"I'll give you a little time to talk," Vincent said, turning back toward the door, where Benedict was still standing in the frame.
"No need. Take him with you again," Isaac replied coolly.
Vincent stopped. Slowly, he turned around, a faint, almost elusive smile on his lips, and looked over at the injured man.
"No, Isaac," he said calmly. "A bit of company will do you good."
Isaac's only response was a contemptuous snort.
Vincent sighed softly and walked over to Benedict. He placed a hand on his shoulder—firm, but not unpleasant—and leaned down slightly so only he could hear his words.
"Everyone deals with grief differently," Vincent said quietly. "Especially when someone tries to drive away loneliness by clinging to another person… or by falling in love with them."
His fingers brushed lightly across Benedict's cheek, his expression thoughtful.
"Talk things out with him. And think about how we're going to proceed with our deal," he added. "Once you're done here, I want to see you."
Before Benedict could respond, Vincent had already straightened up again. With one last assessing glance at the two of them, he left the room, leaving behind a palpable silence.
Isaac looked at him with a raised eyebrow, but said nothing further.
Benedict, on the other hand, stood rooted to the spot, trying to decipher Vincent's words. What exactly had he meant? Was Vincent urging him to talk to Isaac so he could finally come to terms with his feelings? Or had there been more behind that implication?
Given the hostility in Isaac's gaze—after the raid, after the scene with Noctis he had been forced to witness—he was all too aware that he was in a losing position here.
He had clung to Isaac. To an idea, a possibility that might never truly have existed. The desire to lose himself in this unusually beautiful, closed-off man had grown stronger over time, blinding him to the obvious.
Perhaps he really had behaved like an idiot. But Benedict also knew when it was time to accept defeat.
That didn't mean, however, that he no longer wanted answers from Isaac.
Besides, he was Moonshadow. A criminal.
And Benedict was a cop who placed great value on justice. Vincent's deal might prevent him from revealing Isaac's identity and putting him behind bars—but that didn't mean he couldn't get the answers he was looking for. Even if they would now serve only his own peace of mind.
Benedict took a deep breath, gathered himself, and finally lifted his gaze.
"Isaac…," he began carefully.
"Get out," Isaac cut him off immediately, sharp and without hesitation. "I have nothing to say to you."
Benedict froze at once.
He exhaled slowly. This was definitely not going to be easy. He studied Isaac, whose expression remained hostile and suspicious. He had always been unreadable before, yet there had always been a certain melancholy about him. Now, however, he seemed like a wounded animal backed into a corner.
It was so bizarre that Benedict couldn't help but wonder if Isaac even felt safe here.
On the other hand, he himself had been the one to uncover Isaac's identity—and the one who had nearly killed him. If he were in Isaac's place, he likely wouldn't react any differently.
At least he's still alive…
He was glad Isaac wasn't dead. So glad they had the chance to speak one more time. Benedict paused briefly. If he hadn't learned that Isaac was still alive, he probably would have simply disappeared and hidden somewhere. He would never have known—and would have blamed himself for the rest of his life.
The thought of spending the rest of his life believing he had killed him made something tighten inside him. Guilt that would never fade. Questions that would never be answered.
His hand clenched into a fist.
He owed this meeting to Vincent. He should use this chance.
He wanted to know whether Isaac intended to continue operating as Moonshadow.
But why was Isaac here with the Webster clan and not with the Leviathan cartel? Hadn't Noah been his partner? The idea that those two underground organizations were working together seemed unlikely. If Isaac was here, there had to be a reason.
Damn… he had so many questions…
Benedict took a deep breath and finally stepped toward Isaac instead of leaving the room, as part of him was still urging him to do.
Isaac's eyes narrowed instantly.
"Don't come any closer," he hissed.
Benedict stopped.
His fist tightened, nails digging into his palm—a faint pain that grounded him. His gaze dropped to the clumsily applied bandages and Isaac's exhausted posture.
He didn't look well.
"How are you?" Benedict asked quietly.
Isaac blinked, as if he hadn't expected the question, then let out a scornful snort.
"As you can see—fantastic." He tilted his head slightly, a dangerous, mocking smile playing on his lips. "Now that you've confirmed I'm still alive, you can leave."
His gaze turned colder, sharper.
"Or are you planning to drag me out of here in handcuffs?"
Benedict pressed his lips together. For a moment, he said nothing, visibly struggling with himself.
"I'm not going to arrest you."
Isaac raised an eyebrow, studying him briefly as if weighing whether that statement held any value.
"Well then," he replied at last, indifferently.
Benedict felt something tighten inside him. He forced himself to continue, even though it went against his instincts.
"…Was it all a lie?" he asked quietly.
Isaac's reaction was immediate.
"What are you talking about?" he snapped, irritated.
"What was between us," Benedict replied, keeping his gaze fixed on him.
A brief flicker of confusion crossed Isaac's face.
"What was there between us supposed to be?"
