Page 21 of Push My Buttons

I check my watch as I approach Grounded: 2:17 PM. Way past my usual morning coffee run. The café will be mostly empty now, caught in that post-lunch, pre-afternoon-rush lull. Part of me considers skipping it altogether—disrupting my routine makes my skin itch—but the headache pounding behind my eyes demands caffeine.

Plus, I might see her.

Wren.

Silence.

The quiet barista with pink hair who's also the silent sniper who's had my back in countless virtual firefights. The revelation still feels surreal, like finding out your favorite book character suddenly works at your local library.

I push open the door, the familiar bell jingling overhead. As predicted, the place is nearly deserted. Just a couple of students with laptops in the corner, and a businessman talking loudly on his phone by the window.

Maya isn't at the register today. Instead, it's Marcus, the shift manager who always looks like he's one spilled latte away from a meltdown. He nods at me, recognizing a regular even if I'm hours off schedule.

And then I see her.

Wren is at the espresso machine, her back to the counter as she cleans. Her pink hair is pulled into a messy bun, exposing the delicate curve of her neck. Even from here, I can see the tension in her shoulders, the meticulousness of her movements that reminds me so much of how Silence operates in-game—methodical, aware, always scanning for threats.

I approach the counter, rehearsing what I'll say. Should I reveal that I know sign language? That I know she's Silence? That I'm WrathSpawn? The possibilities make my heart race uncomfortably.

"The usual?" Marcus asks, scowling at me and already reaching for a cup.

"Yeah. Thanks." My voice comes out rougher than intended. I clear my throat. "Black coffee and—"

"No ginger scones left," he interrupts. "Blueberry okay?"

I nod, even though the substitution makes me wince internally. Routines matter. Consistency matters. But some things are more important than scone preferences.

Like the fact that Wren has turned around now, and her eyes briefly meet mine before darting away. Does she recognize me as WrathSpawn? Has she made the connection I have? The uncertainty makes my fingers tap an anxious rhythm against my thigh.

I'm about to step toward her when Marcus suddenly reaches for the remote control, turning up the volume on the small TV mounted behind the counter.

"Breaking news," the announcer's voice cuts through the café's ambient music. "After an eighteen-month manhunt, authorities have apprehended serial killer Lucien Cain at the scene of what appears to be his latest victim."

The name hits me like a physical blow. Lucien Cain. The Reaper. The man whose gruesome murders dominated headlines last year before he vanished without a trace. Even I, who actively avoids news, couldn't escape those stories.

My attention shifts to Wren, and what I see stops my breath.

She's frozen, the cleaning cloth slipping from her fingers. Her face has drained of all color, lips parted in silent horror as she stares at the TV screen. The reporter continues, but I'm no longer listening to the words—I'm watching Wren's reaction with growing alarm.

Her chest rises and falls too rapidly. Her hands begin to tremble, then shake violently. She backs up until she hits the wall, eyes wide and unseeing.

She's having a panic attack.

I know the signs intimately—I've had enough of my own. The dissociation. The hyperventilation. The feeling that you're dying, even when logically you know you're not.

Marcus hasn't noticed, still watching the TV with morbid fascination as they show footage of police leading a handcuffed man into a squad car.

"Cain was found at a residence in Cedar Falls, where authorities discovered the body of—"

I don't hear the rest because Wren makes a small, choked sound—not quite a whimper, but close enough—and slides down the wall until she's crouching, arms wrapped around herself like she's trying to hold her body together.

Move. Do something. Help her.

The commands ping through my brain, but my body locks up. Social interaction is hard enough on a good day. This? This is crisis territory. The rational part of my brain catalogs options, probabilities, appropriate responses, while the rest of me fights through the paralysis of indecision.

But then Wren's eyes find mine—wide, terrified, pleading—and something clicks into place.

I don't think. I just move.