He’d been brewing it for three weeks now. Each morning, the ritual: grind the spices with a mortar and pestle while muttering the café’s unofficial motto—"No foam, no hope, no refunds." Steam the milk until it screamed. Then, the pour.
Today, however, was different.
He lifted the ceramic mug—chipped, unwashed, perfect—and drank.
He cracked the cinnamon stick with a closed fist. He ground the ginger root until it wept. He pulled a double shot from the machine's "Spite" setting—a hidden dial that Joss had shown him once, after a particularly bad review. The shot came out black as a crow’s heart.
He poured it all together. No stirring. The layers fought each other in the cup.