Isaac cracked his stiff neck.
He had spent half the night working on his new commission and thinking about how he should deal with the cop. Unfortunately, without finding a really good answer to his problem. He still couldn't say for certain whether it truly was a problem, but it never hurt to be cautious and to have a plan.
Even now, he couldn't say with certainty that it was actually an issue. Maybe he was exaggerating, maybe it was pure paranoia. But caution was never wrong, and having a plan had saved his life more than once. So he had thought, discarded a few ideas, started over—only to throw everything out again. Over and over.
Still, the night hadn't been entirely wasted. The work itself had had something meditative about it. He had a clear vision of what he wanted to paint next. Luckily, his current commission was once again well within his comfort zone. He had been tasked with painting two men fighting each other—or rather, who had fought. One lay dead on the ground, while the other sat over him, driving his sword into the other man's chest.
The victor laughed. A triumphant, almost mad laugh. But Isaac intended to paint the reflection of a crying face in the loser's blood—the face of the victor.
A contradiction. Triumph and despair frozen in a single moment.
The painting would be melancholic, dark, heavy. One of those works that art lovers would stand in front of for a long time, unable to say exactly why it wouldn't let them go. Isaac loved those details. The small fractures, the subtle hints at something deeper. And if he could believe the critics, that was exactly what the people of the city loved about his work.
Though, in truth, their opinion didn't matter to him.
He didn't paint for them. He painted the way he wanted to. Not the way others expected.
So yes, he knew how he wanted to realize the painting. But he hadn't found any answers. Not for the cop, and not for what was brewing in the background.
Isaac yawned and wiped a tear from his right eye. The night had been too short. Like so many before it.
He hadn't told anyone what those guys had demanded of him. Neither Noctis nor anyone else knew about it. Just thinking about it made unease rise within him. If other clans learned about his abilities, he would have a serious problem.
Especially if the boss caught wind of it.
After all, it was a closely guarded secret—one protected with the same level of security as a state secret. And that was precisely why it could never be allowed to leak. Never.
He urgently needed to deal with it. Those guys were already on his internal to-do list. As soon as he had sorted things out with the cop, he would have to track them down. One by one.
The cop, however, was a problem in his own right. Perhaps even a bigger one than Isaac wanted to admit.
Not for the first time, he wondered whether his life would be easier if he were a little more social. If he let more people get close to him. If he could simply talk to someone about something trivial for once, without analyzing every word, without constantly being on guard.
At the same time, he was more than aware that he lacked that ability.
He might have perfected many things. He was unbeaten at so many of them. So much he had drilled into himself—or had beaten into him—until he had damn well spat blood.
But none of that had prepared him for what he was now planning to do with the cop.
And that unsettled him more than he wanted to admit.
Because the plan had always been to spend his entire life as a ghost.
He was still a ghost, but that wouldn't remain the case for long if the cop kept digging his heels into Isaac's phantom thief persona.
When the cop comes, I should just behave like I always do, Isaac thought quietly to himself as he took the next order. The less suspicion the guy developed, the better the plan would go.
It would work out somehow. He had watched enough people have casual conversations. He had seen plenty of couples flirt and overheard enough lines when others had tried to draw him into a conversation. Besides, it wasn't the first time he'd had to improvise.
Even if he didn't like dealing with other people, that didn't mean he didn't observe them. Maybe he should pay a little more attention to how his customers behaved toward him.
His current customer looked tired and uninterested. Her gaze was glued to the smartphone in her hand while Isaac took her order. Without looking up, she murmured that she wanted a coffee to go. What else would it be at this hour?
Isaac had opened the café only half an hour earlier, and if he thought about it, the first customers he greeted were rarely in a good mood. Most of them more or less tumbled out of bed, hurriedly got ready for work, and then rushed out the door to at least grab a coffee on the way.
Very few took the time, like Isaac did, to get up calmly and eat at least a small breakfast before leaving the house.
If he behaved toward the cop the way this woman had, he could forget it right away. That was no way to strike up a conversation. He definitely wouldn't get anywhere like that.
He needed a different solution.
How did Noah always behave toward the guests? He was a relaxed, carefree guy who liked to flirt—preferably with female customers. He smiled and laughed a lot. In all the years Isaac had known him, he had rarely seen him serious or angry. But Isaac would have to make a full 180-degree turn to be able to act like Noah.
Kieran fit a similar pattern to Noah, even if he was sometimes a bit more serious. And Noctis…
Isaac sighed softly.
There was no real role model he could simply follow. Each of them was open and approachable in their own way—qualities Isaac had never truly learned. But one thing was clear to him: he would have to open up to the cop at least a little if he wanted to get closer to him. Without trust—or at least the appearance of it—this would never work.
He just needed a bit of preparation, and then it would all somehow work out.
He hadn't even finished the thought when his next customer was standing in front of him—and of course it was the cop's turn next. Isaac almost groaned in irritation. Luck was really never on his side.
Which was one of the reasons why he planned everything so meticulously.
He had to focus.
The cop looked at him as usual. Slightly annoyed, clearly tired, and yet generally friendly. If it weren't for that sharp gaze with which he studied him, as if he were trying to see behind the façade. Presumably, the incident from last Saturday was still on his mind.
Or maybe he was sizing Isaac up right now. After all, he was a cop—observing, weighing, judging were part of his everyday work.
