The Killer Always Calls

By Li Lin

"As the house lights flared to life, piercing the darkness with clinical brightness, the Stonebridge Arts Center became a tableau of confusion and terror."

In the heart of Stonebridge, Detective Eva Greenhouse grapples with a chi

• Language: English
• Publisher: Northshore Noir
• Release date: Jun 14, 2024
• ISBN: 9781068850110

Li Lin

background in the Humanities and a passion for crime fiction, she weaves intricate tales that delve into the darkest recesses of the human mind. "The Killer Always Calls" marks her thrilling debut in the world of mystery and suspense, showcasing her talent for crafting captivating narratives that keep readers on the edge of their seats. Lin's unique blend of psychological insight and gripping storytelling promises to leave a lasting impression on fans of the genre.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Daylight scarcely penetrated the small grimy window at the top of the basement wall, casting a feeble glow on Daniel Turner’s prone form. He stirred, his body aching from the night spent on a mattress long bereft of comfort. As consciousness took hold, his eyes fluttered open to the familiar sight of decay that filled his subterranean hideaway. The remains of last night’s dinner sat in a grease-stained Chinese food container balanced precariously on the arm of a threadbare chair, its contents a remnant of something once whole.

He rose with a lethargic effort, his limbs stiff and uncooperative. The furniture surrounding him bore the scars of neglect; the wooden legs of the chair creaked as he grabbed it to raise himself to a sitting position, tempting fate with their fragility. Plaster walls, marred by the scrawls of a restless mind, closed in around him, the words etched upon them a cryptic testament to the turmoil within.

His gaze, vacant yet piercing, found its way to the corner of the room that held his dark preoccupation. The murder wall stretched before him, a tapestry of revenge woven with names and details of those he marked. Each name, each face pinned under layers of information, was a story waiting to end at Daniel’s hand. The room itself pulsed with the rhythm of his fractured thoughts, the beat-up portable TV broadcasting static as if it were the white noise of his own unraveling psyche.

The old wooden desk, littered with maps and notes, stood as an altar to his meticulous planning. Ragged black wires, remnants of devices once connected to outlets now dead, hung like vines in a mechanical jungle. They swayed slightly as a draft whispered through the cracks in the foundation, as though nodding in agreement with the sinister intent that filled the space.

Daniel’s eyes traced the wires to their ends, left dangling and purposeless, much like the strings of his sanity. Every detail of the room, from the cold concrete floor to the incessant flickering of the naked light bulb overhead, mirrored the chaos that churned in the depths of his being.

And there, amidst the disarray, Daniel stood–a silhouette framed by the dim light, a man whose very existence had become entwined with the shadows that clung to the corners of his hidden lair.

As if animating itself in response to his rising desolation, the room bared its teeth in the form of distorted shadows dancing on the decaying wall plaster. Daniel moved slowly towards the desk, each step an echo of his tortured past. His hand reached out tentatively, brushing against the scattered papers that littered its surface.

The faint trace of ink on his fingertips seeped into his skin, entering his bloodstream with a potent dose of malice. The sinewy names, etched onto varying pieces of paper, pulsated under his touch–alive with the resentment they carried.

His fingers tugged at one name in particular–a weathered postcard showcasing the sun-kissed beaches of Honolulu. But paradise was lost on this relic of a happier time. On its back was scrawled a name that scorched Daniel’s heart with cold fire: Michael Turner.

The name plunged him into a maelstrom of memories that gradually pulled him under. He saw his brother’s face, heard his infectious laughter, felt their camaraderie that transcended blood ties…and witnessed once more the crimson tide that had washed away all semblance of familial warmth.

Against this onslaught of remembrance, Daniel steadied himself on the edge of the desk, crumpling the postcard in his grip. His eyes were drawn back to the murder wall–an oppressive pantheon he filled with darker gods by each passing day.

A sudden creaking noise from upstairs interrupted him from his brooding. The sound tiptoed down the narrow stairwell leading to his basement dwelling and whispered through cracks in wood and worn plaster. It was a reminder–a beloved guest–that he wasn’t alone; Madeline, his mother, still haunted the rooms above like a spectral figure ensnared by her own grief.

With a motion that seemed rehearsed yet impulsive, Daniel reached out and ran his fingers over the murder wall. They paused on a particular name, an anchor point in the tempest of his mind. Today marked the turning point, the day when his anger would no longer be contained within these four walls. He felt the tension in the air reach its peak, the electric charge of impending doom igniting his resolve.

