The Supreme Immortal’s Return To Earth

The Laurent Heiress

The café was called The Copper Kettle.

Adrian had passed it three times before deciding to enter. The original Adrian’s memories offered no opinion on it—the young man had never been able to afford coffee that cost more than a dollar—but something about the quiet corner table and the wide windows appealed to him. He could see the street. He could see who entered. He could see who left.

He ordered tea. He did not know what kind he was ordering, so he chose the first name that sounded familiar. It arrived in a ceramic cup that was too small and too expensive. He drank it slowly and watched the city move past the window.

He had not gone to Voss’s office yesterday. He had not gone today either.

That was strange. He had intended to solve the problem—find the man, make clear the consequences, return home before dinner. It was the kind of problem he had solved ten thousand times before, in a thousand different worlds.

But he had not done it. He had spent the morning walking, and now he was sitting in a café, and he was not entirely sure why.

He turned the cup in his hands. The tea was bitter. He did not mind.

Perhaps he was waiting. Not for Voss—Voss was a small man with small ambitions, and small men did not require careful timing. He was waiting for something else. The Presence had told him the fracture would need addressing, but it had not told him how to find it. He had no leads. No sense of where to begin.

And so he sat in a café and drank tea and watched the street, because it was the only thing he could think to do.

The door opened.

Three men entered.

Adrian noticed them immediately, but not because they were dangerous. They were not dangerous. They were young—early twenties, perhaps—dressed in clothing that was expensive without being tasteful. The kind of men who had never been told no and had never learned how to handle it when they were.

They moved through the café with the casual entitlement of people who believed the world belonged to them. The tallest one—broad-shouldered, with a university jacket that carried a row of athletic patches—laughed too loudly at something one of the others had said. The second one, thinner, with a watch that was clearly trying too hard, knocked against a table and did not apologize. The third trailed behind, quieter, his hands in his pockets, his attention fixed on his phone—until the tallest one nudged him and pointed toward the corner.

They had the smell of alcohol about them. Not drunk, exactly. Still riding the confidence of a night that had not quite ended, the kind of men who had decided that whatever they wanted this morning, the day owed it to them.

The tallest scanned the room for something to be interested in.

He found it.

There was a woman sitting alone at a table near the window. She had been there when Adrian arrived. He had noticed her because she was reading—a physical book, not a phone—and because she had not looked up once in the entire time he had been watching.

She was young. Perhaps twenty or twenty-one. Dark hair, drawn back in a practical knot. A blazer that fit her too well to be cheap. A leather satchel on the chair beside her. She was not beautiful in the way that advertisements defined beauty. She was beautiful in the way that mattered—the kind of face that made you want to know what she was thinking.

The tallest of the three men approached her table.

“Excuse me,” he said. “You look familiar. Do I know you?”

The woman did not look up. “No.”

“Are you sure? Because I never forget a face like yours.”

She turned a page. “I’m sure.”

The man’s smile tightened. He was not accustomed to being ignored. “Come on. Don’t be like that. We’re just trying to be friendly.”

“Then be friendly somewhere else.”

The thinner one stepped closer. “That’s not very polite. We’re just talking to you.”

The woman finally looked up. Her expression was calm—not frightened, not angry. Just tired. The way someone might look at a fly that kept landing on their food.

“I’m reading,” she said. “Leave me alone.”

The tallest man laughed. It was not a kind laugh. “I don’t think you understand how this works. We came over here because we wanted to talk to you. That’s a compliment. You should be flattered.”

“I’m not.”

“Maybe you need some persuading.”

He reached for her book.

Adrian set down his tea.

He did not hurry. That was the first thing people noticed about him when he became serious—he did not hurry. Hurrying implied doubt. Hurrying implied that the outcome was not certain.

He rose from his chair and crossed the café in six steps.

The tallest man had his hand on the woman’s book. The other two were watching, smiling. None of them noticed Adrian until he was already there.

“Excuse me,” Adrian said.