The rich aroma of roasted chocolate and nuts that clung to Illy coffee demanded nothing less than perfection, starting with the roasting process, the grinding, and even down to the precise way the barista handled the tin, brushing away the invisible specks of dust with his finger. The tin itself reflected the lamps like a perfectly polished bullet.
"This is more than just coffee," Rava explained as he measured beans into the grinder. His voice was a carefully controlled whisper, as if revealing a closely guarded secret. "It's like conducting a full orchestra."
Iris and Ivi, stationed behind the counter, glanced at each other. Iris stifled a laugh, biting her lower lip, and leaned in, elbows on the counter.
"Nine different varieties of Arabica, and not a single Robusta bean. Do you know why?" Rava didn't wait for a response. With scarred, slender fingers, he positioned the portafilter with surgical precision. "Just one wrong note and the entire symphony falls apart."
The grinder then burst to life, transforming beans into a fine powder. Iris snorted quietly and hastily covered her mouth.
"He's having a 'perfectionist day' all right," she whispered, her hand touching Ivi's arm. "Did our shift schedules change without any notification?"
Ivi remained silent. She pulled her hand away, approaching Rava and watching the dark espresso flow into the cup. His profile appeared to be carved from stone, shadows etched under his eyes, his jaw tightly clenched.
"When was the last time you slept?" she asked, raising her voice to be heard over the machine's hum.
Rava's eyes smiled, his lips didn't. He couldn't answer.
How could he admit he hadn't slept at all?
The shop's door chimed open and a customer stepped inside, rain speckling his coat. The long coat, soaked around the edges, smelled of leather and metal. He removed fogged glasses, wiped them on his sleeve, and let his gaze settle on the scarlet Illy can.
"Illy," he stated. Both a statement and a question. "Interesting..."
Rava pivoted slowly, his motions unusually graceful, as if he were hesitant to disrupt the stillness.
"You know, this brand is a favourite among hitmen?"
"Why is that?" Iris interjected.
The stranger smiled. He ran a damp finger down the glossy menu and then drawled:
"Because it's flawless... just like a perfect hit."
The air thickened. Even the coffee seemed to lose its scent.
"Ahem." The customer cleared his throat, shaking rain from his sleeve. "Double espresso. And one chocolate macaron."
The line of customers was endless, and their movements had the precision of a well-oiled machine, each person appearing to give zero indication of weakness.
Rava stood at the espresso machine, his fingers moving with cold precision like a surgeon: dosing, tamping, extracting. At the till, Iris flashed honeyed smiles with a predator's glint in her eyes, lightly flirting as she tried to sell "brand-new" raspberry cupcakes to the drone, that they had been on the menu for over a year. Simultaneously, Ivi was quietly moving between the tables, collecting crumbs, swapping out ashtrays, and pretending not to notice the weary faces of the office workers.
During these shifts, time distorted strangely, the minutes blurring into a dull, monotonous routine where any thought you might have was simply out of place. But it was a false sense of ease. Hidden under the surface of flawless efficiency was a quiet, creeping unease, akin to trapped air bubbles in a ruined espresso shot.
Working in food service was nothing more than performance art.
Rava had learned this lesson the hard way, in two years, and it was etched in his bones. Here, you couldn't appear with lifeless eyes, or hide behind your headphones, or tune out on your phone screen from eight to six. A café expects you to merge into the environment.
Every customer had to feel like they were the only person in the audience. Even if they were that perpetually displeased accountant who'd been ordering something 'between an Americano and a lungo' for five years, you had to feign that his whims were the most vital thing to occur all day.
Smile.
Nod.
Fake interest.
And continue until the shop closed.
No breaks.
No allowance for a bad mood.
Rava's phone would come to life like clockwork every thirty minutes.
By agreement, it couldn't be turned off, but the constant hum of the espresso machine provided the needed cover. The girls never asked who was calling. He did everything he could to ensure he appeared unbothered. For the clients working in peace, the disruptions had become a genuine nuisance.
"Hey, I'm in a video conference!" A man yanked out his earbud and scowled at the barista meticulously crafting a latte. "Aren't you taught proper work conduct?"
"My apologies," Rava replied without looking up.
"Your apologies don't change anything!" The man stuffed his things in his bag and rose. "Unprofessional service. Utterly unacceptable!"
The door slammed hard enough to rattle the display cases. Other customers quickly followed.
Rava inhaled sharply, grabbed his phone, and declined the call. But the moment he began typing a response, it rang once again. And again. Finally, his fingers shaking with frustration and fear, he answered:
"I'm at work. Off at eight. Stream at ten. Sleep by twelve. Back here at seven."
He hung up before a reply could come. Even the thought of that breathing at the other end of the line sent a wave of panic rising up his throat.
He was scared. Terrified.
"One espresso, one latte with a cinnamon roll." Iris's sharp voice yanked him back.
"One espresso, one latte with a cinnamon roll," Rava repeated mechanically, reaching for the grinder.
The end of the workday was nearing.
They were all utterly depleted, so, without speaking, they agreed to clean up together, nobody wanting the burden of leaving it for just one person. When the last chair had been flipped and the floor gleamed in the dim lighting, the clock struck nine in the evening.
"I lied to him."
The realization had clung to Rava since he'd triple-checked his phone for the fifth time. He deliberately said his shift finished at eight, not nine. Just a one-hour variance, but in his world, even a minute carried weight.
He could already imagine the consequences: a split lip that would bleed for three days; the throbbing ache in his ribs that would make every movement agony; bruises on his thighs that would prevent him from sitting properly for a week; the raw, torn skin beneath. In the first few months, Rava had tried resisting, but back then, the punishments lasted for longer and cut far deeper. His tormentor genuinely believed they were equals in this game, as though their equal height somehow equated to equal strength.
The door crashing open shattered his thoughts. The owner of the coffee shop strode in, a large man in his ever-stained T-shirt, looking more frazzled than ever. Sweat rolled down his flushed face, soaking into his shirt collar. He gasped for air as if he'd just run a marathon before lunging for the water tap.
Two full mugs vanished in a single go. Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, the owner straightened up and announced to the café:
"We are going to be the most famous coffee shop in the city! No! The country!"
His enthusiasm hung in the air, unanswered. The café was packed already, nestled between the business district and the old town, and it serviced hundreds of customers daily. To the staff, it merely signaled a never-ending cycle of exhausting shifts.
Iris and Ivi sunk into their seats in silence, exchanging weary glances. They understood this was the beginning of a long monologue.
"A diplomat's son is joining our team." The owner paused for dramatic effect. "Blaine Crosby."
Rava gave a disinterested nod, still wiping down the espresso machine. The name meant nothing to him - just another newbie who would likely disappear in a few months, like everyone else who came before him. But extra hands were always welcome.
"As long as he knows how to make coffee," Rava shrugged, pouring himself the last of the cold espresso.
The evening suddenly felt a little brighter.
Until the phone rang.