a split second, "It slipped away. Now? I'm still building it. Piece by piece. But it's not really about the place, it's about who's there with you." He pauses, "But finding someone like that who's willing to open themself up, to jump in and merge their dreams with yours? That doesn't happen often." His eyes linger on me.

"That's true..." I trail off, taking a sip as I think. I'm definitely not the kind of person who's always willing to go that deep, nor be seen, nor be vulnerable.

Azrael's smile softens, "It's terrifying too, isn't it? Letting someone really see all of you. Most people run from it. They build walls so high, no one even tries to climb them anymore." His gaze darkens, but his voice stays soft. "But the thing is, people who dream as big as you? They don't want to be stuck behind those walls forever. They just want someone who won't be scared off when they finally let them down."

My stomach twists with nerves again, wondering how exactly he seems to know just what to say to dig his hooks into my soul. Yet again, I don't know how to respond, but I think quickly. "Have you always been so open like this or were your walls ever too high?"

He lets out a soft breath. "I used to have walls higher than anyone could climb. I built them so high I forgot what it felt like to let anyone in. But walls... they don't really protect you. They just make you invisible. It took me a long time to realize that being seen isn't always a weakness. Sometimes it's the only thing that makes you feel alive." He lets the moment linger before flashing a softer smile, "But hey," he adds lightly, "I had to learn the hard way. Hopefully, you won't have to."

His fingers brush the rim of his coffee cup again, almost absentmindedly, but the way he watches me, it's like he's waiting for something.

But once again, I turn it back on him. "Why were your walls so high?"

"Because I learned early on that letting people in meant giving them the power to hurt you. When you open up, when you let someone see the parts of you that aren't perfect. It's like handing them the sharpest knife and hoping they won't use it. And, surprise, they usually do. Maybe you know a little something about that too."

"Maybe," I admit, "With me, everyone gets their own window to my mind I suppose. How big that window is depends on how much I want them to see."

"A window," he echoes, his eyes narrowing slightly, "That's clever. Controlled vulnerability. You let people think they're seeing inside, but it's only what you want them to see." He leans forward, resting his arms on the table, but this time there's a subtle, more focused shift in his posture. "But with windows, you expect someone to look straight through, into a single frame, but if they know how to adjust their angle slightly? It's possible to glimpse at more than they were meant to. Who in your life has the biggest window?"

"Hmm," I smile, "The people in my family are the only ones with keys to the other side."

His smile deepens, but a sharpness flashes in his eyes. "A key," he murmurs, "I like that. Much more intimate than just a window. Most people are too lazy to earn a key. They want shortcuts. They knock on the window, hoping you'll just let them in without making them work for it." He nods, "But I'm patient. I don't mind earning it."

There's a promise laced into his words that makes my body heat up, like he's already weaving himself into my long-term narrative, but we'll see. He wouldn't be the first guy who was pretty with words just to blindside you in the end. "Keys can be dangerous, for the giver and the holder. You can't assume you'll like what you find on the other side," I raise an eyebrow.

His smile widens, "That's what makes it worth it though, the risk, and the unknown. Otherwise, what's the point? Most people want guarantees and safety nets, but there's no real safety when it comes to people, just the chance that maybe what's on the other side is better than what you imagined."

"But I get it," he adds, softening again. "You've probably opened the door before, just a little, only for someone to walk in and wreck the place without thinking twice. No one likes cleaning up that kind of mess."

"Right..." I trail off.

He leans back with a playful smile again, but the intensity of the conversation still hangs over me. "But I'm not the wrecking type; I'm more of a collector, and I only want what people willingly give." The way he says it makes my stomach twist, because it sounds nice, but there's a hidden meaning beneath the words.

"So how many keys have you collected from people so far?" I ask, intrigued by his willingness to play the long game, but questioning whether or not he plays it genuinely.

"More than most would guess," he says lightly but edged with something darker as he seems to be gauging my reaction. "People give more away than they think, whether a glance, a word, or a hesitation, but it's all part of the collection. The trick is knowing what's real and what's just decoration."

His fingers drum lightly on the table as his gaze locks onto mine in a way that looks like he's dissecting me in real-time. "But the real treasures?" he leans in, "Those are rare. The things people swore they'd never give away. The secrets, the fears, and the pieces of themselves they try to hide even from themselves." Then, just as quickly, the warmth returns. "But like I said, I only take what's willingly given. No fun otherwise."

There's something in the way he says it that makes me wonder if that's really the whole truth.

"No fun..." I echo, thinking about why he came up to me in the first place yesterday, "So did the girl sitting alone in her own little world writing on her laptop seem like a fun challenge then?"

