Tamar clocked in at The Brass Boiler at 5:00 AM, city drizzle plastering dark hair to her temples. Dark circles ringed her eyes as she stared at the gap where her front window used to sit. Instead of shattered glass, three burly men in canvas overalls wrestled an opaque, reinforced slab into place. “Morning,” Tamar grunted, sidestepping a stack of steel reinforcement beams. A worker sporting a snarling boar tattoo on his neck jerked upright, startled to find a barista standing in his construction zone. Revaz had not vacated the corner booth since she locked up last night. His enormous skull lifted, amber eyes fixing on her face. A grinding rumble vibrated through his ribs as he stood up, fur grazing the plaster ceiling. The boar-tattooed worker flinched backward three paces when the beast scanned the room with bared teeth. “What in the name of stale grinds is all this?” Tamar pointed a thumb at the pane. “Is that ballistic polycarbonate? Because that looks suspiciously like ballistic polycarbonate. I didn’t approve military retrofits.” Revaz nudged a discarded work glove with a clawed toe, then looked at her with an expression that was remarkably close to smugness. He let out a series of huffs and soft growls, a conversational rumble that Tamar was beginning to understand was his version of a detailed explanation. It mostly conveyed, ‘I bought the block. This is my shop. It is safe now. For you.’ Tamar pressed her lips into a thin line. “You bought the *block*? With what? Pack gold? Do you even have a bank account? This is going to play havoc with the natural light. And the aesthetic. The Brass Boiler is about rustic charm, not… fortified bunkers.” She eyed the men struggling with another heavy panel. “And the noise! How am I supposed to serve a decent latte with all this racket?” Just then, the hum of an expensive engine cut through the din. The sleek black town car from last night pulled flush to the curb, its paint gleaming under streetlamps. The rear door clicked open, and a figure stepped onto the sidewalk. The workers dropped their tools onto drop cloths without a word. He was immaculate, a stark contrast to the gritty urban landscape. A charcoal suit, tailored with ruthless precision, draped over a lean, powerful frame. His face was sharp, chiseled, and utterly devoid of warmth. His eyes, the exact same unsettling gold as Revaz’s, surveyed the damaged shop and its resident beast with a look of profound disgust. Revaz let out an enraged snarl that rattled the floorboards, every muscle coiled to kill the man in charcoal. “Revaz,” Malkhaz’s voice was a low, resonant baritone, laced with a steel that made the very air feel colder. He ignored Tamar completely, his gaze fixed on his son. “This squalor. This… *performance*. It ends now.” Revaz’s growl deepened, shivering the newly laid floor brackets. Hackles spiked along his spine as he planted his broad shoulders between Tamar and the newcomer. Malkhaz’s lip curled. “Do not forget your lineage, boy. Do not forget your duty. The *Ashkalo* have gathered. Your betrothed awaits. A true heir, of the purest blood, is paramount. This… *human* is a distraction. A temporary indulgence. A stain on our name.” He finally deigned to glance at Tamar, a dismissive flicker of contempt in his golden eyes. “A pathetic vessel, unfit to even bear your scent, let alone your name.” Tamar, who had been wiping down the counter with a cloth, paused. She looked at the suited man, then at the shattered copper portafilters scattered across the counter from Revaz’s earlier tantrum. “Sir,” she said, her voice flat, “we’re short-staffed, and my primary steam rig is scrap metal. If you’re not ordering a drip, take the family drama to the curb.” Malkhaz blinked, taken aback by her utter lack of fear. A flicker of something predatory, something beyond mere disdain, crossed his face. “You dare address me, human? You, who reek of cheap chicory and burnt roast? You think your words hold any weight?” Revaz loosed a roar that rattled ceramic mugs off their hooks and made the new reinforced barrier buzz like a tuning fork. A toolbox crashed against linoleum. Overhead, three fluorescent tubes popped in rapid succession, showering the floor with glass dust and killing the room's power. With a dying whine of sheared brass, the backup steam boiler on the side counter crumpled inward, spitting grease and severed wiring. Tamar stared at the ruined copper boiler, exhaling through her teeth. “Wonderful. There goes my secondary boiler. Revaz, sit down. Now I can't even foam milk.” She turned her flat gaze back to the stranger. “Look, sir, I appreciate that your family has boundary issues. But this is a licensed business. If you’re not buying a scone, pay for the wiring or get off my property.” The tailored intruder stood rigid, gold irises narrowing to slits at her indifference. With a dismissive twitch of his chin, he pivoted toward the door. As he passed the metal waste bin near the entry, his fingers dipped into his breast pocket. A small, corked vial of viscous, luminescent silver liquid dropped cleanly into the paper napkins and used grounds. A moment later, a faint hiss rose from the trash can, followed by the acrid smell of burning plastic. A thin wisp of smoke curled upwards. Tamar glanced at it, her brows furrowed in mild irritation. “Great. Now the trash is on fire. Just a normal Tuesday.” Malkhaz was already in his car, the door clicking shut with a soft thud. The engine hummed to life, and the town car slid into traffic, swallowed by morning exhaust. Revaz watched the tail lights turn the corner, then nudged Tamar's hip with a snout the size of an anvil. Tamar wiped a smear of soot off his nose with a bar rag. “I’m fine. I need nicotine. And two grand for replacement brass piping.” She grabbed her pack of cheap cigarettes and a worn lighter, pushing open the heavy back door that led to the alley. The air outside was damp and cold, carrying the faint, metallic scent of rain and wet concrete. She leaned against the brick wall, pulling out a cigarette, the worn lighter clicking a few times before catching. The small flame illuminated the grimy alleyway, revealing overflowing bins and graffiti-scarred walls. As she took her first drag, the bitter taste a familiar comfort, a shadow detached itself from the deeper gloom near the Dumpster. Then another. And a third. Three figures, dark and bulky, emerged from the alley’s oppressive shadows, their faces obscured, their hands holding the unmistakable, glinting shapes of suppressed firearms.

Bulletproof Glass and Bad Tippers