Claim

Barista

The drizzle blurred the city lights into a soft haze, reflections shimmering off the wet asphalt like liquid gold. Yibo leaned against the hood of his car, eyes scanning the alleyways with the precision of a predator. The streets were quiet, but the faintest shift in shadows could betray danger—or opportunity. His phone buzzed, a simple message from an associate: “Shipment secured. Minimal risk tonight.” He pocketed it, lips pressing into a thin line.

He didn’t come to the city for leisure. He came for control, for business—but something about this night drew his attention elsewhere. A small café at the corner caught his eye, warm yellow light spilling onto the slick street. He paused, curiosity flickering.

Inside, the barista moved with effortless rhythm, wiping counters and sliding pastries onto plates. There was a subtle grace in the way he carried himself, a quiet strength behind gentle movements. Yibo’s gaze lingered. It wasn’t just the efficiency; it was the aura, the way the man’s presence felt grounded, steady, like an anchor amidst chaos.

He stepped closer to the window, eyes narrowing as the barista paused to greet a regular. There was a faint, almost imperceptible smile, one that flickered like a candle in the night. Yibo’s chest tightened for reasons he didn’t immediately understand.

Years ago, in a night drenched in rain and violence, he had nearly lost his life. Someone had reached for him with care, hands trembling but precise, energy calm and steady. Yibo had never known the name, only the smile, the gentleness, and the instinctive protection. His savior. And yet, the face had slipped away into the shadows, masked by fear and circumstance.

Now, as he watched the barista from the safety of the street, a strange pull gripped him. Memories surfaced, fleeting and disjointed, but familiar. The world was always dangerous, and he was always alone—but this one presence cut through that isolation.

Inside the café, the barista wiped down the counter for the third time that evening. The soft hum of the espresso machine and the occasional chime of the doorbell created a rhythm he found comforting. Life was simple, orderly, manageable. Bills had to be paid, debts settled, and he worked hard to keep his small world intact. Every coin counted. Every hour mattered.

A bell jingled, announcing a customer. The barista looked up, half-expecting a regular. Instead, he met a gaze that made him pause. Dark eyes, sharp and assessing, scanned him as though evaluating not just his face but his very essence. A man, taller than most, with an air of authority that seemed almost predatory—but refined, like a wolf dressed in silk.

The barista blinked, shaking off the unease. “Can I help you?” he asked cautiously, trying to keep his voice steady.

The man inclined his head slightly, not smiling, but not hostile either. “Just coffee,” he said, voice low, measured, deliberate.

As the barista prepared the order, he felt the man’s eyes lingering longer than usual. Every movement he made—the way he wiped the counter, the tilt of his head, the careful placement of cups—seemed magnified under that scrutiny.

When he placed the cup on the counter, their fingers brushed briefly. The barista flinched, heart skipping a beat. The contact was fleeting, almost accidental, yet it sent a strange heat through him. The man’s eyes flickered downward for a split second before meeting his gaze again. Intense. Penetrating. Dangerous.

“Thank you,” the man murmured, placing cash on the counter.

The barista looked down at the money, then noticed the name tag pinned neatly to his apron: Xiao Zhan. A small, polite smile touched his lips. Yibo froze, eyes catching the name: finally, a name to attach to the face he had been haunted by for years.

“Xiao Zhan…” Yibo murmured almost involuntarily, the sound low, measured, like a secret he had been waiting to uncover.

Xiao Zhan blinked, looking up politely. “Yes? Can I help you with something else?” His tone was neutral, unaware of the storm he had just been named into.

Yibo’s chest tightened. His lips pressed into a thin line. “Do… you remember me?” he asked, voice low, measured, almost testing fate as much as memory.

Xiao Zhan paused, brow furrowing slightly. “I… don’t think so,” he replied cautiously, not quite sure why the man before him felt so strangely familiar.

Yibo’s gaze softened, tinged with sadness. He nodded slowly. “Maybe I’m mistaken…”

“Oh…” Zhan said softly, curiosity flickering. “Am I… like the person you’re looking for?”

Yibo’s chest tightened again, a flash of sadness passing over his face. He hadn’t expected this to hurt so much—watching someone he cared about not remember him.

“You…” Zhan continued gently, a teasing light in his tone, “do you… miss him?”

Yibo’s throat tightened. He nodded once more, quietly: “Yes.”

Zhan offered a small, thoughtful smile. “Then… I’ll give you this fortune cookie. At least it’ll cheer you up a little, and maybe… you’ll find him again someday. Don’t forget to come back to this café.”

Yibo’s eyes lingered on the gesture, a subtle warmth threading through the sadness, before he slipped silently out into the rainy night.

Zhan leaned forward, resting his elbows on the counter.
“Go on,” he said, eyes sparkling. “Open it. Let’s see what your fortune says.”

Yibo picked up the small golden cookie between his fingers. Without hesitation—
crackkk

He crushed it completely with his palm. Crumbs spilled over the counter, but a tiny strip of paper fluttered out.

Zhan blinked, half-amused, half-shocked. “Whoa! That’s not how you do it.”

Yibo glanced down at the paper, lifted it, and read quietly:

“Even if the heart forgets, the soul remembers.”

He murmured it softly, almost to himself. Then he looked up at Zhan.

Zhan chuckled. “Okay… maybe you got the message, but see? You’re supposed to break it in the middle, gently. Like this.” He demonstrated carefully, snapping another cookie neatly in half. “See? Not… whatever that was.”

Yibo picked up the second cookie. His long fingers curled around it. With a measured pressure, he finally snapped it cleanly in half. Another thin strip of paper fell out.

Zhan smiled, sliding it toward him. “Now read this one properly.”

Yibo unfolded the paper, his voice low and calm,

“Even if the heart forgets, the soul remembers.”

Zhan chuckled. “Two chances and one answer. Maybe… you’ll find what you need, sir.”

Zhan’s smile softened, a quiet warmth threading through the air. The tension between them hummed just beneath the surface—fragile, intimate, yet charged.

Just then, a voice called from the back. “Xiao Zhan, café’s getting busy!”

Zhan glanced over his shoulder. He sighed softly, looking back at Yibo. “Well… see you around, sir.”

Yibo lingered a moment, eyes tracing the barista’s familiar face. Then he picked up his cup of coffee, brought it to his lips, and murmured softly to himself,

“Good coffee.”

He turned and slipped silently out into the rainy night, leaving Zhan to the hum of the café and the echo of something unspoken between them.

Yibo’s eyes lingered on him a moment longer before he turned and slipped silently out into the rainy night, leaving Zhan to the hum of the café and the echo of something unspoken between them.