The morning had that unsettling, gray stillness that comes before a storm. Not the weather kind—the emotional kind. Ivy could sense it humming under her skin as she and Elias stepped off the train in Lower Manhattan and walked the last block to a corner café she hadn't visited in years.
It was a tiny place, wedged between a locksmith shop and a shuttered bookstore, with peeling navy-blue trim and worn chalkboard signs that hadn't been rewritten in a decade. Ivy remembered coming as a teenager, pre-school, with her spiral notebook and an extra dollar for coffee she never ordered. At the time, she'd liked the way no one noticed her here. It was invisible in a good way.
Now it wasn't the same.
She looked across at Elias. He was flipping through his notebook, lips pursed slightly as he tracked Jordan Rhys's last known contacts in his head.
"I still think this is a long shot," he said under his breath, not raising his head.
"I know," Ivy said. "But it's the only one we have."
The barista was a young guy with dark curls and earbuds in. He barely looked up when they entered. Ivy approached the counter.
"Hi," she said, "does Maria still work here?"
The guy took out one earbud and blinked. "My mom? Uh—yeah. You know her?"
Ivy smiled kindly. "Sort of. Tell her Ivy's here. She'll remember."
He looked skeptical but disappeared in the back.
A woman in her sixties emerged from the kitchen a few seconds later. Her apron was dusted with flour, and her hair was pulled into a low knot at the back of her head. Her face lit up the instant she saw Ivy.
"Dios mío. "Ivy Casella," Maria said, pulling her into a warm, floury hug. "Are you still alive in this city?"
"Barely."
Maria released her and gave Elias a narrow look.
"This one trouble?"
"Always," Ivy said, and Maria laughed.
They sat in a corner booth as Maria poured them coffee and waved off Ivy's attempt to pay. She slid a plate of warm almond croissants between them.
"She'd sit in that same seat every Tuesday morning," Maria said. "Wouldn't say a word for the first three months. Then one day she gave me a poem. Wrote it on a napkin."
Ivy blushed, but Elias appeared genuinely interested.
"A poem?" he asked.
Maria winked. "I kept it."
Ivy cleared her throat. "As a matter of fact, Maria, we're trying to find someone. I thought you might be willing to help."
Maria's face grew serious.
"His name was Jordan Rhys," Ivy continued. "He worked in city planning. Disappeared a few years back. I believe he used to come here."
Maria glanced over at her son, still standing at the counter with his earbuds in. Then she leaned in.
"You're right. He came in every Sunday, same order—black coffee, two sugars. Quiet guy. Kept to himself."
"Do you know what happened to him?"
Maria hesitated.
"I heard he got involved in something bad. There were people who came asking for him afterward. Not cops. Suits. Quiet, guys. Too clean."
Elias leaned forward. "Was there ever a name? Somewhere he might've gone?"
Maria looked down at the table. "All I remember is a word he used once when he didn't think anyone was listening. "Stillpoint."
Elias's pen stopped. He looked at Ivy.
"Mean anything to you?"
She shook her head. "No, but it will."
By early afternoon, Ivy and Elias were back in the archive. Ivy was digging through the personnel files from the planning department, while Elias scoured his contacts for anything tied to "Stillpoint."
"It could be a code name," he said, pacing. "Or a location. Or—hell, a password."
Ivy was quiet for a long time, then said, "What if it's not a what—but a who?"
Elias froze. "You think Stillpoint is a person?"
I think Jordan was scared. And scared people don't trust places. They trust other people."
Elias tapped his fingers against his notebook. "Stillpoint. Stillpoint."
All of a sudden, something clicked. He grabbed his phone and pulled up an article from five years ago.
"There," he said, indicating. "Local activist group." Very small. They specialized in turning city workers into anonymous whistleblowers. The group was nicknamed 'Stillpoint' on some backdoor boards."
"Did Jordan use them?
"I'd bet on it."
That night, Ivy walked home with a different energy in her step. The danger was real now. But so was the direction. For the first time, she wasn't just reacting—she was moving.
Half a block from her apartment, she spotted a familiar face sitting on the stoop across the street.
Jay, the barista from Maria's café.
He appeared jittery, hoodie drawn low over his face, drumming his fingers against his phone.
She drew near. "Hey. You okay?"
He looked up, taken aback. "Yeah—I just. You should know. Some guy came in after you left. Didn't order anything. Just asked about you."
Ivy's heart tightened. "Did he give his name?"
"No. But he showed a photo. Said you were his sister. Didn't seem right, so I lied. Told him you relocated."
"Good," she whispered.
Jay hesitated, then spoke: "He left something."
He dug into his pocket and gave her a small piece of paper.
No name. Just an address. Written in sloppy block letters.
"Warehouse 16B. 10PM."
Elias was not going to like this.
She walked back toward her apartment, glancing over her shoulder just once.
At exactly 10PM, Elias's voice was sharp and flat.
"You went alone?"
"I didn't go in," Ivy said. "I waited. I watched. It's locked up tight and dark. No movement. But there's a camera. Somebody was watching me."
"You think it's a trap?"
"I think it's a message."
He sighed. "They're getting bolder."
"They're getting scared," she said. "We're close to something."
Elias didn't say anything. He just looked at her—really looked—and something passed over his face.
Admiration, maybe. Or fear.
Or both.