10:17 A.M.
The café had thinned out.
The morning rush was almost gone, leaving behind the small, careless evidence of people who had already moved on. Cups sat abandoned on tables, rings of coffee drying slowly at their bases. A female barista wiped the counter with the tired patience of someone who had already lived a full day before noon.
Nico leaned back slightly in his chair and exhaled through his nose, as if his lungs were only now remembering how to work.
His hands stayed wrapped around the cup.
The coffee had gone lukewarm. He took another sip anyway.
Across from him, Peter sat relaxed, arms crossed loosely over his chest, posture unhurried but alert. He looked like someone who had nowhere else to be, which somehow made him more intimidating than if he'd been rushing toward something important.
Peter's black suit was immaculate. Not a wrinkle where there should have been one. His homburg hat rested on the table beside his cup, placed carefully, brim aligned with the edge. His blue eyes were sharp, observant, missing nothing. Short blond hair was combed neatly into a perfect side part, untouched.
A single deep scar cut diagonally across his face, as if someone had once tried to split him open with a blade far larger than a knife. It should have made him frightening.
It didn't.
His features were old, worn in a way that felt earned rather than aged. There was something gentle about him. Something calm. He looked like a retired army officer Nico might have seen in old photographs, the kind who smiled easily and spoke little.
"why curiosity?" Peter questioned.
The question landed softly.
Nico didn't answer.
He didn't know how to explain it.
Nico searched for something concrete to say and found nothing. The feeling had always been there, unremarkable to him, like breathing or hunger. Trying to explain it felt like trying to describe the color of the air.
Instead of answering he stayed quiet.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Peter laughed quietly, shaking his head.
"Alright," he said. "I'll leave that be. No sense forcing an answer you don't yet have."
He picked up his cup with one hand, eyes still on Nico.
"So, Nicholas," Peter continued, "what do you do?"
Nico sighed.
"Well," he said, staring down at his coffee, "I'm looking for a job."
The surface of the drink reflected a warped version of his face. Pale. Tired. Lines beginning to form where they didn't belong yet.
"I actually had a job interview this morning," he added.
Peter didn't react. He didn't interrupt. He waited.
"At a bakery," Nico went on. "Nothing special. Just… work."
A pause.
"I was late."
Peter hummed softly.
"They fired me," Nico said. "Before I even started."
The silence that followed felt heavier than before.
Nico shrugged, trying to make it sound unimportant. "It's not a big deal. It happens."
It didn't feel like a lie.
Peter studied him for a moment longer.
"And before that?" he asked. "Your studies?"
Nico hesitated.
"College," he said quietly. "Dropped out."
Peter didn't comment.
"My sister's studying medicine," Nico continued. "Coaching is expensive. Someone had to step aside."
Peter nodded once, slow and deliberate.
"How old are you?" he asked.
"Nineteen."
"And your parents?"
Nico exhaled.
"My father's a journalist," he said. "But that alone can't support my sister's tuition. So… I dropped out."
After that, Peter didn't ask anything else.
They finished their coffee in silence.
When Peter stood, he paid the bill without checking the amount and thanked the barista with a warm, genuine smile that made her blink in surprise.
Outside, the air was colder than the café, sharp enough to wake Nico up again. The pale winter sky stretched long above them. Snow hadn't fallen yet, but the promise of it hung in the air.
They walked without direction at first.
Then Peter angled slightly, guiding them toward a small park tucked between old residential buildings. Christmas decorations still clung to the lampposts, half-forgotten. The benches were empty. The grass pale and tired.
Nico followed without thinking.
They sat on a bench near the entrance.
It was freezing.
'To hell with this bench,' Nico cursed silently. 'Why is it so cold?'
They sat in silence for a while.
The park was empty. No children. No couples. Just cold air and bare trees.
Then Peter asked, without preamble, "Nicholas, do you believe in God?"
Nico blinked.
"That's… random," he said, realizing too late that he'd spoken aloud.
Peter didn't react.
"Answer anyway," he said softly.
Nico leaned back, staring at the sky through naked branches.
"No," he said after a moment. "Why would I?"
Peter waited.
"If God existed," Nico continued, "the world wouldn't look like this. People wouldn't suffer for no reason. There wouldn't be wars. Or famine. Or evil."
He glanced sideways. "Why do you ask?"
Peter smiled faintly. "Just curious."
"Do you believe in God?" Nico asked.
Peter laughed.
Not gently. Not mockingly.
Explosively.
"Yes," he said. "Without a doubt."
Nico raised an eyebrow. "Seriously?"
