Her teacup emptied, Spencer pushed it to the side of the table. A waitress, dressed in a tuxedo and bowtie that looked out of place in a poxy faux-English cafe, scooped up the teacup and saucer and smiled at Spencer.

"Thank you, sir."

It was so much easier accepting that than to explain how appearances deceived, and that was what Spencer did. With a nod and a smile, she relaxed her posture. During her first days of wearing the metaphorical mask, even casual times led her to watch her surroundings like a hawk. 3 years of a normal life didn't kill that habit. Her eyes darted everywhere. 

The waitress that served her a moment ago had a horizontal scar on her wrist. The old man at the counter hadn't had his shirts ironed in a few days. The woman with her two children was most likely divorced and recently retrenched, but she would lie to keep her kids happy. The white lie was such a strange concept. Perhaps if she had done the same regarding the Undying Man—

A small speck of green gas popped out of the air vents of the cafe, going unnoticed even by the young man sitting next to it. Spencer had little personal expertise in chemistry, but whatever it was couldn't be healthy.

Wordlessly, she stood up and walked out of the cafe, striking the little wind-chimes with the top of her head as she left. Spencer's eyes scanned the rooftops of all the nearby buildings. If someone had wanted her dead, the glint of a sniper rifle scope would be obvious. The streets of this place was not conducive for long-ranged sniping, and she would know. The first few hours of her free-time were spent on rooftops, figuring out the best places for snipers to be. To prevent her death, she had to think like a killer.

The boyish red-headed girl glanced back into the cafe for a moment with a forced, disinterested gaze, and then back out onto the streets. She hoped she was just seeing things.