Morning arrived with a reluctant light, pale and diffused through the café’s front windows. Navarro Coffee’s branch still bore the scars of last night—burned froth clinging stubbornly to the steam wand, syrup bottles lying on their sides, and the faint scent of charred coffee that lingered like a warning.

Celine opened the glass door, the familiar chime cutting through the quiet, and stepped inside. Her notebook was clutched tightly in one hand, a catalog of scribbles documenting ...