His wool overcoat was tailored—likely a Loro Piana—thrown on over a cashmere sweater that probably cost more than Zoe’s monthly rent. But it was his face that caught her attention. It was the color of old parchment. His eyes, a deep, piercing blue, were hollowed out. Dark circles underneath them testified to a profound and sleepless dread. He looked like a king who had just watched his kingdom burn.

This was Bronson Valyrias.

Zoe didn’t recognize him. Not really. She didn’t follow the financial news anymore. To her, he was just Table 5.

He collapsed into the booth by the window, the vinyl groaning in protest. He tossed a heavy leather‑bound document binder onto the table. It landed with a dull, final thud.

“Coffee,” he rasped, not looking at her. “Black.”

“Coming right up,” Zoe said, her voice automated by fatigue.

She returned with a heavy ceramic mug and a pot of the diner’s notoriously bitter brew. He didn’t acknowledge her. He had already opened the binder. His hand, which bore a heavy gold signet ring, was shaking—not a tremor, but a violent, uncontrollable quake.

Zoe retreated behind the counter, pretending to refill napkin dispensers. She was a professional observer, a habit she couldn’t break. The man at Table 5 was falling apart.