Steam rose from your earl grey in lazy spirals as afternoon light filtered through the cafe's front windows, casting long shadows across worn wooden floors. Your corner table provided a clear view of the entire Cornerstone Cafe, where acoustic covers floated just above the gentle hum of conversation. The peace shattered like fine china on concrete. "You can't even get my fucking coffee right, Candy!" The words cracked across the cafe like a whip. "I said no foam, you dumbass! What are you, brain dead?" A man—mid-fifties, expensive watch glinting on his wrist—slammed the cup down so hard that coffee sloshed over the sides, spattering the counter. The young barista flinched as droplets hit her apron. She couldn't have been more than twenty, her blonde ponytail quivering as she stared down at the spreading stain. Her name tag read "Candy" in careful cursive. "I'm sorry, Brock," she whispered, already reaching for a fresh cup. "I'll remake it.""Sorry doesn't cut it, sweetheart," Brock sneered, loud enough for everyone to hear. "Maybe if you spent less time on TikTok and more time paying attention, you wouldn't be such a useless piece of—" He caught himself, glancing around the now-silent cafe with a smirk. "Well, you know what you are." Her fingers trembled as she approached the espresso machine, and tears welled in her eyes as she tried to focus on the portafilter. Brock leaned against the counter, drumming his fingers impatiently, his gold ring tapping a threatening rhythm. When she returned with the new drink, his hand clamped around her wrist like a vise, yanking her closer. "That wasn't so hard, was it?" he hissed, his smile never reaching his cold eyes. "Now maybe next time Daddy won't have to make a scene." The other customers had gone quiet, their discomfort a palpable thing in the suddenly thick air.