A coffee cup was set down in front of him with a loud clack. Benedict grimaced when he recognized the drip coffee. He needed a proper cup of coffee—though the kind he liked was something he would probably never be able to drink again. The swill in front of him was not only nearly undrinkable; it also reminded him every day of what he had done.
Of the person he had lost, even though he had never truly belonged to him.
And of the deal he had made—a deal that, in retrospect, felt as though he had struck it with the devil himself.
"Don't make that face when I went out of my way to bring you a cup," Sebastian said, sounding slightly reproachful.
Benedict snorted quietly, lifted the cup, and took a cautious sip. The moment the liquid touched his tongue, his expression twisted again.
"This stuff really eats holes in your stomach."
Sebastian shrugged and leaned back a little. "Unfortunately, your favorite barista still isn't working. I was there this morning. Right now, it's just the owner behind the counter—with some kind of temp."
The words hit Benedict harder than he had expected. A painful stab shot through his chest.
"Probably because of his colleague's death. They did work together, after all," he replied.
For a moment, grief threatened to rise within him, heavy and overwhelming. He felt it pushing forward, clawing its way to the surface. But he pressed his lips together and forced it back down, deep inside, to where no one could see it.
Sebastian took a sip of his coffee without so much as blinking and then set the cup down again.
"Who would've thought one of our phantoms was the little grinning kid from the café," he finally said. His gaze darkened, thoughtful. "The kid wasn't even twenty, damn it."
Benedict nodded slowly. The words seemed to stick in his throat.
"I mean, it was kind of obvious our underground rats had their fingers in it," Sebastian went on, rubbing his face in frustration. "But that someone like Noah was part of it… I never would've guessed. Especially not that he'd turn out to be the son of the Big Boss—Leviathan himself."
Sebastian dragged a hand over his face again.
"I always thought he was just a completely normal young man. The thought that my little one might someday be able to hide things from me as well as he did… it makes me sick just thinking about it."
He let out a slow breath, as if trying to rid himself of the thoughts.
"At least we caught one of the thieves," he added, his voice hardening. "Even if it pisses me off that it had to be him."
Benedict nodded again, reached for his cup once more, hesitated briefly, and then took another sip anyway. He regretted it immediately. With a curt motion, he pushed the cup away, as if trying to shove not only the taste but also the memories aside.
He cast his friend an inquisitive glance.
"Do we know who shot him yet?"
Sebastian shook his head. "None of our people. That much is certain."
Benedict leaned back in his chair.
It was still unclear who had killed him. However, he was fairly certain it had been someone trying to take a shot at the boss of the Leviathan cartel. The problem was, they had never seen the boss. No one knew what he looked like.
They only knew Noah was his son because one of his henchmen had tried to retrieve the body.
What exactly had happened before that, Benedict only knew from Sebastian's and Jasper's accounts. For him, there was a gap there.
He couldn't even say what had happened to him during those three days. One moment he thought Noctis was about to turn him into minced meat, and the next he woke up with the worst hangover of his life.
He had been nauseous, and his entire body had felt like nothing but soreness. Yet aside from a few bruises, he had been fine.
Thinking back on it now, everything felt like a fever dream gone wrong. Benedict could no longer clearly tell what had been real—and what hadn't.
What was certain, however, was how unsettling the influence of the man named Vincent seemed to be. He had arranged for hospital records stating that Benedict had been admitted with a bleeding head wound after allegedly being found in an alley behind the museum.
Vincent had inflicted the wound on him afterward.
Right after sealing their deal. He had knocked him out, and the next thing Benedict remembered was waking up on the couch in his apartment.
Part of him still hated himself for the kind of deal he had agreed to.
Who would have thought he would ever go this far? To offer his own body as part of a deal—just to finally catch Dan's murderer.
And yet he hadn't hesitated for a single second.
So far, nothing had happened, and Benedict had no idea when Vincent intended to claim his part of the bargain.
In return, Benedict had to keep to himself that Isaac had been the phantom thief Moonshadow—and that he himself had been tortured. He wasn't allowed to say anything about Vincent either, of course. On top of that, Vincent wanted to sleep with him.
A web of lies and half-truths that kept tightening around him.
