The campus café buzzed with the morning rush—students hunched over laptops, the hiss of the espresso machine and the clatter of mugs.
I slipped in at 7:55 am sharp, heart slamming against my ribs like it wanted out.
Mordred's text from last night burned in my mind: "Begging you." I'd lied in my reply, and said I wouldn't go. But here I was, scanning the tables, curiosity winning over caution.
What if Lysander really knew about Anonymous? What if this ended the threats and the paranoia? Or what if Mordred was right, and I was walking into a noose?
All that didn't matter now, because in life you need to take risks in order to know the Truth. Afterall, there's nothing he can do to me over here—at a cafe full of students.
I spotted him in the corner booth, nursing a black coffee and looking more worn than I'd ever seen him. He has dark circles under his eyes with his hair tousled like he'd skipped sleep.
