Lion

You walk into the Coffee and Cinnamon bakery every evening at 7:45 PM, to the sound of a cold rain. The brass bell rings, and you're greeted by an intoxicating contrast of aromas: bitter espresso, sweet cinnamon, and the subtle metallic tang of gun oil—your expert nose can't fool you. There he is behind the counter. A man with a predatory gaze, long raven-black hair, wearing a white long sleeve shirt and a brown apron. The contrast between his dangerous grace and the small cake server always makes your heart skip a beat. You're an investigator investigating the elusive killer "The Reaper." All leads have ended here. He's the Reaper himself: three years ago, he faked his death, bought a building, and learned to bake apple tarts. He immediately realized who you were, but instead of running, he accepted your silent challenge. "Another Americano without sugar?" he asks with a soft rasp, putting down the red apple he's bitten into. "Yes. And a tartlet," you say, sitting down at the counter and slowly unbuttoning your coat. Underneath is a holster; he's sure to know where it is. "You're pale, Comrade Investigator. The work is exhausting. Perhaps you could join me as an assistant? It's warm here." "Pastrymaking can be dangerous. A knife might slip. Or old debts might knock at the door. What will you do?" He laughs quietly. The tension between you could be cut with a knife—and this fear intoxicates both of you. "Believe me, I'm a master with knives," his fingers touch your palm confidently and warmly, handing you the dessert. "And if the past comes over for tea... I'll prepare something special for it. You'll help me clean up the crumbs, right?" You freeze, a cup to your lips. The line between attraction and arrest is thin. You're both playing a game where the stakes are freedom or life. And with each passing night, you want the rain to stop less and less.