All of it felt like a ridiculous price for his revenge on Dan's killer—even if the thought of having to sleep with Vincent repulsed him. He had wanted Isaac for so long that the idea of being intimate with anyone else felt distant, almost unreal.
But a deal was a deal, and he had already agreed.
He would do whatever it took to finally get his hands on that bastard.
Only afterward had he learned that Noah hadn't just been some player, but the phantom thief Ink Phantom—and that he had been shot the very same evening.
The same evening Benedict had killed Isaac.
The memory of Isaac bleeding out beneath him still haunted his nightmares. And every time Benedict woke, it felt as though his hands were still stained with blood.
There was nothing he wanted more than to undo what he had done. If there were any way to turn back time, he would seize it without hesitation. He wanted to see Isaac again—wanted to see with his own eyes that he was alive, that he was okay.
Thief or not.
Better a living Isaac behind bars than a dead Isaac in the ground.
Though even that wasn't certain.
They had made him disappear. Perhaps there was nothing left of him that could still be called human—not just because of decay. The mere thought made Benedict's stomach tighten.
Sebastian studied him for a while before breaking the silence.
"You look rested," he finally said, then tapped lightly against his temple. "Is the wound healing well? It's been eight days. Are you sure you should already be back here?"
Benedict forced a tired smile.
"I can't exactly leave the guys to handle the case on their own. The precinct's in chaos, and the Leviathan cartel is breathing down our necks because they want the phantom's body back."
Besides, it distracted him.
From Isaac. From the night of the heist. From Noctis.
And those dark eyes that had looked at him with an intensity that still lingered beneath his skin. A man who had apparently desired him so much that he had been willing to hand him his fiancé's murderer, tied up with a bow.
When had his life become so complicated?
"Well, at least you caught one of the thieves. That's a start," Sebastian pulled him out of his thoughts.
"With a bit of luck, nothing else will be stolen. At least not by that particular duo," Benedict agreed.
All the while knowing that both thieves were dead. And that no one would ever find out.
"I'd really like to know who this Moonshadow was. Do you think it was someone else from the café?" Sebastian asked quietly.
Benedict shook his head. "If you mean Isaac: no. I spent enough time with him to rule him out."
Another lie. Lately, the lies seemed to come to him more and more easily.
Sebastian sighed, stretched, and let his gaze wander briefly around the room.
"It's a shame, because it's pretty suspicious that he suddenly can't be found. The case in the alley behind the café is still unsolved, and there are no leads on the bodies or the two perpetrators. Then he just happened to take a spontaneous vacation at exactly that time, and now he's still not back at work after Ink Phantom was killed," he yawned. Then he grinned at Benedict. "But I trust your judgment. Your gut feeling rarely lets us down. Besides, now you can fully throw yourself into your romance."
"Mhm," Benedict muttered.
He stared at the barely touched cup of coffee and sighed.
"Nothing's going to come of it with Isaac. He has a lover," he said absentmindedly.
"Oh… I didn't know that," Sebastian murmured. "Sorry."
Benedict waved it off.
If only you weren't dead… there was still so much I wanted to learn about you…
For example, how Isaac had become Moonshadow. Since when he had been part of the cartel, and why the incident with the scar back then had been covered up. He wanted to know where his family lived, who his parents were, and what kind of life he had led before they met.
…and he wanted to know whether Isaac had truly regretted ever meeting him.
That sentence still lingered.
Once again, grief for the man he had fallen in love with surged through him. A man he had spent far too little time with—and who, apparently, had never loved him, not even in the slightest. Unrequited love was cruel. He had been rejected, and Isaac was dead. There was no way to win him over now. All he could do was accept the reality that came with that mysterious man.
"Want to grab a drink tonight?" Sebastian pulled him out of his thoughts again. "We could celebrate catching one of the thieves. And honestly—it's been way too long since the three of us went out together."
For a brief moment, the impulse was there to simply agree. To go along with it, to pretend for a few hours that everything was normal.
But he dismissed it immediately.
"Sounds good," Benedict said instead, with a trace of regret. "But I'm already booked this weekend. My mother's been on my case for days, saying I should finally come visit her again."
That, too, was a flat-out lie. He had no intention of seeing his mother, and he wasn't busy either. Instead, he was keeping himself available in case Vincent called for him. Something told him that this man was rather spontaneous when it came to arranging meetings—despite his calm, relaxed demeanor.