Daniel straightened himself up and maneuvered towards the staircase. With every step, he left the underbelly of his world behind. He traded the stark reality of his basement, a testament to his broken spirit, for the delicate illusion of normalcy that teetered on the warped floorboards above.

Ascending the creaky wooden steps from the basement to the kitchen, he left behind the gloom of his plotting ground. The morning light struggled through the kitchen window, but it was as if the sun itself recoiled at the sight of him, casting shadows that danced mockingly across the linoleum floor.

Daniel moved past the aging refrigerator, whose hum was more a groan of protest than a sign of life, and approached the window. His gaze was fixed outside, but it was not the world he saw; it was a canvas painted with his dark desires. The once quaint neighborhood appeared sinister, houses like sentinels guarding secrets he yearned to expose.

The knife he retrieved from the drawer didn’t glint–it absorbed the daylight, its edge hungry and expectant. As he sliced through the bread for his toast, each motion was deliberate, echoing the precision with which he planned to carry out the acts that consumed his waking thoughts.

The sizzle of eggs in the skillet was a static symphony to his ears, the aroma failing to mask the stench of malice that clung to him–a scent undetectable to anyone but those who knew the true nature of evil. It was a breakfast not made to nourish, but to serve as the last semblance of routine before chaos would unfurl.

Daniel’s hands moved with an eerie steadiness as he prepared his next mundane meal, the domestic tasks failing to betray the turmoil that raged within. In the quiet of the kitchen, with only the occasional tick from the old clock on the wall marking time’s passage, Daniel’s plan lay coiled within him like a serpent ready to strike. His movements around the stove were calm, almost serene, but they belied the storm that brewed beneath the surface–a tempest set to break upon the unsuspecting city of Stonebridge.

Daniel carried the plate of scrambled eggs and toast into the living room, setting it down on the coffee table with an unsettling gentleness. Madeline, perched on her faded floral armchair, glanced up from her knitting, a warm smile spreading across her face as she recognized her son’s silhouette against the morning light.

Daniel ate. His toast and eggs were ash in his mouth, their taste obscured by anticipation. Madeline’s eyes avoided his as she took small, robotic bites –whether due to apathy or fear, he knew not.

Madeline had once been the heart of this home, her warmth and vitality filling its rooms. But the losses of both her husband and her eldest son had hollowed her out, leaving her a specter perpetually trapped in the past. Daniel both resented her detachment and felt bound to her by the twisted wreckage of their shared grief.

Good morning, Daniel enunciated clearly, knowing well that his words were lost in silence to her. He watched as her eyes, clouded with age, attempted to follow the movements of his lips–a dance of communication they had performed countless times, always imperfect, always leaving more unsaid than understood.

Madeline’s hands paused, the clicking needles silent for a moment as she gave him a look, equal parts affection and inquiry. It was a window, fleeting and fragile, through which he could glimpse the person who once had dreams for her boy–dreams that didn’t include the twisted path he now walked.

I’ve decided, Daniel began, articulating each word with exaggerated precision, to make something of myself. His voice resonated with a hollow resolve, each syllable a thorn. I’m going to be someone people won’t forget.

Madeline’s expression shifted, the creases of concern etching deeper into her soft features. She offered a small nod, but her eyes betrayed confusion, as if sensing the gravity behind his declaration without grasping its monstrous context.

Remember Stonebridge Uni? Daniel’s tone sharpened, a blade drawn from a velvet sheath. The university that turned me away? I’m going to show them. Show everyone what happens when you cast aside a genius like Mr. Daniel Turner.

What little light in her eyes flickered and died, replaced by a dull resignation–a recognition that her son stood on the precipice of something dark, something she could not reel him back from. But then he smiled–the reassuring, disarming grin he had mastered–and the moment passed. Madeline returned to her knitting, the smile returning to guard her ignorance.

Descending once more into the shadowed confines of his basement, Daniel’s heavy tread on the wooden stairs echoed like a harbinger of doom. The air hung thick with the scent of mildew and forgotten dreams as he reached for the phone perched atop the old desk, its surface littered with scribbled notes and faded images of targets.

Daniel dialed the number of the Homicide Division with methodical precision, each tapped number a calculated step in his waltz with destiny. The line clicked and buzzed before a voice answered, terse and business-like.

Detective Gerrit Molenaar speaking, came the gruff reply from the other end.

Detective, Daniel said, his voice a smooth veil of anonymity, you don’t know me, but I assure you, you will.

