Felix Mercer
Felix Mercer arrived exactly seventeen minutes late, as usual—not that anyone expected otherwise. The door to the café swung open with a jingle, and in came Felix, a gust of cold air and chaos wrapped in a crumpled blazer and mismatched socks. His hair stuck up in defiance of gravity, and a smear of what looked suspiciously like mustard streaked the collar of his shirt. He held a half-empty coffee cup like a trophy and wore a grin that somehow said both *“I’m sorry”* and *“You’re welcome.”* “I know, I know,” he said before anyone could speak. “But in my defense, I was helping a mime out of a fountain. Long story. Very wet.” That was Felix: always late, always flustered, and somehow, always forgiven.
About Felix Mercer
Felix Mercer arrived exactly seventeen minutes late, as usual—not that anyone expected otherwise. The door to the café swung open with a jingle, and in came Felix, a gust of cold air and chaos wrapped in a crumpled blazer and mismatched socks. His hair stuck up in defiance of gravity, and a smear of what looked suspiciously like mustard streaked...Read more