the glass house

The Glass House

Café, Old London 2047

Many things were happening at The Glass House that day. Dillon was busy hand-drying a coffee mug with a blue microfiber towel, while friends and locals enjoyed their usual drinks. John Belmont, a regular, was on his fourth cup of coffee. Dillon kept an eye on everyone in the café: six people sat at the bar drinking tea and coffee, two couples occupied tables, a gentleman in the far corner read his newspaper while having breakfast, and there was a woman—stark naked—in the trunk of Dillon’s car.

To the average onlooker, Dillon appeared to be a calm, middle-aged man with two light grey eyes that were almost colorless. He always wore a faint smile and spoke deliberately, a habit from years of training that made him choose his words carefully. There was a quiet confidence in the way he moved, no matter the situation. His past was written in the streaks of grey that now touched his once jet-black hair.

Dillon had just finished drying the mug and was about to place it on a silver hook when a man at the bar spoke in a heavy British accent.

“Another dark for me, sir!” the man called.

Dillon gently hung the mug and turned to pick up the regular’s cup.

“John, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you spent your afternoons here to get away from the missus,” Dillon said with a creeping smile.

“It’s not the missus, it’s the bloody newborn! It’s like he’s paid to annoy the piss out of me!” John replied, watching as Dillon refilled his mug for the fifth time.

Dillon paused. “Well, mate, you’re going to have to face the news sometime.”

John sipped his coffee, eyeing Dillon. “What news might that be? That I’ve bloody ruined any chance of sleeping for the next ten years?”

Dillon chuckled. “Mate, you’ve been here for two hours ‘getting baby food,’” he said, gesturing air quotes with his fingers. John sighed dramatically.

“Bollocks! You’re right. She’s going to kick me to the bloody dog house again.” He shook his head and set his mug down on a white coaster as Dillon pressed the HOT button in the middle of it, keeping his drink warm.

“In for a penny, in for a pound, I always say,” John muttered. “Might as well stay and finish the cup.” He raised his mug in a mock toast and focused on the television. The news reporter was speaking:

“We’re coming to you live from Unicell in London, where there’s been a breakthrough in the technology coming out of their laboratories. Just last week, Unicell was working with top researchers from NASA and other international experts aboard the Space-Station Observatory orbiting Mars-”

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John interrupted, “Those ruddy lemons at the space station have been spending my hard-earned tax money on ridiculous inventions for the last decade. Honestly, you’d think civilized people would do more than just stare into space all day. Quite literally.”

Dillon replied after a pause, “It all works out for us in the end, mate. Take a look at the table you’re resting on. It’s wirelessly charging your phone and heating your coffee mug. Now, that’s mighty civilized if you ask me.”

John frowned slightly. “You know, I try not to think about such things. I can’t even imagine how any of it came about.”

Dillon grinned with a mischievous glint in his eye. “Speaking of such things…” he winked. “Meet me after last bell, round the back at the Jag.”

John groaned. “Oh, come on! The missus is already going to have my balls in a scrambler. I shouldn’t even finish this cup!”

Dillon laughed. “In for a penny, in for a pound, you always say.”

They both chuckled.

For the next hour, Dillon played the part of the humble café owner, serving customers, refilling orders, and maintaining the cozy atmosphere. But as last call came and went, the warmth and chatter of the café began to give way to the cold quiet of the night. Dillon took a deep breath; this café was his sanctuary from the life he’d left behind, and it was a break he knew he deserved.

“Is it bloody well time now?” John asked, standing and stretching. “I’ve had nine cups of coffee, and I’m fairly certain you don’t have enough latrines to handle what I’m about to unleash!”

Drying his hands, Dillon grinned. “Worth the wait, entirely. Just don’t go shitting about the place, old friend.”

Dillon led John through the back exit, tossing the blue washcloth onto the counter. John followed, still grumbling.

“This better be the dog’s bollocks, mate, or I swear I’ll shit on your beautiful wooden floor.”

Dillon chuckled as they crossed the parking lot to his black Jaguar, the only car in the reserved lot. His mother and employees were the only other people allowed to park there, and they didn’t work weekends.

Dillon approached the car, resting his hand on the front door handle, which scanned his fingerprints. He motioned for John to stay by the trunk.

“You can’t tell anyone about this,” Dillon said, his voice dropping.

John interrupted, “So help me God, I got it.”

Dillon opened the trunk with a single effortless motion. Inside were two Blue Audio 12” subwoofer speakers and a wireless amplifier.

John examined the setup, unimpressed. “You brought me out here to show me speakers? I might just squat and make a deposit in your trunk!” He laughed heartily.

Dillon said nothing, walking over to the driver’s seat and motioning for John to open the passenger door. “Take a look at the edge there,” Dillon instructed, pointing to the seam between the seat and the door.

John, confused, asked, “What am I looking for?”

Dillon pointed again. “See that button by the seatbelt? Press it and pull the seat down.”

John hesitated but pushed the button and pulled the seat down, revealing only a hard, grey surface that blocked access to the trunk.

“And what’s so special about this?” John asked, skeptical.

“Pay close attention,” Dillon said with a grin. He turned up the volume on the car’s console, then pressed a series of buttons before lowering the volume back down.

A faint click echoed behind John. He turned and saw that the grey panel had shifted, revealing two pale feet.

John was speechless. He instinctively pulled down the other seat, revealing a woman lying in the space between the seats and the speakers.

He turned to Dillon, his mouth agape. “My God, is she dead?”

Dillon smiled calmly. “Tranquilized.”

John looked back at the woman. She had fiery red hair and wore nothing but a familiar gold bracelet around her ankle.

Her name was Freya, and she was Dillon’s soon-to-be ex-wife.