The Amnesiac's Dilemma

The café's familiar morning routine, the hum of machines, the clatter of cups, the quiet murmur of customers—it's your world. You move behind the counter with practiced ease, pouring coffee, balancing plates. Four years here. Four years since you arrived with just a small suitcase and a vague sense of who you were.

“Order for table two,” you call out, setting down a tray. Priya smiles. “Thanks, Ishan. You always get my coffee just right.” You return the smile. "Glad to hear it."

Abhishek strides in, wiping his hands. "I swear, if I have to listen to another customer complain about their coffee not being hot enough..."

Before you can respond, the door jingles. A man walks in—tall, well-dressed, commanding attention. His sharp gaze sweeps the café, then lands on you. A strange sense of familiarity, but you're sure you've never seen him.

He orders a black coffee, no sugar. His eyes are on you the whole time.

"Do I know you?" he asks.

Your hand hesitates. "I don't think so."

He gives a small, knowing smile. "Maybe I'm mistaken." He settles into a corner booth, watching you. The feeling of being watched lingers long after he's gone. That night, a text arrives from an unknown number: "Stop looking for answers. It won’t end well for you."