The bells of bicycles chimed across the canal road.

  The afternoon sunlight glanced off the canal water, scattering gold across the brick buildings and swaying trees. An outdoor café buzzed with quiet conversation, espresso machines hissing like distant steam trains.

  Wolfgang Zawisza slipped through a patio of outdoor tables beside a cafe, hands stuffed in the pockets of a too-thin jacket, hair still slightly wind-tossed from his escape. He scanned the crowd casually, pretending not to be looking for anything—because that was how he operated. Always moving, always observing, never letting anyone see him look.

  And then—

  He saw him.

  The young man from days before, the one who’d almost eaten pavement if not for Zawisza’s reflexes, sat at a corner table. A cheap paper menu half-covered his face, but not enough to hide the exhaustion in his eyes. Those green eyes looked swollen, unfocused—haunted.

  Daan Janssen held the menu like a shield. As if attempting to cover his face.

  Zawisza’s grin was immediate.

  He brushed invisible dust off his shirt, walked over, and dropped into the chair across from him with absolutely no ceremony.

  “Hey. It’s you, kid.”

  Daan jolted slightly. The menu lowered.

  His tired eyes widened in recognition.

  “Oh— I remember you,” he said, voice soft, almost shy. “You’re… the guy who caught me when I tripped, right?”

  “Caught, saved, heroically intercepted gravity,” Zawisza said lightly, his face lighting up with a smile, “Choose whichever sounds cooler.”

  Daan gave a small laugh, weak but genuine.

  Zawisza leaned forward, extending a hand.

  “Wolfgang Zawisza.”

  Daan blinked, startled by the formality, then smiled and shook it.

  “Daan Janssen. But—uh—just call me Janssen. Please.”

  Zawisza let his hand drop back, studying the young man for a moment longer than polite. He noticed the trembling fingers. The way Daan’s shoulders curled inward, as if he were trying to take up less space. The dark smudges under his eyes.

  The kid looked like he’d been running from his own shadow.

  Or like his whole world had collapsed overnight.

  Zawisza didn’t push. He simply leaned back in his chair, long legs stretching out under the table, and said warmly:

  “Good to finally talk to you without you sliding across the pavement. I like seeing eye to eye better.”

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Daan laughed again—but this time it broke halfway through, breath catching, eyes lowering to the menu as if embarrassed by the crack in his composure.

  Zawisza didn’t miss it.

  He softened his voice. Just slightly.

  “You alright there, Janssen?”

  A pause.

  Wind rustled the café umbrellas. A pigeon hopped across the cobblestones.

  Daan swallowed, fingers tightening around the menu’s edge.

  “…Can I be honest with you?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

  Zawisza nodded once. Calm. Patient.

  “You can be honest with me,” he said. “I’m a very trustworthy stranger.”

  Daan exhaled shakily, lowering the menu completely.

  For a moment — just a moment — he looked like a boy who’d survived something unthinkable.

  And Zawisza simply waited.

  Letting the silence open, like a hand inviting the truth.

  The café’s morning chatter faded into the background as Daan leaned forward, voice trembling so quietly the words were almost swallowed by the hum of passing bikes.

  “I’m being hunted,” he whispered. His voice was low with fear.

  Zawisza raised an eyebrow, not in surprise, but in quiet recognition.

  Daan swallowed hard.

  “There’s a murderer at large in the city. Somewhere nearby. Somewhere close. I–I don’t know where, but… I walked into the aftermath of the murder scene, and they saw me and now think it’s me. The police think I did something. And the real killer—he’s still out there.”

  Wolfgang Zawisza nodded slowly. Calm. Unbothered. He picked up his espresso cup, took a sip, and muttered:

  “Police tried to raid my place earlier.” He shrugged casually. “But I left through the window because I didn’t feel like dealing with that shit.”

  He chuckled as if recounting an inconvenience from work, not a police raid.

  Daan stared at him, eyes wide.

  “They… raided you?”

  “Mm-hm,” he replied, sipping again. “Very rude. I was in the middle of a perfectly good nap.”

  Daan let out a shaky half-laugh, half-sigh, rubbing his forehead. Then he spoke.

  “I think the murderer is somewhere nearby.”

  Zawisza went still.

  Completely still.

  The breeze shifted, rustling the café umbrellas. A dog barked down the street. Tram rails screamed faintly in the distance.

  Then—

  A sudden ripple ran along Zawisza’s arms.

  Goosebumps.

  His eyes widened, pupils tightening to needle points.

  Daan froze.

  “Mr. Wolfgang Zawisza? What’s wrong?”

  Zawisza didn’t answer.

  He turned his head slowly, like his spine was made of glass, toward the street.

  And there—between moving bodies—stood a young man.

  Pale golden hair that glowed unnaturally in the sun.

  Skin nearly white, almost luminescent.

  Blue eyes that held something all-knowing and amused.

  Handsome. Charming. And smiling.

  Smiling directly at them.

  For a fraction of a second, the world seemed to dim around the edges.

  Zawisza’s breath caught sharply.

  Then he blinked—and the blonde man was gone.

  No footsteps. No movement. No trace.

  Just the fading echo of that smile.

  Daan’s voice cracked.

  “Sir? What happened? What did you see?”

  Zawisza’s jaw clenched. He pushed back from the table and stood abruptly.

  “We’re leaving.”

  Daan scrambled to his feet.

  “Why? What did you see?”

  “I don’t like this place anymore,” he said quietly. His tone was different now, sharp, alert, something predatory flickering beneath the surface. “And neither should you.”

  He pulled a few guilders from his pocket, tossed them onto the table without looking.

  “Come on.” His eyes scanned the street, muscles tense. “If you’re being framed, and I’m being framed, and my good scientist friend is being framed… then we’ve got a problem that’s moving faster than the police ever will.”

  Daan hesitated. “Where are we going?”

  Zawisza held his gaze, calm but serious in a way Daan had never seen.

  “To my place,” he said. “You stay with me until we find the real killer.”

  Daan’s throat bobbed as he nodded nervously.

  And as the two slipped out of the café and disappeared down a narrow stone alley, Zawisza glanced over his shoulder one last time—

  —and for just a heartbeat, he thought he saw pale blonde hair vanish behind a lamppost.

  But when he blinked, the street was empty. Quiet. Perfectly ordinary.

  Too ordinary.

  “Let’s move,” Zawisza whispered.