"Absolutely."
"Then how do you explain all this?" Nico gestured vaguely. "Wars. Crime. People hurting each other."
Peter nodded. "Easy."
"Oh?"
"You're only looking at the negatives."
Nico frowned. "Negatives?"
"Yes," Peter said. "You focus on what's broken."
"Well," Nico replied, "there's a lot of it."
Peter leaned forward slightly.
"But tell me something," he said. "A nineteen-year-old boy risks his life for a stranger today. Is that negative?"
Nico hesitated.
"No," he admitted. "But that's… off topic."
"What you did was positive," Peter said. "Something that sustains."
"That doesn't make it special."
"It makes it human."
Peter continued, voice calm.
"Humans were made to sustain. The absence of sustainability leads to chaos. The chaos you see today is a not because of the absence of God. It's because of lack of human morals... Lack of sustenance."
"That's why I asked, do you believe in God. Not to preach. Only to see, where you are in this world. Your understanding of humans. And what the world is."
Nico stayed quiet.
"People remember one bad thing longer than a hundred good ones," Peter went on. "Do you know why?"
"Because people suck?" Nico offered.
Peter smiled. "Because good is expected. Evil surprises."
"And if the world blames you for something you didn't do," Peter asked, "and you still choose to do good… what does that make you?"
Nico stared at the ground.
"I don't know," he said.
Peter laughed softly. "I hope I'm not boring you."
"You're not," Nico said quickly. "I just… don't really have people to talk to."
"Am I not people?" Peter teased.
Nico flushed. "I mean—"
"Relax," Peter said. "I'm teasing."
They sat quietly for a moment longer.
Then Peter stood.
"I think," he said, "I may have something for you."
Nico looked up. "Something like what?"
"Service," Peter replied.
Nico blinked. "You're hiring?"
"Something like that."
Nico frowned. "Service industry?"
Peter shook his head.
"Service," he said. "As in... serving people."
"…Military?" he guessed.
Peter laughed. "No."
"Security?"
"Closer."
"Law enforcement?"
Peter tilted his head. "Further."
Nico hesitated. "Then what?"
Peter looked at him carefully.
"Something that operates quietly," he said. "Where restraint matters more than strength."
"I have seen," he continued, "that you acted with clarity when it mattered. You know what it is... The odd feeling."
That unsettled Nico more than concern would have.
Peter turned and took a few steps away, hands clasped behind his back.
"You are just like us. Nicholas Olivia... Curious."
Then he paused.
Without turning fully, he glanced over his shoulder.
"The job I'm going to offer you," he said, "is something I think you're made for."
Nico's heart jumped. His chest tightened slightly.
"Made for?" he asked. "Sir, could you please drop the suspense?"
Peter smiled.
Not wide. Not teasing. Certain.
"Tomorrow," he said. "Sharp eight."
Nico straightened. "Tomorrow where?"
"Lindower Street," Peter replied. "Bailey's Garden."
Nico blinked. "Bailey's Garden, as in... the flower shop?"
"Yes," Peter said simply.
He adjusted his black suit, tipped his hat once more, and took a step back.
"See you tomorrow," he added. "Grace."
And with that, he turned and walked out of the entrance.
Nico stayed seated.
He looked up at the sky, pale and undecided, clouds drifting like they had nowhere urgent to be.
After a moment, he muttered under his breath,
"Made for this."
The words pressed against the inside of his skull, refusing to settle into meaning. He exhaled slowly and checked the time.
11:07.
Too early to go home and pretend the day hadn't happened. Too late to undo anything.
He started walking.
He didn't take the tram.
Four kilometers wasn't impossible. Money mattered. It always had. The walk would cost him time, not cash, and time was something he could still afford to lose.
At least for now.
The city wrapped itself around him as he moved. Cars passed. Shops opened. People lived.
And his thoughts piled up.
The bakery.
The robbery.
The woman from the jewelry store.
Her eyes.
Peter Christovan.
The job.
'Made for this.'
He crossed the street and kept walking.
Christmas had taken over the city.
Lights wrapped around lampposts. Store windows glowed with artificial warmth. A group of friends laughed too loudly near a café, their breath fogging the air. Two couples kissed openly, careless and unafraid. A family of four passed him, the youngest child riding on her father's shoulders, pointing at decorations like the world was still new.
Nico watched them go.
Not with envy.
With distance.
He shook his head.
"To hell with this life," he muttered.
He straightened his shoulders and kept walking.
By the time he reached his building, the time on his phone read
12:02 P.M.