The steam from the new cup of tea curled slowly between them, fragrant with bergamot and something unsaid.
They sat in silence for a while.
She watched him.
He watched the rain.
Outside, the storm hadn't eased. Inside, the tension hung from the ceiling like invisible thread.
"You really do look… harmless," she said, tilting her head.
"Glasses. Neat hair. That cardigan. It's almost charming."
He chuckled, soft and polite.
"You sound disappointed."
"Maybe I am," she replied, her gaze sharpening.
"You're not what I expected."
He stirred his tea. His voice was calm, almost academic.
"Expectation is a fragile thing. Just like memory. Just like trust."
She leaned forward. Her eyes narrowed.
"And what about truth?"
He smiled.
Still so gentle.
Still so unbothered.
"Truth is for fools who still believe in good and evil."
The tea between them cooled.
Then her hand moved.
Fast. Too fast.
A slim blade slid from her sleeve—silent, silver, gleaming under the café light.
She lunged across the table.
But the space she struck… was empty.
Her knife sank into the seat cushion—fabric tore.
And a second later—
Khả Vũ's voice came from behind her.
"That was rude. I hadn't even finished my tea."
She spun. He stood there—still smiling, still straightening his glasses with one hand.
The other hand?
Holding a letter opener.
Polished. Balanced. Precise.
"Lâm Khả Vũ… Bạch Xà… you're faster than I thought."
"And you're exactly as fast as I predicted," he replied, almost fondly.
"But your grip—your form—there's hesitation."
She launched again.
Steel met steel.
The crash of metal echoed in the small café. Chairs toppled. A teacup shattered, its fragments glittering like broken stars.
He danced between her strikes, movements fluid, graceful—like a man who had once learned combat through philosophy and pain alike.
She aimed for his throat. He parried with a twist of the wrist.
She kicked. He sidestepped—one foot barely touching the ground.
"You're smiling," she hissed, "Even now."
"It's the polite thing to do during introductions," he said, still breathless but steady.
"After all…
you're my guest."
And then—he disarmed her.
A sharp flick. Her blade skittered across the floor.
He didn't kill her.
He didn't even touch her.
He just leaned in, eyes gleaming behind his glasses.
"Next time," he whispered,
"come without the poison in your voice. Or with stronger poison."
He turned away. Calmly. As if they'd just finished discussing a poem.
🥀 The rose doesn't always bloom with love.
Sometimes, it blooms for war.