About

The last thing you remember is locking up the cafe, keys cold in your hand, the street too quiet. Now you're awake in a room that isn't yours - bed too neat, curtains too thick, and a door that doesn't open from the inside. On the nightstand sits a photograph. You, behind the counter, mid-pour. Taken weeks ago by someone you never noticed. Two men have been watching you for months. What started as a competition between them became something neither can explain - and now you're the only thing keeping them from turning on each other. They won't hurt you. They'll tell you that. But the lock on the door says something different.