The city doesn’t sleep at 3 a.m. Not anymore. Not when the lattes are humming. I talked to one man who wouldn’t give me his name. Said he’d testify, but only off the record. His hands shook the whole time. I filed it anyway.

The pumpkin sat there under the lamp, quiet as stone. Didn’t say a word. Pumpkins never do. But the numbers? The numbers sang like a canary.

The café smelled like cinnamon and impending doom. Nutmeg on the surface, something darker underneath—the kind of smell that clings to a trench coat long after the rain’s stopped. I ducked in for a bitter black, just trying to dry out, but the air told me different. Too sweet. Too eager.