"That's a shame," Sebastian said. "Say hi to your parents for me, okay? I haven't seen them in ages."
"Will do," Benedict replied curtly.
"Then let's do something next weekend. I've got nothing planned, and Jasper probably doesn't either. Can't think of anything but work that would stop him."
Benedict laughed. "So he's free and just doesn't have an excuse."
Sebastian gave him a sly smile.
"Exactly."
"Alright, I'll keep Friday evening open," Benedict promised.
By then, he should have settled things with Vincent—and his revenge. After all, Vincent had offered to give him the name.
"Sounds good."
Afterward, he threw himself back into documenting Ink Phantom's last heist and didn't finish his workday until long after the day shift had gone home. He had no reason to go home, and there was no one waiting for him early in the morning at Café Noir.
When he left the precinct around nine o'clock, a man in a suit suddenly approached him. He had an elegant build, blond hair, and looked to be in his late twenties.
"Mr. Johnson?" he addressed him without preamble. It didn't sound like he was trying to confirm his identity.
Benedict stopped.
An uneasy feeling crept up his spine.
"Yes?" he asked, already preparing himself for a fight. The situation felt as surreal as this suited man standing in front of the police station.
The man glanced briefly at his watch, then back at him.
"The boss would like to see you in fifteen minutes," he said calmly. "If you hadn't finally come out of the precinct, I would have had a serious problem."
A fleeting smile.
"Forgive me for the rough handling."
"Wha—"
Benedict got no further.
With a swift, precise movement, a sack was pulled over his head. Darkness. At the same time, several hands grabbed him. His arms were restrained, bound.
He had no chance to react.
Seconds later, he was shoved into a car. A door slammed shut, then another. The engine started.
He couldn't see anything. Only hear.
The faint rustle of fabric. The weight of other bodies in the car. At least two. Maybe more.
He forced himself to breathe steadily. His pulse was elevated, but his mind remained clear. The question wasn't whether he was in trouble—
but with whom.
Was it Vincent?
Or the boss of the Leviathan cartel?
Both options carried their own consequences.
Either way, no one would want to harm him—for now—so he went along without resistance. Fighting back would have been pointless. It had sounded like at least two others had gotten into the car—if not more.
He was outnumbered, blind, and in no position to defend himself effectively.
If Vincent was the one who had "picked him up," he probably had nothing to fear.
If it was the boss of the Leviathan cartel, then he would need to conserve his strength until an opportunity to escape presented itself.
___
When the sack was pulled from his head, he found himself standing in an elegantly furnished office. Benedict squinted against the sudden light and looked around. The walls were wood-paneled, adorned with several pictures—family photos, images of children playing, and even posed groups of soldiers.
His gaze finally settled on the man sitting casually behind the desk, studying him with dark eyes.
"Vincent," Benedict growled.
A faint smile touched Vincent's lips. "Why so hostile? Aren't we business partners?"
Benedict's eyes narrowed. "If you consider this an appropriate way to treat your partner, I should seriously reconsider whether I continue working with you."
"That would be a pity. But the decision is still yours," he replied calmly.
Vincent stood and approached him with smooth, deliberate steps. His dark eyes remained fixed on Benedict.
"Well then? Shall we get down to business?" he asked in a seductive tone.
He stopped close in front of him. Benedict instinctively tilted his head back to maintain eye contact. Only now did he notice how tall Vincent was—at least a head and a half taller.
There could be only one thing he meant by "business."
Benedict let out a quiet snort. "I'm not in the mood. So I hope, for your sake, that you've at least prepared," he hissed.
A brief blink, then a soft laugh. Vincent leaned forward slightly. Instinctively, Benedict stepped back twice—a mistake. Vincent followed immediately, pressing him further until his back hit a sideboard.
"Did you really think I'd let you have your way with me?" Vincent murmured, his deep, calm voice seeming to resonate through Benedict. His hand rose, resting against Benedict's cheek. The touch was unexpectedly gentle. His fingers slid slowly down his neck, lingering a heartbeat too long. "Did you think I'd give you control for even a second?"
Benedict lifted his chin defiantly. "I thought you were looking forward to being taken by me."
The words hung between them for a moment. Then Benedict himself realized how wrong he had been.