Benedict let out a quiet curse. Tension crept up the back of his neck, making his muscles stiff. He ran a hand over it, as if he could simply wipe the unease away.
"Stop it, Isaac," he said at last, quieter but more insistent. "You know exactly what I'm talking about."
He lowered his hand and looked at him again.
"Your words, your touches, those looks… all the signals you gave me," Benedict began, faltering slightly. "You let me get close. You didn't pull away. I thought…" He broke off briefly, searching for the right words. "I thought the whole time that you wanted more. A relationship, or at least… something."
It sounded awkward, even to his own ears. But he didn't know how else to put it. How was he supposed to put into clear words what Isaac had stirred in him? How much he had looked forward to every single meeting, every fleeting touch, every glance that had seemed to promise more?
Isaac stared at him, shocked.
"I never wanted anything from you," he said without hesitation.
Benedict had expected that answer. Somewhere deep down, he had seen it coming. And yet it still hit him with full force, like a cleanly driven knife.
"Oh… really?" His voice was calmer than he felt. "Then why didn't you ever push me away? Why did you keep agreeing to meet me?"
Isaac met his gaze in silence for a moment. Then his shoulders sagged slightly, and he sighed, as if the explanation annoyed him.
"Because I wanted your notebook."
Benedict blinked, confused.
"My notebook? Why?"
"Because you seem to write down everything that comes to mind about your cases," Isaac replied with a shrug. "I wanted to know what you were planning, what you knew, and what I should expect for the next job."
"That was the reason?" Benedict stared at him in disbelief. "Then why didn't you just steal it?"
"There was never anything more to it," Isaac answered, his tone turning irritated. "Besides, you would've noticed if I'd stolen it, and everything you'd worked out up to that point would've been useless."
Benedict pressed his lips together.
Isaac wasn't entirely wrong with that statement. So he had only approached Benedict to find out what they were planning to do to him. He would have known about all the traps, how many officers were on duty, and where they were positioned.
Isaac would have known everything—and all their planning would have been useless.
"Damn," Benedict muttered quietly.
So he really had imagined all of it.
Ever since that night at the bar with Isaac, he had believed there was something between them. A small spark just waiting to be ignited. Of course, Isaac had always been rather cool toward him, but Benedict had attributed that to his personality. He had never considered that it had all been nothing more than a means to get information from his notebook.
How had he ever been able to believe that Isaac was into him?
"Then why did you paint me? The way you touched me was…"
Indecent. Desirable. Your touches drove me out of my mind.
Isaac sighed softly, as if the conversation cost him more energy than he wanted to admit.
"Everything I told you was the truth."
Benedict looked at him, confused, searching his face for any sign of mockery or evasion—but found nothing except a cool, almost sobering sincerity.
"I would never have painted you if I didn't consider you aesthetically pleasing. But it would be a stretch to interpret that interest as desire. You stimulated my inspiration, nothing more."
Benedict felt heat rise to his face.
While Isaac had regarded him with objective interest, Benedict's own thoughts had been far more… indecent. He had done nothing but project his own desires and needs onto Isaac.
He hadn't seen Isaac—only what he had wanted to see in him.
"I…" Benedict swallowed. "…I'm sorry."
Isaac waved it off.
Benedict exhaled slowly. At least now he knew where he stood, emotionally. But there was still so much more he wanted to know—and somehow he had the feeling this might be his only chance to get answers to all those questions.
"Why did you become Moonshadow?" he finally asked, meeting Isaac's gaze with determination. "How did you get that scar? And what made you get involved with criminals?"
Isaac rolled his eyes slightly, visibly annoyed.
"So will you finally leave if I answer your damn questions?"
Benedict nodded.
"I won't bother you any longer after that," he replied.
Even if it would hurt. This would be a farewell.
Isaac exhaled wearily, as if making a decision internally.
"I became Moonshadow because I have the skills for it," he began. "Not many can match my speed."
Benedict frowned slightly. "So not out of conviction?"
Isaac's gaze shifted, just a fraction.
"I've always done it for the person who matters most to me in this messed-up world."
Benedict paused briefly.
"So that person made you a thief?"
A short nod. Benedict's gaze drifted to Isaac's neck, lingering on the scar. He raised his hand slightly, gesturing toward it. Isaac reacted immediately—his expression sharpened.
"I'm definitely not going to talk to you about that," he hissed. "And I already told you that someone close to me betrayed me. So what else do you want to know?"
Benedict lowered his hand again, hesitated for a moment—then asked the question that had been circling his mind for days.
"I want to know why every single person involved in your treatment is dead."
Isaac blinked at him, confused. "What are you talking about?"
So he doesn't know? Or he's very good at pretending.
"They're all dead, Isaac. The nurses, the doctors," Benedict explained calmly. "I roughly narrowed down when you were treated. After some… research, I found the hospital where a boy—with the same physical characteristics you have—was admitted for several weeks."
He paused briefly.
"I'll spare you the boring details. The fact is: no one is still alive except you and your rescuer."
