The café door swung open, the small bell above it ringing clean and bright.
Warm outside air pushed in around Raphael as he stepped through and pulled the door shut behind him. Across the crowd, his eyes found the stalker immediately.
Even in forty-degree heat, the man was wearing a black hoodie. Mask on. Sunglasses on. The full ensemble.
He realized he'd been spotted. He turned and ran.
The food district at midday was dense with people, families, couples, tourists with bags, children moving unpredictably in every direction.
Running in a straight line wasn't an option for either of them.
Raphael didn't hurry. He maintained a fixed distance, not closing, not falling back. Close enough that the man couldn't pretend he'd lost his pursuer.
Far enough to let the panic build at its own pace. The oldest kind of hunting: patient, inevitable, waiting for the prey to spend itself.
The stalker kept looking back. Every time he did, Raphael was exactly where he'd been.
