The Heart System Nov Chapter 411

Chapter 411: Chapter 411

We stepped out into the snow, the supermarket lights buzzing ahead, Alia still shaking her head like she’d just learned a secret she wasn’t sure she was allowed to know.

Alia and I walked toward the supermarket together, our steps syncing without trying. The air was cold enough to sting a little, the kind that crept into your sleeves and stayed there. Her breath puffed out in short clouds, and she kept her hands buried in her coat pockets.

The automatic doors slid open as we reached them, letting out a wash of warm air that slled like bread and disinfectant. Inside, the place was bright—too bright—white lights humming overhead, reflecting off the tiled floor. Carts rattled sowhere behind us. A scanner beeped rhythmically at the registers. Everything felt busy without being loud.

The cigarette counter was right near the front, behind the checkout lanes. Packs lined up behind the cashier in neat rows, all colors and warning labels. The woman working the register barely looked up when I stepped forward.

I told her what I wanted. She reached back, grabbed the packs, slid them across the counter. I paid, stuffed them into my jacket pocket.

I turned to Alia. "Have you eaten anything yet?"

She shook her head. "Nope."

"Well," I said, glancing around, "since we’re here... want to eat?"

She didn’t hesitate. "Yeah. Sure."

"Where?" I asked. "Your call."

Her mouth curved into a small, confident smile. "I know a place. They make the best flatbread wraps."

I raised an eyebrow. "That’s a bold claim."

"It’s close," she added. "I walk there from the company all the ti."

I nodded. "Alright."

We headed back toward the exit. The doors opened again, the cold rushing in—and that’s when I noticed him.

A man stood just outside, one hand resting on a shopping cart. Late forties, maybe. Short. Thick through the middle. A white beard that looked more neglected than styled. His jacket was worn thin, and his eyes lingered in a way that made my skin crawl.

Alia saw him too. I felt the shift in her imdiately. Her posture tightened. Her steps slowed just a fraction. She was suddenly alert, like she’d flipped a switch.

The man didn’t move. Just watched.

I didn’t say anything. I stepped a little closer to Alia as we passed him, close enough that our arms brushed. The cart squeaked softly when he shifted his weight.

We kept walking.

After a few seconds, Alia cleared her throat. "It’s... it’s there. Just across the street."

I nodded. "Okay."

We stopped at the crosswalk. Red light. Cars rushed past, tires hissing against wet pavent. I glanced back over my shoulder.

The man was still there.

Still looking at us.

I looked away before Alia could notice. The light changed, and we crossed. Halfway over, I checked again. He hadn’t followed. He was just standing there, staring, until a passing car blocked my view.

The place Alia led

to was small, wedged between a pharmacy and a closed bookstore. Warm yellow light spilled out through fogged windows. The sign above the door was slightly crooked, hand-painted, the kind of place you didn’t find unless soone told you about it.

Inside, it felt instantly different. Softer. Safer. Wooden tables, mismatched chairs, a chalkboard nu with smudged handwriting. The air slled like grilled bread, garlic, herbs—comforting in a way that hit before I even realized how tense I’d been.

A small bell rang when we walked in.

Behind the counter, a woman looked up from the grill and smiled like she recognized Alia.

"Told you," Alia said quietly.

I glanced around. A couple sharing food in the corner. Soone typing on a laptop with headphones on. Low conversation. The steady sizzle from the kitchen.

"Yeah," I said. "You did."

We stepped further inside, letting the door close behind us. The cold, the street, the man outside—none of it followed us in.

For the mont, it was just warmth, food, and the feeling that we’d landed sowhere we were ant to be.

We slid into a small table near the window. The chair creaked when I sat, wood worn smooth by a thousand other people leaning back the sa way. Alia set her coat on the empty chair beside her and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, still a little stiff, like she hadn’t fully shaken whatever happened outside.

A waiter ca over—a guy around our age, apron dusted with flour, smile easy and practiced.

"What can I get you two?"

Alia didn’t even need to look at the nu. "Two lamb flatbread wraps. Extra yogurt sauce. And fries to share."