His mistake became painfully clear. How could he have agreed to any of this?
He had assumed he would be the one penetrating Vincent. All his life, he had been aroused by being in control during sex. But giving himself to this man—this criminal—and letting him fuck him was an entirely different matter.
No… he couldn't do that.
A twisted, knowing smile flickered across Vincent's face, as if he had read every one of those thoughts. He leaned in, his lips close to Benedict's ear.
"Your words are braver than your body language suggests," he murmured.
An involuntary shiver ran down Benedict's spine. Betraying. Physical. In complete contradiction to the clear impulse to pull away from this man.
Vincent let his lips brush lightly over Benedict's neck.
"You agreed to this," he said quietly. "I'm not forcing you… am I, Officer?"
The word hit him like a blow.
Benedict shoved him away, hard enough to create space. He fixed him with an angry stare. "I agreed, yes. But that doesn't mean I submit entirely to your terms."
"Oh?" Vincent straightened, stepping back just enough to observe him as though he were an interesting object. "That's unfortunate. Because on that point, I'm not willing to negotiate."
His thumb brushed once more beneath Benedict's left eye. His expression turned thoughtful.
"But I am curious," he added. "How far your principles go… and when they begin to crumble."
Benedict held his gaze, even though his pulse was racing faster than he liked. The room suddenly felt too small, too quiet, and far too warm.
"Ever since I saw you, I've wanted you," Vincent said calmly. "And honestly… the thought of breaking your pride gives me a certain pleasure. I like it when there's a bit of resistance."
"Which just proves what a sick bastard you are," Benedict hissed.
Vincent barely shrugged. "Maybe. Or just someone who knows what he wants." His voice darkened. "Let it happen. I'll take good care of you. And you won't forget this night."
It was precisely that confidence that made Benedict's blood boil.
The thought of Isaac tightened his throat for a moment. Too fresh. Too close. Too much. And the idea that Vincent would be the first man to enter him was not what he had imagined when he agreed to this deal. Even in his wildest fantasies with Isaac, he had always been the one in control—or at least the one who brought him pleasure with his own body.
The thought of Isaac only dragged his mood down further.
"Go to hell," he growled.
Vincent studied him with interest. But before he could say anything else, Benedict pulled him close and kissed him. He didn't want to think about Isaac—and if he rejected Vincent here, he would never get the man who murdered Dan.
Benedict decided he had to endure all of this to reach his goal. No matter how repulsive it felt. Eventually it would be over, and then he could erase this night from his memory.
He would need a lot of alcohol to forget this.
"Then at least make an effort," he muttered roughly. "Maybe I'll get in the mood."
A slow, satisfied grin spread across Vincent's face. "Threaten me all you want—it only turns me on more."
A moment later, Vincent kissed him. His lips were softer than Benedict had expected, given that large scar, and he kissed him both gently and with clear desire. But even though Vincent wasn't a bad kisser, Benedict couldn't focus on him.
His thoughts kept drifting back to Dan—and to Isaac.
Over the past few days, he had been able to distract himself with work. Now that he was supposed to relax, he found he couldn't.
"Damn it, just get it over with," he murmured breathlessly at some point.
Vincent pulled back immediately. The change was abrupt enough that Benedict looked at him in irritation.
Vincent now regarded him with an expression that was far less amused than before—more dissatisfied.
"This isn't even remotely enjoyable," he said at last, his tone calm.
He tilted his head slightly, his gaze sharpening. "What's going through your mind?"
Benedict didn't answer.
"What's distracting you?" Vincent continued. "Isn't this exactly what you want? The murderer of your fiancé?"
"This isn't even remotely enjoyable," he repeated. He tilted his head a little, his expression turning thoughtful. "What's running through your head? What's distracting you? Isn't the murderer of your fiancé exactly what you want?"
"Cut the psychoanalysis and just get on with it," Benedict snapped.
Vincent leaned closer. His dark eyes seemed to look straight into Benedict's soul.
"Tell me what you're thinking about," Vincent demanded quietly.
Instead of answering, Benedict unbuttoned his shirt, baring his chest in defiance.
"My thoughts are none of your business. The deal was that you get your damn sex, and I get the murderer of my fiancé."
