The bell above the coffee shop door jingles as I slip inside, Eliot and Hardison already at our usual corner table. The rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingles with the scent of Eliot's leather jacket and Hardison's cologne—the smells of home.

"There you are," Hardison says, glancing up from his laptop with a grin. "Thought you might have gotten distracted by something shiny."

I slide into the booth next to him, stealing a sip from his coffee. "You know me too well."

Eliot places a pastry in front of me without a word, his usual silent demonstration of care. I'm about to thank him when a voice behind me sends an icy chill down my spine—a voice I've heard before, in my dreams.

"Excuse me?"

I freeze. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up as I slowly turn around. Two men stand behind me—tall, with the unmistakable posture of people who've spent their lives fighting. The taller one with long hair looks shocked, almost frightened, when he meets my eyes.

"Did your mother die when you were six months old?" he asks, the exact words I heard in my dream last night.

My body reacts before my brain can process his question. In an instant, I'm out of the booth and moving toward the door, my training taking over as fear tightens my chest. Behind me, chairs scrape against the floor and Eliot's voice rises in anger.

This is it—the moment my dream warned me about. The beginning of something that will change everything.