"You caught on," his smile widens, "Absolutely. I saw the challenge right away. Someone who keeps people at arm's length but still hopes someone will close the distance anyway. That's the kind of person who's worth the chase."

The shift between disarming charm to almost predatory insight leaves me on edge, but in a way that makes my heart race faster. He's good. Too good. I still can't decide if his intentions with me are sincere, or if he's just looking for another key to add to his collection.

"How's your story coming along?" he asks, which shakes me out of it.

"Oh yes, my unicorns," I laugh, "They're going through some rough stuff right now."

"Rough stuff, huh? Even the purest creatures go through it, I guess. What exactly are they going through? Love triangles? Forbidden magic? Existential crises?"

"A little darker. Immoral scientific experiments and tests," I answer.

"Immoral scientific experiments?" he echoes, a slow grin spreading across his lips. "Now that's more like it. Corrupting something pure and twisting it into something else entirely. There's always something fascinating about what happens when innocence is tampered with. I like that. Will they still hold onto that purity in the end? Or will it break them?"

"Oh, it'll be a happy ending of course, just a rough road to get there. Anytime I read or watch something and the ending sucks I feel like the whole book/movie/series was a waste of time. I'd never do that to my own writing."

"A happy ending," he echoes, "You believe in hope. Even when everything's twisted and the world's gone dark, you still think it can end well."

"Always," I grin, "What kind of books or movies are you usually interested in?"

"I'll admit I've got a weakness for stories where someone fights against everything they've been taught to believe for the possibility of something better. But," he continues lightly, "I'm also a sucker for a good thriller. Anything that keeps me guessing until the end," he says as we both take the last sips of our coffee. "So how about meeting at the same time next week?" he asks, "Unless you think I'm too much to handle."

"Sounds good to me," I smile.

"Perfect, I'll be looking forward to it."

Once he's outside, I let out a heavy sigh, feeling off. I can't pin down exactly why. Maybe it's how deeply he was trying to understand me, or how well he could see right through me... Some moments felt sincere, but then then others subtly hinted at me being just another puzzle to solve before moving on. I shake my head, trying not to overthink it for now. At least I have a week to figure it out before deciding whether or not to cancel. Writing more is going to be impossible now that I won't be able to focus, so I pack my things and head decide to head home instead.

I feel a strange sense of detachment on the way home, like I'm floating slightly outside of my surroundings. I keep replaying our conversation in my mind, trying to zero in on any clues I might have missed about him in the moment.

When I reach my apartment I toss my bag onto the couch and sink down beside it, sighing as I stare up at the ceiling. It would be so easy to dismiss him as just another smooth-talker, someone who thrives on charm and surface-level games. Was it all calculated?

My phone buzzes on the table beside me with a message lighting up the screen.

"I hope I didn't get too heavy on you today. It's rare to talk like that with someone. Thanks for listening. Looking forward to next time."

No winks, no over-the-top charm. Just... simple. Thoughtful. I frustratedly sigh rereading it again. The last thing I want is to be the reason someone feels like they can't go deep and open up. But if they get hurt because they do open up that's not my fault, right? I don't reply back yet. I need to think about what to say so that I'm not the ingenuine one in my response.

But in all, I don't care. Worse comes to worst and I'm in the same position I was yesterday morning, still able to go to a café and write alone in peace. So why do I feel so annoyed? Am I more annoyed with myself or with the fact that I couldn't get as good of a read on him as I usually could with people? And worse, he already has a seemingly perfect read on me. Why does that bother me so much?

The more I think about it, the clearer it becomes. It's not about him, it's my issue. The fact that someone managed to slip past my radar irritates me more than anything he actually said. It poked at my need to be in control of the situation, to understand the people around me, and to not be the one left wondering. It leaves me feeling exposed in a way that shouldn't feel so intense after two coffee meetups.

I rub circles into my temples, feeling that dual annoyance, and then that voice in the back of my mind wondering, what's the worst that could happen? If he turns out to be another smooth-talker playing games, I'll see it eventually. I'll walk away no harm, no foul. I was fine before he showed up, and I'll be fine after.

I'll see him again. If anything just to learn my own lesson from him. He digs deep in a way I've never encountered before. Even if it all goes to shit, at least I'll be better equipped to handle the next person like him who comes along.

I pick up my phone again, staring at his last message, but this time, the twist in my chest loosens slightly now that I've been able to bring back a sense of more control in my willingness to let things play out. That way there'll be no regrets if, against all odds, this all leads to something more between us. But I won't let myself get too attached to that thought until the time comes.

I type out my reply without hesitation.

"I'll see you next week. Looking forward to it." Send.

I shake my head and go take a nap.