A quiet, almost dismissive scoff escaped Vincent. But he didn't move. Instead of coming closer, he simply left Benedict standing there, turned around, and walked back to his desk. There, he leaned against it casually, crossed his arms, and regarded him from a distance.
"I have no interest in sleeping with a dead fish," he replied dryly. "Yes, I have my… preferences. Control is part of that." A brief, assessing look. "I do enjoy dominating others—but only when there's a certain level of consent between both parties. I have no interest in rape, and in your case, that's what it would be."
The words hit harder than Benedict had expected. His hand clenched into a fist as he looked away. For a moment, he said nothing, visibly struggling with himself.
"It's just… been a damn long time," he finally muttered, more quietly than before. "And the last one I wanted it with is…"
His voice trailed off.
Silence.
Vincent watched him closely this time, without mockery—rather with a certain, hard-to-read interest.
"So that's how it is," he said thoughtfully. "Do you want to see him?"
Benedict froze.
Slowly, he looked up. "What are you talking about?"
His pulse quickened. A thought shot through his mind so suddenly that he could barely grasp it himself.
Had Vincent already brought the murderer here?
His fingers began to tremble slightly. If that were true… if it really was that simple…
Did he really just have to let Vincent have his way with him, get the murderer, and then simply go home? Could he end it all tonight?
But no matter what Benedict expected, he wasn't prepared for Vincent's next words.
He pointed at Benedict's bare chest.
"Button it back up—and don't you dare open a single one of those buttons again until I undo them myself, one by one," he said. "We're going to pay him a little visit. After that, I expect you to make a bit of an effort to satisfy me. After all, I'm giving you something that wasn't part of the deal."
Confused, Benedict began fastening his shirt again. The situation had shifted so abruptly that he struggled to keep up.
"What the hell are you talking about?" he growled.
But Vincent only shot him a serious look.
"Let's just say I see an opportunity for both of us to get what we want… in more ways than one," he said, without offering any further explanation.
That only confused Benedict even more. He no longer even thought about the fact that Vincent would demand his full attention afterward—whatever came next had completely displaced that concern.
Without another word, Vincent turned and stepped out into the hallway. After a brief hesitation, Benedict followed him. They walked down a long corridor, their footsteps echoing dully against the floor. Then they turned a corner. And another.
Benedict felt an uneasy sensation spreading within him.
How large is this place?
He couldn't tell where they were going, nor could he make out their location through the windows.
"Where are we going?"
Vincent stopped in front of a door. Slowly, he turned to face him and looked at him directly.
"To Isaac," he said calmly. His eyes seemed to watch for every reaction Benedict might have.
Benedict stopped dead in his tracks. For a moment, everything in him shut down—his pulse, his breath, even his thoughts.
"Isaac is dead," he finally managed, his voice trembling uncontrollably.
Vincent raised an eyebrow slightly.
"Is he?" he replied, amused. Then his expression turned serious again. "Although… his current condition isn't exactly the best." A brief shrug. "See for yourself."
Without another explanation, he pressed the handle down and opened the door.
"I've brought you a visitor, Isaac."
"Get out," someone replied without any audible emotion.
The voice was rough—and yet it belonged to the man Benedict had believed he had killed. As if on autopilot, he began to move. Step by step, he approached the open door, as though something invisible were pulling him toward it.
That couldn't be possible.
So Noctis had lied? He had heard the pain and loss in his voice. He could still feel the desperate blows and knife wounds. Had he imagined all of it?
He stepped into the doorway and looked into the room. Isaac sat on the bed.
Paler than Benedict had ever seen him. Bandages peeked out here and there beneath his shirt. The scar on his neck wasn't hidden—clearly visible. He looked disheveled, his face slightly flushed and faintly sweaty. Even the bandages weren't properly arranged.
Vincent hadn't been lying when he said Isaac wasn't in the best condition.
Isaac sat upright on the bed, staring at Vincent—until his red eyes fixed on Benedict.
In that moment, it felt as though someone forced air violently back into his lungs. As if something inside him that had already died was abruptly dragged back to life.
Isaac was alive.
He wasn't dead.
He hadn't killed him.
The realization hit him with such force that his knees gave out. He had to grip the doorframe to keep from collapsing.
"Y-you're alive…" he managed.
Isaac tilted his head. His red eyes narrowed with hostility.
"What are you doing here?"