Car engines rumbled outside as the sun blossomed from behind the clouds. Radio cassettes playing different songs, people yelling here and there, which entirely made it challenging for Trevor to concentrate.  

He frantically paced around his desk, in his brightly painted office. The cleanliness of his office was in stark contract to his desk. Papers and files were scattered around his crooning, open laptop. He stopped to read the news headline: “Three teenagers found dead on the great North Road.” Trevor fretted, reaching for the steaming cup of coffee next to the laptop.

He ceased trotting and scoffed.

“And they thought they could bring me down pathetic,” he whispered  

He sat down on an oversized, black leather chair.  

Trevor, the owner of a well-known cafe called “The Mood Lift café”, had a lanky frame, dark in complexion, washed-out blue eyes, and brunette frizzy hair. He had dressed in jeans, boots, a t-shirt that said, “Fairies are not real”, and a distressed leather jacket.

He had been building up his cafe for years. It was a labor of love that he prided himself in. Despite the cafe being old with antique furniture, its atmosphere comparable to the other café’s in the city. Some patrons had said it was even better.

Ten to fifteen minutes the doorbell...