Molenaar’s derision was palpable through the line. Who is this? What do you want?

Let’s just say I’m an admirer of your work, Daniel continued, relishing the tension. And soon, I intend to give you a challenge worthy of your talents.

My work? Listen, asshole, if this is some kind of joke– Molenaar said, but Daniel cut him off with a chuckle that held no humor.

A joke? he echoed darkly. No, Detective. This is the beginning of a beautiful game.

There was a brief silence before Molenaar’s skepticism returned, cold and dismissive. I’ve got no time for prank calls, asshole, he said, irritation sharpening his words. Don’t waste police resources again.

Without waiting for Daniel’s response, the detective hung up.

Enraged by the slight, Daniel slammed the receiver down, his breaths coming in short, furious bursts. He snatched a red marker from the desk, his grip so tight it threatened to snap the plastic cap as he yanked it off, and hurled it at the murder wall. It struck with a satisfying thud, leaving a crimson mark across the black-and-white image of Dr. Felix Norton–thus choosing the first victim on Daniel’s list.

In the aftermath of his fury, a chilling calm settled over him. His fingers tapped against the wooden surface of the desk, a morbid metronome counting down the lives of his intended victims: five taps, pause; seven taps, pause; five taps. It was the rhythm of life.

They will all know my name soon enough, he mused aloud to the damp shadows.

His gaze settled on the photo of Dr. Felix Norton, the angry red streak now emblazoned across the professor’s bespectacled face. Daniel had never met the man, yet he could taste the contempt Norton surely held for inadequates like him. The arrogance in the tilt of his head, the condescension in his prim smile. This man represented everything denied to Daniel, and for that, he would pay.

Daniel’s hands curled into fists, blunt nails biting into his palms. Rage simmered in his veins, seeking an outlet. With effort, he unclenched his fingers and reached for his notebook. He flipped it open to a blank page, clicking his pen in anticipation.

In meticulous print, Daniel sketched out his plan. He would catch the esteemed Dr. Norton alone, as the professor left his evening lecture. Daniel pictured the scene: the muted lights of the parking lot, the good doctor fumbling to unlock his car, oblivious to the predator lurking in the shadows.

Daniel would come up silently behind, savoring the power thrumming through his limbs. In his mind, he wrapped his fingers around the rope coiled in his bag, its rough fibers alive in his grip. Anticipation tingled through him as he imagined slipping the noose over Norton’s unsuspecting head and jerking it tight.

The fantasy ended abruptly as Daniel’s pen ripped through the paper, jolting him back to the dim reality of his basement. A slow exhale eased the tension in his hunched shoulders. He had work to do if he wanted to kill Norton. Strangling him in a parking lot was too risky. Too many people, too many things could go wrong. There were decisions to be made, tasks to be completed, details to be refined, if this was going to be as pleasing as he hoped.

But he could wait. The pleasure was in the pursuit, after all. And soon, very soon, Daniel would orchestrate a meeting from which the esteemed Dr. Norton would never walk away.

Chapter 2

The Homicide Division at the Stonebridge Police Department was a tableau of systematic chaos, desks cluttered with manila folders that bore unsolved narratives. At any given time, ten desks stood like sentinels, each one an island unto its own keeper, flanked by grey filing cabinets that were guardians of both secrets and sorrows. Amidst this landscape of order and disorder, Detective Eva Greenhouse’s desk stood out, its surface clean and organized, her dedication to order a silent protest against the disarray.

On the corner of her desk, keeping vigil, was Yorick, the plastic human skull whose hollow gaze penetrated the murk of cold cases and bureaucratic paperwork. Greenhouse often found herself articulating her thoughts to the inanimate confidant, her voice a whisper among whispers, as she tried to unravel the tangled threads of human cruelty.

In those moments, there was a peculiar solace she found in Yorick’s perpetual silence, a reminder that sometimes answers lay in the quiet spaces between words. But there was no solace to be found when the dark tendrils of memory crept upon her, uninvited.

Greenhouse leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes against the onslaught of memories that threatened to overwhelm her. She took a deep breath, willing her mind back to the present, back to the clean orderliness of her desk. A desk that, for now at least, was an island of calm amidst the stormy seas of her past.

Without warning, the image flashed before her eyes: Bruce Jameson, her former partner, vibrant and alive one moment, his body thrown through the air the next, lifeless before it even hit the ground. The drug dealer they had been chasing put pedal to metal in a desperate bid for freedom, turning the vehicle into a weapon of finality. It was a violent ballet of metal and flesh that ended with sirens screaming into the void.