Maybe he was sizing Isaac up.
Isaac could, of course, be imagining it.
Don't screw this up, Isaac. Maybe this is your only chance…
He took a deep breath.
It'll be fine.
"Good morning. What can I do for you?" he asked politely.
Should he smile? Better not. He hardly ever smiled—what would be more suspicious than doing so now, when the cop was already watching him closely?
He should just behave the way he always did.
The corner of the cop's mouth twitched slightly. "A black coffee and a few egg sandwiches to go, please," he said in a friendly voice. Isaac paused for a moment. Had he been wrong after all?
He nodded to the cop and began preparing the egg sandwiches. The man was currently the only one in the café—a lucky coincidence amid all the mess that was going on. At least this way, he could test the waters without being disturbed.
The soft hum of the coffee machine filled the room.
"Are you feeling better, Isaac?" the cop finally asked.
Isaac paused briefly, then replied calmly, "I'm fine, thank you for asking."
He lifted his gaze and looked the cop straight in the eye. "Also about Saturday. I'm sorry I wasn't quite myself in that moment."
The cop seemed to study his features. Finally, he nodded.
"Those guys looked more than dangerous. Did you report them to the police?"
Isaac shook his head. "I didn't, but my boss reported the incident," he sighed. "Luckily, nothing else happened."
"Probably because you managed to get all three of them out in time," the cop said confidently. "There aren't many people who can stay calm in a situation like that."
"There's generally very little that rattles me," Isaac replied.
This felt like a damn interrogation. So the cop hadn't let him off the hook after all. Isaac's scar ached, as if the cop had shot him again. Had he been that obvious? Was it really so wrong to stay calm when someone aggressive was standing in front of you?
Damn it—if Isaac hadn't thrown the men out, something definitely would have happened. And nothing would have been worse than showing others that he was more than capable of fighting.
But this damn cop seemed to have seen enough to latch onto him.
How to tell someone you're a cop without telling them you're a cop, Isaac thought irritably.
The cop could try whatever he wanted—he wouldn't find anything, and everything he thought he saw in Isaac would come to nothing. Isaac would make sure of that.
"Probably my behavior in that moment simply helped," he continued.
"Don't be so modest, Isaac. You handled the situation really well."
Isaac placed the wrapped egg sandwiches on the counter. Then he tilted his head slightly, studying the man in return. "You sound like you've been on the job for a while."
"Actually, no," the cop said with a smile. "I'd just arrived when you broke free from the guy's grip. Impressive, by the way. I was just about to step in."
"Good thing you didn't. You could've gotten hurt," Isaac said. His gaze drifted over the cop's muscular torso, outlined beneath his shirt. "Though you don't look like someone who couldn't defend himself."
Isaac was glad he didn't have as pronounced a muscular build as the cop. Despite training regularly, he was more on the lean and defined side. You could really only tell he worked out when he wore a T-shirt and his arms were visible. One of the main reasons he preferred wearing a sweater at work—at least when the weather allowed.
The cop chuckled at Isaac's remark.
"I train a lot, though I'm not sure whether pure muscle training would help me in a real fight."
A blatant lie, Isaac thought. That guy definitely does more than just strength training.
"Do you train as well, Isaac?" the cop asked innocently, his gaze wandering over Isaac's body.
Isaac nodded. "I have a few weights at home."
"Where did you learn to break free from a grip like that?" the cop asked bluntly.
He's getting bolder with his questions, Isaac thought.
He forced himself not to show his irritation.
"I regularly attend self-defense classes," he said instead. He placed the black coffee on the counter. His gaze locked onto the cop's. "With my looks, I tend to get into trouble faster than I'd like."
Something flickered in the cop's eyes. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly and looked away for a moment before continuing.
"Sorry, that question might have been a bit too personal."
"No problem," Isaac replied.
The cop studied him again, this time less sharply, almost thoughtfully. "You're not the most talkative person, are you?"
"Not really," Isaac replied. "You, on the other hand, are. Maybe it's your manner that tempted me into a conversation."
The cop laughed. "Sorry for asking you so many questions."
"Don't mention it," Isaac said. "Did you manage to get the answers you were looking for?"
Surprise flashed in the cop's eyes. He paid for his order and gathered his things.
"Maybe," the cop said with a grin as he turned toward the door. "By the way, a smile would probably suit you. See you tomorrow!"
"See you tomorrow," Isaac replied.
As soon as the cop was out of sight, Isaac slowly let the air leave his lungs. Only now did he allow his shoulders to drop ever so slightly.
His performance hadn't been perfect, but maybe he had managed to slip out of the situation a little. The cop had questioned him—damn it—and it had all felt completely natural! Even if Isaac had wanted not to answer, he probably would have.
He didn't like the guy.
Did they teach this kind of thing at the damn academy? Isaac could only hope the cop had less interest in him now. Because unlike the cop, he was a damn bad liar.
He replayed the conversation in his mind as he began cleaning the work surface. But nothing stood out. The exchange had gone better than expected. Now he just had to keep playing the innocent barista of Café Noir, as usual. He had only told the cop things that could genuinely be attributed to him.
Luckily, his boss had ensured a clean record.
Isaac really would have liked to know the man's name, but he hadn't wanted to push his luck.
When the next bell rang and the next customer entered, he focused on his work again. He should enjoy the small success for as long as he could.