Isaac stared at him. For a moment, it seemed like the information didn't fully register. Then a quiet, shaky laugh escaped him—one that didn't sound amused in the slightest.
"You're a damn stalker…" he muttered, stunned.
Benedict pressed his lips together briefly. The accusation hit, because it wasn't entirely unfounded. This hadn't been an official investigation. But he didn't back down. Instead, he tilted his head slightly.
"So you really didn't know?"
"No," Isaac replied coolly. "And I don't care."
"Was your rescuer the one who brought you into the cartel?" Benedict asked, undeterred. Isaac had made it clear he knew nothing more about those circumstances. So the answers had to lie with that person. "Was it a subordinate—or the boss himself?"
Only then did he realize he had stepped closer, now standing directly in front of Isaac. He could clearly see his exhaustion. The bruises from the fight. The bloodshot eyes and pale skin. Dark circles under his eyes—and he looked as if he had been crying. His hands trembled slightly, and his posture made it obvious how much effort it took him just to remain upright.
As if sheer willpower alone was keeping him standing.
Isaac's expression shifted. From annoyed to hard. From hard to furious.
"My father took me in," Isaac hissed. "He raised me and taught me everything I needed to survive. He showed me what appreciation is—and what parental love means. He's the only reason I'm still here today."
Benedict's eyes narrowed slightly.
"You were about eight when you were injured. Are you sure he didn't brainwash you?"
The reaction was immediate.
"Watch what you're saying!" Isaac growled, his voice now louder, rougher. "Enough with your damn questions! Just get out!"
He made a restless movement, as if Benedict's mere proximity irritated him.
"I don't want to hear anything from someone who works with people who would just execute a nineteen-year-old!" His voice almost broke. "Just because he made a public spectacle! Noah didn't hurt anyone!"
For a moment, his expression changed completely. He pressed his lips into a tight line and shot Benedict an almost desperate look.
"Were you really planning to kill us?" he asked quietly. "Even though we never killed anyone and always tried to take you down without causing serious harm?"
The question hung heavy in the room.
"My colleagues ended up with quite a lot of stab wounds," Benedict scoffed.
"You started shooting at me with your damn guns!" Isaac shot back. "What was I supposed to do instead?"
"Maybe get a legal job?" Benedict snapped.
Isaac breathed heavily, visibly beside himself, his chest rising and falling unevenly.
"He was killed by someone else," Benedict said finally, his tone calm.
Isaac looked at him, confused. For a moment, the anger gave way to pure incomprehension.
"Then who the hell killed him, if it wasn't you damn cops?!"
Benedict held his gaze.
"I don't know," he answered quietly. "We were prepared to kill one of you, but it wasn't any of us. Someone else was involved."
Isaac said nothing. Suddenly, he looked as though the last bit of strength in him had drained away. His expression turned distant, thoughtful.
"You know who it was, don't you?" Benedict asked.
Isaac's face made it clear that he knew.
Or at least that he had an idea. Benedict needed to hear his thoughts.
He stepped a fraction closer.
"Isaac…"
Isaac's fingers clenched into the blanket, as if holding on to it.
"We're done, Ben," he said quietly.
The way he said his name was subdued, exhausted—and final. He winced slightly as he let himself sink back. A faint groan escaped him, barely audible, as he turned onto his side, giving Benedict his back.
"Enough has happened between us," he murmured. "Just leave me alone."
Benedict stood there, uncertain, until he finally exhaled in frustration. There was no point in continuing. He had gotten answers—but many things would remain unresolved. If they would ever be answered at all.
He turned toward the door, ready to leave the room. Vincent was still waiting for him. He needed to put all of this behind him—quickly.
He paused when Isaac suddenly spoke again.
"…I never had romantic feelings for you. But I did wonder what it would be like if we were friends…" Isaac said so quietly that Benedict almost thought he had imagined it. Then Isaac scoffed. "…forget what I said. We're on different sides. We should never see each other again."
Benedict turned back to him. Isaac was still lying with his back to him.
"Goodbye, Isaac. I hope you recover from your injuries soon," Benedict said sincerely. Isaac might be a criminal who had never felt anything for him, and yet he didn't want him to suffer from the wounds he himself had inflicted. He turned away again. "I wish we had met under different circumstances."
With that, he walked toward the door. Isaac remained silent. But as Benedict reached it, he paused once more and looked back one last time.
"I'm really sorry about Noah. You don't have to believe me, but none of my colleagues shot him. I don't know what's going on in the underworld—but it must have been someone who stood to gain from it."
He closed the door behind him and sank against the wall.
So that was it.
He had drawn a line under whatever had been between him and Isaac—or whatever he had believed had been there. A farewell.
Benedict was glad that Isaac was still alive. He was sad that he would never see him again.
But the relief he felt was so strong that it seemed to drown everything else out. The tangled emotions that had clouded his mind no longer held the same grip. It was as if a fog had lifted. At last, his thoughts were clear again.
Benedict knew what he had to do.