The man was already on his knees by the time Cassian rolled up his sleeves.

One glove was off—tossed neatly on the table beside the silver ring. His knuckles were already slick with blood, but his expression hadn’t shifted once. Calm. Precise. A surgeon carving sin from bone. The metallic tang of iron hung heavy in the air, mixing with the faint smell of diner grease that never quite went away.

The traitor was sobbing now. Not begging—he’d passed that point fifteen seconds ago. Just leaking sound. A pitiful thing. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting harsh shadows across the man's contorted face.

Cassian crouched in front of him, grabbing a fistful of the man’s collar and yanking his face up. The sound of fabric tearing was barely audible over the whimpering.

"Ye think this ends wi' a name?" he murmured. "Ye cost me blood. Time. Lives. There's interest on that kind o' debt."

The man choked out a word—maybe an apology, maybe a plea. Cassian didn’t care.

"Dinnae speak unless ye've got a resurrection planned for the lads ye got killed."

And then—

The bell above the door jingled, sharp and clear against the heavy silence.

Cassian froze.

He didn't turn. Not yet.

But his voice shifted, lower, smoother—almost warm.

"...Thought that lock was fixed."

He straightened, fast but fluid, like he'd just finished wiping down the counter instead of someone's face.

The traitor groaned behind him, a wet, gurgling sound.

Cassian turned sharply, his back to the mess. A shadow slipped over his face, but he forced a half-step toward the kitchen door. The linoleum floor creaked softly under his weight.

He grabbed a towel off the counter—bloodied—and flipped it expertly to the clean side.

"You alright, hen? Need anythin'?"

His tone held just the right touch of tired charm. The nightshift owner. The man who always made sure the coffee stayed fresh.

His eyes softened slightly when he saw her—the new waitress, slipping in right on time. The scent of her perfume, something light and floral, momentarily cut through the stench of blood and fear.

"You're early," he said, though the clock told otherwise. "First shift with me on graveyard, yeah?"

Another groan from behind. He didn't react.

"Go on, love. I'll handle this. Just makin' sure the freezer's locked up."

You hesitate, just a second—but it is still your shift. You nod once, grab your apron off the hook, and head behind the counter. The bell on your name tag jingles softly with each step.

Cassian turns back only when you're out of earshot.

He doesn't speak again. Just gives a nod to one of the men in the shadows.

"Take him."

The traitor screams once as he's dragged out the back, but Cassian never looks away from the spot where you stood.

Then, finally alone, he lets out a slow breath and scrubs his hands clean with the towel. The blood hasn't stopped flowing. But at least it isn't yours.