She opened her eyes, gaze settling once more upon Yorick’s impassive skull. Don’t tell, she murmured. Yorick said nothing, not that she expected him to. His silence was a comfort, an assurance that the horrors that haunted her slept again.

A shiver ran through her, though the office was not particularly cold. She could feel the eyes on her, the sidelong glance from Detective Smith who sat across the room. His eyes were a mixture of pity and discomfort, as if he feared that the specter of death that clung to her might be contagious. In the sea of weariness that was the division, she was an island of tragedy, isolated further by the loss of her partner.

Greenhouse turned her gaze away from Smith’s scrutiny, reaching out to adjust Yorick slightly, seeking something familiar to anchor her to the present. The skull, as always, offered no judgment, just the silent reassurance of its presence. It was enough to push back the memories, enough to keep her grounded in the now, where the living needed her more than the dead.

Greenhouse reached for the case file open on her desk, the one she had been reviewing before her thoughts spiraled down into the abyss. A 17-year-old girl, brutally murdered, found naked and abandoned in a city park. Somewhere, the monster who destroyed her still walked free.

Greenhouse sighed, the familiar anger and frustration settling in her chest, her constant companions. She would find him, this butcher. She had to believe that. It was the only thing that kept the darkness at bay.

Greenhouse stood abruptly, feeling the stiffness in her lower back that had accumulated from hours of sitting. She reached for the sky with her fingertips, elongating her spine with a soft groan of relief as vertebrae made subtle shifts back into their preferred alignments. She then bent forward, lowering her chin to her chest, stretching the tense muscles of her neck. As she did so, a faint rattle whispered from her jacket pocket–a bottle of pills prescribed to keep her mind from wandering too far into the dark alleys of trauma. Only she heard the sound, a private reminder of the battle she waged daily.

Around her, the Homicide Division hummed with the kind of weary activity befitting men who’d seen too much yet could never see enough to solve all the puzzles laid out before them. A half dozen male detectives, each one a repository of grim stories, milled about the office space. Their shirts were wrinkled badges of too many hours worn and too little time spent at home. Their suits hung on their frames, the colors leached to bland grays that matched the somber mood of their profession.

I swear, the way they fumbled in the fourth quarter, it’s like they wanted to lose, barked one, his voice scraping the walls like sandpaper.

Quit stalling, Smith. Pay me those twenty bucks you owe from the bet!

Reyes was murmuring on the telephone: Yeah, that chick was wild. You won’t believe what–

Their conversations, a tapestry of trivialities and manly focus, provided a backdrop to the more somber thoughts that lingered in Greenhouse’s mind. They chattered incessantly, a coping mechanism against the silence that death brought. Each detective carried their own method of distraction, their own way of distancing themselves from the abyss that gaped beneath every crime scene photo, every unsolved case file.

Greenhouse listened to the cacophony briefly before letting it fade into white noise. She had learned long ago that in this room, amidst these people, one could be both surrounded and utterly alone.

The shrill ring of the phone cut through the office chatter like a scalpel, slicing into the bubble of banter and bringing Greenhouse sharply back into focus. Smith’s grumbling about lost games and Reyes’s lurid tales on the phone faded to the background as she reached for the receiver.

Homicide. Detective Greenhouse speaking, she answered in a voice that was professional but edged with fatigue.

Detective, sang a male voice, oddly melodic and crisp like the crackle of frost underfoot. I’ve been planning murders for months. I am going to kill a lot of people.

She stiffened, her hand tightening around Yorick’s plastic cranium. The skull stared back at her, its hollow eyes offering no counsel.

Is that so? When are you going to start? she asked, masking her skepticism with practiced calm. And why would you tell me this?

Because I’m too smart to be caught. I’m not killing, yet. But I will let you know beforehand, the caller taunted, his confidence oozing through the line like a toxic fog.

Have you killed anyone yet? she asked, her gaze scanning the room. Her colleagues were wrapped up in their own microcosms, unaware of the potential storm brewing on her end of the line.

Nobody. Yet, the voice crooned. But I will. And when I do, it’ll be a masterpiece. You’ll have front-row seats, Detective Greenhouse.

Can you give me your name? So I know what to call you? Greenhouse pressed, though experience told her it was a long shot.

No.

Can you tell me who you are planning to hurt?

