Met You In Battlefield

Aria I'll never believe in miracles-only survival.

She knew how to fake a smile when a customer snapped their fingers in her face. Knew how to count coins under flickering diner lights. Knew how to breathe through the ache in her feet after double shifts, and how to sleep through the sirens screaming outside her paper-thin apartment walls.

She didn't know luxury. Or indulgence. Or softness.

But she knew grit. And sometimes, that was enough.

The rain fell in sheets that evening, cold and relentless, turning New York's sidewalks into slick rivers of city grime. Aria hunched into her thrifted coat, her cheap umbrella flipping inside out with every gust of wind. By the time she reached the subway station, her socks were soaked, and her tote bag sagged with the weight of her soaked notebook and economics textbook.

It was supposed to be a normal night. A shift, a paycheck, home. That was it.

Then she saw the man.

He was standing on the corner near the diner entrance-motionless, like the rain didn't touch him. Tall, sharply dressed, an overcoat hanging from his broad shoulders like a tailored shadow. His gaze was distant, locked on something invisible through the blur of headlights and wet glass.

Aria only glanced at him for a second. Just enough to register expensive. Out of place. And then she moved on.

She had no time for sidewalk statues in thousand-dollar suits.

The diner was near-empty when she arrived-only a pair of elderly regulars at the back booth and a couple mid-argument over soggy pancakes. The manager, Carla, barely looked up from her crossword puzzle when Aria clocked in.

Two hours passed. Rain kept falling. Life kept trudging.

Then the bell over the door chimed.

She looked up from the coffee pot.

It was him.

The man from the sidewalk.

Now that he was inside, she could see him better. He didn't look wet. Or cold. Or rushed. In fact, he looked like he had stepped into the wrong place by accident but didn't have the energy to leave.

He sat at the far end of the counter, shoulders relaxed but eyes sharp, taking in everything like it was a puzzle he already knew the answer to.

"Coffee?" Aria asked, walking over, pen and notepad in hand.

He glanced at her-only briefly.

And it was enough to rattle her.

His eyes were storm-colored. Not quite blue. Not quite gray. Piercing.

"Yes," he said, his voice low and refined, like he wasn't used to repeating himself.

"Anything else?"

A pause.

"Silence."

She blinked.

"That comes free with the coffee," she said, scribbling a fake note on her pad to give herself something to do. "But you'll have to tip extra if you want me to stop breathing."

His mouth curved.

Just slightly.

The tiniest smirk.

She brought the coffee, setting it in front of him without ceremony. He didn't touch it. Just stared into it like it held secrets.

Aria tried not to look at him again. She failed.

Something about him unnerved her.

Not in a dangerous way.

More like... how a gallery makes you feel when you don't understand the art but know it costs more than your life.

Who sits in a crummy diner in the middle of the night dressed like that?

More importantly, why?

She kept her distance. Cleaned the already-clean sugar containers. Pretended to text. Listened.

He didn't make a single phone call.

Didn't check his watch.

Didn't eat.

Just sipped the black coffee like it was the last warmth he had in the world.

Then, without warning, he stood.

Pulled out a thick black wallet. Dropped three crisp hundred-dollar bills on the counter.

Aria's breath caught.

"That's... too much."

He looked at her.