He turned to . "What about you, sir?"

I nodded. "Yeah. I’ll take whatever she’s having."

Alia glanced up at , surprised, then smiled faintly. The waiter scribbled it down, gave us a quick nod, and disappeared back toward the kitchen.

The silence settled in right after. Not heavy, just... there. The kind that made you aware of the hum of the lights, the scrape of cutlery from another table, the soft music playing sowhere overhead.

"So," I began, resting my forearms on the table. "I, uh, I kinda noticed that man. Back at the supermarket’s parking lot."

She didn’t look at

right away. Just stared at the table, fingers tracing the grain in the wood. "Yeah..."

"Who was he?" I asked. "If you don’t mind

asking?"

"It’s..." She muttered, her jaw tightening. "No one."

"Right," I said slowly. "Okay."

"Yeah..."

Awkward didn’t even begin to cover it. I leaned back slightly, letting it drop. Whatever that was, she clearly didn’t want to open it up here.

While we waited, I took the place in properly. The walls were covered in old photos—black-and-white shots of the street from decades ago, a faded picture of the shop when it first opened. There were handwritten notes taped near the counter, thank-yous from regulars. A small shelf held jars of pickled vegetables and spices, labels written in looping script. It felt lived-in. Real.

The sll coming from the kitchen made my stomach growl before I could stop it.

Our food arrived on chipped ceramic plates. The flatbread was blistered and warm, folded over thick slices of at, lettuce, tomatoes, onions, sauce dripping just enough to be ssy. The fries were golden, dusted with sothing that slled like paprika and salt.

"Careful," Alia said as she picked hers up. "They overfill these."

I took a bite and imdiately understood why she liked the place. The at was tender, smoky, the sauce cool and sharp against it. I chewed slowly, nodding.

"Okay," I said. "Yeah. You win."

She laughed quietly, the tension easing just a bit. We ate for a while, trading small comnts about work, about nothing important. The way people do when they’re circling around sothing without touching it.

I reached for another bite—and caught movent in the window.

My stomach dropped.

The man stood outside, just off to the side of the glass. Sa jacket. Sa beard. Sa eyes. Alia’s back was to him. She had no idea.

I stared at him for a second too long. He noticed. Our eyes locked.

I exhaled through my nose and set the wrap down. "Hey," I said lightly, standing. "I need to make a phone call. I’ll be right back, okay?"

She nodded, distracted by her food. "Yep."

I walked toward the door, then paused, glancing back. Alia was still eating, unaware. Good.

I pushed the door open and stepped outside. The cold hit

imdiately. I closed the door behind

and turned.

The man was still there. But now he wasn’t looking past .

He was looking straight at .

"Well..." I muttered under my breath. "Let’s see what he wants..."

I walked toward him, stopping a few feet away.

"Hey," I said. "You’re looking for soone, man?"

"Mm?" he muttered, eyes narrowing. "Who are you?"

"No one," I said. "Answer my question, please."

"No one, huh?"

"Why are you looking at Alia?" I asked. "Are you so sort of stalker?"

"Stalker?" He scoffed, then shook his head. "I’m his father."

"Father?"

He spat on the ground, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then turned and started toward the crosswalk.

I stood there, scratching the back of my head as I watched him go. Her father? They didn’t look anything alike. He looked like he hadn’t taken care of himself in years. Alia was... the complete opposite.

What kind of relationship did they have?

Or he could’ve been lying. That was just as likely. Plenty of creeps in the world said whatever they needed to get away.

Either way, one thing was clear—she hadn’t been happy to see him.

"Huh..." I muttered. "Her father, huh?"

The door chid softly when I stepped back inside.

Warm air hit my face again, carrying the sll of grilled at and spices, sothing buttery underneath it. I let the door swing shut behind

and paused for half a second, glancing over my shoulder through the glass.

She hadn’t noticed.

Alia was still sitting there, shoulders slightly hunched, fork moving absently from plate to mouth like she was eating on autopilot. Her eyes were down, fixed on the food, lashes low. Whatever she was thinking about, it wasn’t what was in front of her.

Good.