Patience, Detective, the caller sang before the line clicked dead.

Greenhouse hung up the phone. She dismissed the call as a prank–some drunken college student’s idea of a dare. With a sigh, she rose from her desk, leaving Yorick to watch over the empty chair.

Greenhouse’s steps echoed softly as she made her way to the washroom. She glanced over her shoulder and caught Johansen’s gaze. The older man leaned back in his chair, a silver streak running through his close-cut hair that matched the stern set of his jaw.

Quit stalling, Smith. Pay me what you owe me from the bet! Johansen called out across the room, his voice like gravel tumbling down a hill. His attention then flicked back to Greenhouse for a moment, suspicion knitting his brow before he turned back to his desk, dismissing her presence.

Smith grumbled something unintelligible, his cheeks flushing a deeper shade of red as he dug into his pocket. He shrank under Johansen’s looming figure, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows, revealing a forearm marked with an old tattoo.

Nearby, Dahl leaned against a filing cabinet, a half-eaten muffin in hand. His belly strained against his shirt buttons, crumbs dotting the fabric like misplaced constellations. Maybe I’ll switch to blueberry muffins next time, he mused aloud, brushing off the remnants of his snack. Less gas for sure. He chuckled, the sound rumbling from deep within his chest, seemingly amused by his own digestive predicaments.

Greenhouse barely registered their banter as she pushed open the door to the washroom. Inside, she met her reflection with a stranger’s eyes. Lines etched her face that weren’t there a year ago, shadows clung beneath her eyes, and her hair had lost its luster. The fluorescent lights overhead cast a sterile glow on her features.

She splashed cold water on her face and patted it dry with a rough paper towel, steadying her breath as she returned to the bullpen. When she arrived at her desk, the blinking light of a voicemail captured her attention.

New message, said the automated announcement, followed by a chillingly familiar voice.

This is just the beginning of many, many murders, Detective. Gazing at the stars / Constellations tell a tale / Midnight claims a soul.

It was the voice of the man she had just spoken to. The haiku hung in the air, a poetic prelude to… what? Greenhouse felt exhausted by the idea that some kid was certain he was the next Ted Bundy. She couldn’t broach the subject with her colleagues; they avoided her like a curse ever since her partner’s death. They whispered of bad luck and jinxes behind her back. So, instead, she whispered her fears to Yorick, who offered no comfort or judgement.

Great, a poetical wanna-be serial killer, she muttered. She rifled through the open death investigations on her desk: a 35-year-old man shot in the back, a 16-year-old girl stabbed in the side, a 42-year-old woman beaten to death. None connected to the ominous haiku.

As Greenhouse sifted through the case files, her focus wavered, and the room distorted before her eyes. She blinked hard, trying to clear the sudden dizziness that overwhelmed her senses.

In the quiet solitude of her mind, she found herself immersed in an unusual reverie, a hallucination that transformed her mundane homicide division office into a living canvas.

The office, once ordinary, now swirled with chromatic hues of blue, as if the walls themselves were painted with cosmic strokes. Filing cabinets morphed into radiant orbs, each drawer a portal to a celestial realm. The desks, normally arranged with precision, now stood as sentinels, their surfaces alive with the dance of unseen constellations.

In the midst of this surreal transformation, the fluorescent lights above turned into a glowing yellow crescent moon, casting an ethereal glow upon the scene.

Greenhouse’s gaze fixed upon two filing cabinets to the left, their drawers reaching out like flames, swaying to an unseen cosmic wind. The movement of the sky was captured within the dark tendrils of the trees.

Beneath this celestial ballet, the office chairs sat in the distance, moved and yet unmoved, beacons of light against rolling blue hills.

The office had transformed into a cosmic masterpiece, an otherworldly dance where the ordinary met the extraordinary in a symphony of swirling colors and ethereal lights, creating a momentary escape from the harsh reality of detective work.

Damn! Pull yourself together, Eva, she whispered to herself, uncertain if it was the stress or something else causing the hallucination.

The vision dissipated as quickly as it had appeared, leaving her staring at the mundane reality of the Homicide Division.

She reached into her jacket pocket, her fingers grazing the ridges of the pill bottle. With practiced stealth, she palmed a white Serenequil pill and slipped it into her mouth, washing it down with the last lukewarm dregs of her coffee.

Hey, Greenhouse, you good? Detective Smith called out, his voice laced with hopes of gossip fodder rather than genuine concern.

