The next morning arrived with sunlight that felt almost mocking—warm, unbothered, indifferent to the weight settling over Branch One. Celine unlocked the door as she always had, movements steady and precise, but her face was faintly drawn from lack of sleep. The café was still, untouched, but not innocent. Every counter, every machine, every receipt drawer bore the memory of auditors and questions.

She exhaled once—and began.

Mugs realigned. Milk temperatures checked. Delivery logs ...