The Caffeine Station opens before the sun does.
No cars, no diesel, just two tall pumps on a grey slab of concrete: one labeled ESPRESSO, the other DRIP BREW. Both hum like overworked printers.
A man in a suit steps up to the espresso pump with the focus of someone who skipped the “sleep” part of the night. He doesn’t bring a cup. He brings a bucket with a handle, politely branded PREMIUM ESPRESSO. Someone decided that if you print “premium” on the side, it stops being a cry for help.
He grabs the metal nozzle and pulls the trigger. A dark stream pours out, thick and serious. The bucket starts to fill. So do the emails in his inbox, somewhere far away.
Behind him, a line has already formed. Five office workers, same suits, same ties, different levels of regret. Steam curls up from their giant mugs like their souls are trying to escape early.
At the front of the queue, a guy in sunglasses takes a heroic sip and announces, to no one in particular, “I run on premium espresso espresso.” He says it like he’s revealing a biohack, not a warning label.
No one laughs. They just nod, impressed and slightly terrified. The green-faced guy behind him swallows hard. The one in the vacation hat looks like he hasn’t seen an actual vacation since the last financial crisis.