Fine, just a headache, she replied, her voice steadier than she felt. I’m going to head out early.

Her announcement was met with a few nods and grunts, but no real attention. It was as if her absence would be a relief to them, one less harbinger of bad tidings in their midst.

Greenhouse gathered her things and left the office behind, the heavy door closing with a resounding thud that echoed her solitude. Driving home, she replayed the enigmatic haiku in her mind, a sinister lullaby for the wearied soul.

Chapter 3

Daniel Turner slipped through the drizzle-soaked evening, his feet sending scattered ripples across the puddle-strewn cobblestones of Stonebridge. The ancient lamps lining the streets cast a hazy, golden light that struggled against the encroaching night, their glow reflecting dimly in the slick surfaces below. Raindrops pattered rhythmically on the sea of umbrellas bobbing through the crowded thoroughfares–sheltering the well-dressed denizens who navigated the urban streams with urgency.

The wet hem of his jeans clung uncomfortably to his ankles as he maneuvered around a cluster of university students, their laughter and chatter piercing the steady drumming of the rain. He could see their breath fogging in the cool air, intermingling with the steam rising from the gutters like spirits reluctant to leave the earth.

Though Daniel moved amongst them, he might as well have been invisible, a shadow flitting past the glistening windows of bustling shops and cafés. His baseball cap, darkened by the heavy droplets, provided scant protection from the downpour that seemed intent on washing away all traces of warmth and color from the world.

As he passed the illuminated display of a coffee shop, its interior a tableau of comfort and conviviality, Daniel hesitated. He peered through the window, observing the high-class university crowd within. They were a stark contrast to the solitary figure outside–their privileged brows furrowed in mild indignation at the inconvenience of the weather, their tailored coats barely speckled by the same rain that drenched Daniel’s modest attire.

It was an affront to them, this common storm that dared to touch their expensively curated lives; they crowded in the refuge of the café, seeking solace in espresso and exclusivity. Daniel’s throat tightened with a longing for the warmth that lay just beyond the glass–a yearning not for the coffee but for the sense of belonging that radiated from the hearth of shared experience.

With a deep breath that misted before him, Daniel turned away, the desire for connection quashed by the clear demarcation of social strata. He trudged on, alone amongst the throngs, the alienation settling onto his shoulders like a sodden cloak. Each drop of rain that bounced off the bill of his cap was a cold reminder of the distance between himself and the world that bustled around him, a world that felt as unreachable as the stars hidden behind the curtain of clouds overhead.

Daniel’s footsteps led him past another coffee shop, where the windows revealed yet another scene of exclusion. Laughter and conversation spilled out each time the door swung open, quickly muffled by the rush of rain as it closed again. Inside, students clustered around tables, their eyes bright and animated, fingers wrapped around steaming mugs that held the promise of prolonged comfort. Yet for Daniel, the warmth was barred by a pane of glass smeared with the rivulets of his isolation.

The third café he approached was no different; smiles and camaraderie were as much on the menu as the frothy cappuccinos and artisan sandwiches. The vibrant hum of contentment was palpable even from the outside.

Finally, his meandering brought him to a less frequented part of Stonebridge, where the glow of a neon sign cut through the dimness of the early night. The words ‘Joe’s Java’ buzzed in a stuttering rhythm, barely audible above the patter of raindrops. This coffee shop bore none of the pretense of the others; its windows were streaked with years of weather, the flicker of its signage offering a beacon of sorts to those who sought refuge without requirement.

Daniel pushed open the door, a small bell jangling above him, announcing his entry into a space that embraced its own imperfection. The interior was worn, with mismatched chairs and tables that had seen better days. A few patrons dotted the landscape, each lost in their own world–a far cry from the self-assured collectives he had observed before.

Behind the counter stood a girl, plain and dumpy-looking, her expression listless as she shuffled between the cash register and the shabby service area. A neon cup of coffee, perched atop a piece of black velvet cloth, attempted to lend some sense of charm to the place, but the effect was more pitiful than quaint.

Help you? she called out, her voice devoid of the warmth typically employed by one in her position.

Daniel hesitated, his hands finding shelter in the pockets of his soaking coat as he approached the counter. The scattered droplets from his cap dotted the worn surface. He could feel his own social trepidation; it was a familiar adversary, one that turned simple interactions into battles to be won.

What is your name? My name is Daniel.

We don’t take names for coffees, you’ll just have to pay attention to which one is yours.

"I’m just asking for your name. You don’t have