The morning light filtered through the dusty windows of Déjà Vu Records, casting long, golden streaks across the worn wooden counter where Paul leaned, idly flipping through the store’s inventory book. The small shop had been his home away from home for years, peaceful as ever.

  Outside, the city hummed with mundane life. Office workers rushed to catch trams, their coffee cups steaming against the crisp morning air. An elderly man haggled over fruit at a nearby stall. A couple, wrapped in scarves and laughter, passed by the window, their steps light and carefree.

  Paul sighed, pressing his pen absently against his lower lip as he turned another page in the book. He knew Liz wouldn't be in today—she rarely came around anymore, even when she had no reason not to.

  A bell jingled as the door swung open, pulling him from his thoughts.

  "Morning, Paul," came a familiar voice. étienne, one of his regulars, ambled in, his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his jacket. "Got anything new in the progressive rock section?"

  Paul smirked, setting the book aside. "You ask me that every week, and every week I tell you that ‘new’ and ‘progressive rock’ rarely mix."

  étienne chuckled. "Fair point." He wandered toward the back, already lost in the stacks, and Paul let his gaze drift back to the street.

  Life here felt... normal. Predictable.

  Even with the occasional news about Metahuman fights, they were always something happening elsewhere—on the Eastern borders of the UCE, somewhere deep in Africa, where territories changed hands like playing cards every time another Meta decided to play at warlord.

  Not here. Not his life.

  No, his life was defined by the warm crackle of vinyl spinning under a needle, the routine of opening the shop at nine and closing at six, the easy rhythm of conversation with customers who never had to fear for their lives.

  And yet, Liz had started looking at him like he was the strange one.

  It had been four months since she lost Mel. He knew she wouldn’t have healed yet—grief didn’t work like that. But there was something else, something beyond mourning.

  Liz had focus now. A sharpness in her gaze that wasn’t there before. Like she was looking for something, always on guard.

  He remembered the last time they had met for coffee, barely a week ago.

  Paul had waved her over when he saw her hesitating near the café door, her shoulders hunched under the weight of some invisible burden. She had sat down across from him, wrapping her fingers around the cup he had ordered for her—black, no sugar, no milk. The way she used to drink it when they pulled all-nighters at the shop, arguing over music theory or the best live albums of all time.

  But Liz didn’t argue anymore.

  Instead, she had spent most of the conversation watching. Not him, not really. Her eyes kept flicking to the windows, the door, the people passing by. As if she were waiting for something to go wrong.

  It made him uneasy.

  “What’s on your mind?” he had asked.

  She had blinked, as if remembering he was still there. “Nothing.”

  Paul had let out a quiet laugh. “You sure? You’re staring at that guy by the counter like you think he’s going to pull a gun out of his laptop bag.”

  Liz had looked away, hiding behind her coffee cup. “Just… habit, I guess.”

  Habit.

  That was the part that scared him the most.

  Back in Déjà Vu Records– and away from his reminiscing–étienne approached the counter with an armful of albums, humming to himself as he stacked them.

  “You’re in a good mood,” Paul noted, ringing up the purchase.

  “Why wouldn’t I be? The city’s beautiful today.” étienne grinned. “Sun’s out, no smog, no protests, no metas throwing buses at each other—what more can a guy ask for?”

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Paul gave a small chuckle. Exactly.

  The peace was easy to take for granted. Even when MetaPol reports flashed across the news screens, most people just shook their heads, muttered about how “things are getting worse,” and then moved on. That’s what people did.

  The morning passed in its usual rhythm. The steady hum of conversation, the quiet shuffle of feet against the wooden floors, the distant drone of a tram rolling past outside. Déjà Vu Records was a sanctuary of sorts—a pocket of time untouched by the chaos that occasionally seeped into Neo Lyon’s streets.

  Paul liked it that way.

  He finished ringing up étienne’s purchase, slipping the vinyls into a paper bag. “You heading straight home, or is this another one of those I’m supposed to be working, but music is more important days?”

  étienne grinned, tucking the bag under his arm. “Listen, my boss pays me to stare at spreadsheets all day. That’s a crime against humanity. This, on the other hand—” he tapped the top of the bag, “—is culture.”

  Paul smirked, shaking his head. “Give my regards to the spreadsheets.”

  “Will do. Hey, you free this weekend? The guys are getting together for a movie night.”

  “Depends. Are we talking actual movies, or is Nico making us watch some three-hour philosophical art piece where a guy stares at a glass of water for half of it?”

  étienne cackled. “Alright, first of all, L’eau et la Réflexion was—”

  “Unbearable.”

  “—a masterpiece,” étienne finished, still laughing. “But no, this time it’s something normal. We’re thinking old-school action. Something with ridiculous stunts and explosions that defy physics.”

  “Now you’re speaking my language,” Paul said, nodding. “I’ll swing by.”

  étienne gave a lazy salute before stepping out into the street, disappearing into the late morning crowd.

  The door swung shut behind him, and Paul exhaled, settling back into his usual spot at the counter.

  A quiet day.

  He had them more often than not, even now, despite everything that had happened in the city over the last few months. The news always spoke of Meta-related incidents—heroes and villains clashing in the night, underground groups making their moves, some new threat rising only to be stamped out by another—but those things felt distant.

  Here, in his world, life remained simple.

  Sure, there was always a lingering awareness, a knowledge that things happened, but for most people, Neo Lyon was just a city. A place where they went to work, ran errands, met friends, and argued over coffee about which bakery made the best croissants. The occasional super-powered incident was something to complain about at the bar, not something that defined their daily existence.

  Paul saw it all the time.

  There was the elderly woman who ran the flower shop next door, who spent her afternoons trimming roses and swapping gossip with customers. The street artist who set up across the tram station every morning, painting over old posters with bursts of color and sharp, rebellious strokes. The group of teenagers who always loitered outside the bakery at lunchtime, debating loudly over the best way to sneak into concerts.

  Life went on.

  Even when the skyline bore scars of battles long past—charred buildings that had yet to be repaired, street signs still bent from some forgotten clash—people simply adjusted. They walked past the reminders without dwelling on them.

  That was how the city worked.

  The bell jingled again, and Paul straightened, expecting another customer. Instead, Nico strolled in, a messenger bag slung over his shoulder, already halfway through pulling a record off the nearest shelf.

  “Hey,” Paul greeted. “Weren’t you supposed to be meeting with your editor today?”

  Nico waved a dismissive hand, flipping the album over to read the tracklist. “Rescheduled. Or, well, he rescheduled. Probably realized I was going to spend the first twenty minutes arguing about deadlines.”

  “Classic Nico.”

  “Damn right,” he muttered, putting the record back. “You heard from Liz?”

  Paul hesitated. “Not recently.”

  Nico gave him a look, but didn’t push. He never did. Instead, he just wandered toward the listening station, pulling his headphones around his neck.

  Paul busied himself with the counter again, flipping absentmindedly through the store’s inventory book. He found himself lingering on old notes—things Liz had written in the margins months ago.

  Restock on punk section—someone cleaned it out last week.

  Ask Paul why the hell we still don’t have any good metal albums in here.

  A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips.

  It was different now.

  Liz had always been sharp, opinionated, quick to fight over the smallest musical disagreements just for the hell of it. But now…

  Now, she didn’t argue.

  Now, she didn’t linger.

  Now, when they talked, it felt like she was only half there, like she was listening to something beyond the conversation. Watching things he couldn’t see.

  She used to love this place.

  Now, she barely came around.

  The thought sat uncomfortably in his chest.

  Grief really changes people, he thought, before getting back in motion.