Chương 8: Cup of coffee

On the street it was quite cold. Not the piercing kind that crawls under your clothes and drives people indoors — no, this was a soft, almost contemplative chill, the kind that comes with mid-October. The sky was covered with thick clouds, heavy and grey like wet cotton, but there was no rain — only the smell of moisture, rotting leaves, and something indefinably woody that only happens in autumn. Lloyd walked down the street unhurriedly, hands shoved into the pockets of his orange hoodie.

The bright fabric looked unexpected against the grey autumn morning — almost defiantly, like the last stubborn leaf on a bare tree. The chill made itself known — especially on his wrists, where the sleeves rode up slightly as he walked. But Lloyd didn't seem particularly bothered. Or he'd simply gotten used to ignoring small discomforts. Beneath his feet rustled a carpet of leaves — russet, burgundy, yellowish, some already blackened by dampness.

One leaf, perfectly red, glided down right in front of him and landed on the asphalt with a quiet rustle, as if doing so deliberately. «Well. Autumn, after all. Not surprising. » He lifted his gaze. Bare branches traced themselves against the grey sky like cracks in old plaster. A few leaves still held on, clinging with their last strength, swaying slightly in the wind — nearly inaudible, but felt against the skin. «Hope I didn't make a mistake not taking an umbrella. » He glanced at the sky.

The clouds looked heavy and threatening, but something in their shape — the way they lay in a dense, motionless layer — suggested: not yet. Not just yet. The street was almost empty. On a morning like this, people preferred either to stay home or rush somewhere on errands, tucked behind collars and hoods. Lloyd was one of the few walking slowly — without purpose, without hurry, simply walking.

The orange hoodie set him apart from the grey morning, and a few passersby involuntarily let their gaze slide over him — not with interest, the colour simply caught the edge of their vision. About halfway down the block, he spotted a coffee kiosk. A small wooden booth with an awning, from under which curled a thin stream of steam. On a chalkboard to the side — a drink list written in someone's uneven but careful handwriting. Latte, americano, cappuccino, something with caramel, something with cinnamon.

Beside it — a short list of pastries: croissants, cookies, small chocolate muffins. «I think one cup of coffee won't hurt. » Lloyd approached the window. Behind it stood a girl of about twenty, in a knitted hat with a pompom pulled almost down to her eyebrows. She was warming her hands on a paper cup and staring into the distance with the look of someone who was already tired of the day, though it had barely begun. Noticing Lloyd, she perked up slightly. — Latte, please, — he said. The girl nodded and got to work.

The coffee machine hummed, sputtered, let out its characteristic high-pitched whistle — and soon a warm, faintly sweet aroma drifted through the air, the kind that draws people to kiosks like this on cold mornings. The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. A couple of minutes later, a cup was handed to him — hot, in a cardboard sleeve, with a tightly secured lid and a straw sticking out at a slight angle. Two small paper sugar packets came with it.

Lloyd took the cup, felt the warmth instantly flow into his palms, and for a moment simply stood there, holding the coffee in both hands. «This day has already gotten a little better. » He walked on, sipping through the straw from time to time. The latte was hot, slightly sweeter than he usually preferred, but right now that felt correct. The warmth spread from within, and the chill on his wrists became a little less noticeable.

Thoughts that had been lingering somewhere at the edge of his consciousness since morning began making their way out. «Thousands of green-category dungeons open every day — that's what she said. I wonder if that's true. And even if it is — where would I even look for them. » He frowned, looking down at his feet. Leaves rustled. Somewhere in the distance a car drove past, splashing a puddle by the kerb. «Wait. What am I even thinking about.

» A grimace appeared on his face — not anger, more like a bewilderment turned inward. He shook his head. «Am I really that drawn to getting myself killed. No. No-no-no. No dungeons. » He took a large sip of coffee — almost demonstratively, as if that could put a full stop to the internal argument with himself. «At least until I become a player. » Lloyd slowed his pace at a crossroads where a narrow alley branched off from the main street.

An ordinary place — cramped, slightly dark, with peeling plaster on the walls and rubbish bins at the far end. He would have walked past without a second glance. But something made him stop. Deep in the alley, a light flickered. Not a lantern — there were no lanterns there. Not a reflection in a puddle — too high up. It was something else: a short, almost instantaneous flash of cold bluish luminescence that vanished immediately, as though it had never been there. «What the…?

» Lloyd squinted, peering into the darkness of the alley. There was no one there. Empty. Just rubbish bins, wet asphalt, and a far wall with graffiti that someone had started and never finished. He stood like that for a few seconds, waiting — for what, he himself didn't know. The glow didn't repeat. «I clearly need to find some kind of job. And preferably soon. » He reached for the cup to take another sip, brought the straw to his lips — and heard only a quiet, deflating slurp. Empty.

Lloyd clicked his tongue in annoyance and stared at the cup with mild irritation. «Damn. » He tried drawing through the straw once more — in case the coffee simply wasn't reaching. Nothing. There was still a little left at the bottom, he could see it through the semi-transparent walls, but the lid blocked access. Lloyd tried to pry it up with his fingernail — it didn't give. He pulled harder — it held. He gripped the cup tighter, pressed his thumbs against the lid and pushed. Nothing. «Seriously?

» He turned the cup, found the edge where the lid was pressed most firmly, and pulled again — this time sharply, with force, almost a jerk. The lid gave way unexpectedly easily. Too easily. The cup lurched sideways, his fingers slipped, and the remains of the latte — warm, milky-brown — splashed out in a wide arc directly onto the chest of his orange hoodie. Lloyd froze, looking down. A large dark stain slowly soaked into the fabric. «Wonderful.

» He stood in the middle of the pavement, holding a crumpled cup in one hand and the triumphantly reclaimed lid in the other, staring at his ruined hoodie with the expression of someone who had already made peace with it, but was still far from pleased. And then he heard another sound. Quiet, but distinct — a hiss, like the kind you hear when burning coal is doused with water. Lloyd slowly turned his head to the right. And realised the coffee hadn't landed only on him.