Page 3

Kael

A t first, Kael can’t quite understand why he wandered past five different coffee shops without a flicker of interest, only to end up at one called Fitz’s Lit and Brew as though that’s where he is meant to be.

But sitting by the window side for the past five minutes now, the low hum of chatters drifting through the cozy air, he notices that nearly everyone perched on the worn wooden chairs with cracked leather seats, have either a book—both digital and physical—or a lifestyle and fashion magazine in hand. It all suddenly makes sense.

He can almost picture his twin brother—his other half, his other self— walking into the room, a gust of wind escaping through the temporary space in the single glass door before it finally pulls shut.

This quaint coffee shop in the heart of Pennsylvania that doesn’t just cater to your roasted coffee beans craving, but the need to flip through the pages of a book, is definitely the one Raidon, Kael’s twin brother probably frequents every time he comes down to the States.

The shop has a dark and moody atmosphere reminiscent of academia. And Raidon is especially fond of books, particularly those featuring students stuck in a mysterious school practicing witchcraft or unraveling dark mysteries. He also loves books about dragons…and he loves coffee, too.

Kael can swear that if he squints really well, he will find something that hints at his brother’s constant presence here. Who knows, maybe if he inhales deeply, he will catch a whiff of his scent lingering in the air like a memory time refused to erase.

Indeed, he and his brother aren’t so different. Sharing the same womb—despite one never getting the chance to be born—has somehow forged a connection deeper than logic can explain. Stark differences aside, shared desires and instincts connect them.

Kael wishes Raidon can realize this and stop trying to suppress him like an unwanted memory. Kael wants more chances instead of always being smothered by Raidon. Because at the end of the day, they will still be two separate people sharing one body.

“Here’s your coffee, sir.” A wave of curly brown hair moves in Kael’s line of vision as the teenage barista appears with his order. The smell of freshly brewed coffee invades his nostrils, calming his nerves.

“Thank you,” Kael murmurs to the lanky boy who is only a sliver of chance shy of albinism.

“You’re welcome, sir.” The barista disappears from the table, and Kael’s fingers immediately curl around the handle of the coffee mug.

But the rim of the China ware has barely touched his lips when the bell above the door chimes, cutting sharply through the distant hiss of the espresso machine.

Kael doesn’t eagerly acknowledge the person at first. He brings the coffee to his mouth, a slow sip, savoring the taste before this new customer will turn this gathering into a crowd. They are already ten in the room. Eleven is excessive. He hates crowds…just like his brother.

Though he tries ignoring it, the approaching person’s heavy boots and creaking of the floorboards shifts the air around Kael.

Calculatedly, he set his cup down with a grace that seeping a coffee in a small, independent coffee shop doesn’t exactly require.

The man halts by the table near Kael’s, his hand lifting to push his baseball cap further down his forehead. His gaze sweeps over the cafe, resting briefly only on Kael, then sharply shifting to the counter.

After getting the attention of the barista behind the counter, he finally pulls out a chair and sits with the harmless leisure of a regular man simply in need of a caffeine refill. But Kael is a tactical soldier, good with profiling. And he knows in a second that the man’s presence differs from someone craving a cup of coffee.

The man is here to kill Kael. And Kael knows it.

It is not in his posture, even though he carries himself with the stiffness of a man holding back violence. It’s not in his eyes either, though Kael has had a lot of encounters with killers to have recognized that flicker of premeditated murder instinct in his eyes.

It is in the mistake he doesn’t realize Kael or anyone will notice. The mistake is the slight twist of his wrist, the way he refuses to stir the coffee that was later delivered to him, even though he has a spoon to do so, and the way he always so carefully tilts his head to watch Kael from the corner of his eyes.

Kael exhales slowly, his fingers drumming against the body of the ceramic cup.

Someone sent someone to kill him. And it’s not something he finds out-of-the-ordinary . He is used to the reality that he and his brother have made many American foes. Ones who can eagerly incite a million-dollar bounty on their heads just for the sake of it. But what can he say? He and his brother are foreign men—Russian, for the worst part—thriving endlessly on American land. The Volkov empire holds at least 5 percent of their country’s wealth. This is a speculation, a mere rumor weaving through the dark alleys of America. But sometimes, rumors are true, right? So they are agitated. A foreigner is feasting on their lands.

The more proposals for allies he and his brother reject, the more their foes pile up.

But today, Kael won’t be wasting his time wondering who amongst their growing enemies sent another killer after him. Because really, the foes are numerous and it can be anyone. So he is just going to kill this man and save himself the trouble.

He smirks at his plan. A good kill on a strange man’s land is a grand way to retreat before his brother— Raidon —takes control.

But he has barely set the mug down so he can put his plan in motion when the bell chimes again. A low grunt settles in his throat.

Are they trying to have a party here or what?

Lifting his gaze to the door, he sees the intruder—a girl. And right behind her is an Asian boy, definitely Japanese.

The fiery red hair of the girl seems to have absorbed all the light from the September sun as the strands glint under the dull glow of the light in the room.

The spot the girl and the boy are staring at puzzles Kael; they are pointing at his table, murmured conversations passing hushly between them.

Kael questions their purpose as within a whisper of seconds, they are at his table indeed, invading his privacy. And the air is suddenly consumed by something bubble-gummy and flowery.

“I—um, sorry, hi.” She fumbles with words, her voice like silk, and her cheeks are immediately flamed red. But a strange, familiar quality resides within her green eyes.

Green eyes. Red hair.

Green eyes. Red hair.

Green eyes…red hair.

Where has he seen her before?

Suddenly, Kael isn’t thinking about the assassin at the next table, but about a train station in Marseille, France.

For a flicker of a moment, time seems to stop, as if paying obeisance to the dots connecting in his head. He remembers her. Quite uncanny, but he remembers the girl standing next to him.

Ten years ago, at a train station in Marseille, France. She is standing there, backpack strapped to her shoulders. She is wearing a hideous green sweater, sobbing, and blowing into the sleeve of the sweater.

She is so tiny, so frangible, the faintest of wind can easily whisk her far away.

She is taller now, curves fuller, beauty sharpened. But there is that fragile shimmer in her, like she may as well break apart if held too tight. And that sounds perfect to do—breaking her apart. Because pretty things are meant to be broken.

“Sorry, did you notice any book here when you came?” she asks softly. Her eyes hold fascination. But beneath that veil of sheer attraction, there’s fear. She’s smitten by him, yet afraid of him.

“No,” Kael shakes his head, his finger curling around his cup, the porcelain cold against his skin.

“Let’s ask Chopper,” the blond boy Kael unintentionally pushed into the shadow says, his bluish-gray eyes regarding Kael with suspicion. “Maybe he kept it.”

“Okay,” she murmurs, sharply turning away and following the boy. Kael watches her go. And as if feeling observed, she glances back, but turns away quickly as their eyes crash.

As they stand by the counter, speaking to the curly-haired barista, Kael drinks her in with a captivation that he reserved only for beautiful tragedies.

The barista disappears into the back room, only to reappear a few seconds later with a book. Her lips move as she murmurs a thank you, snatching the book from the barista’s hand.

They turn away from the counter. And as though it is a subconscious action, an old habit she can’t curb, she glances at Kael again, and this time, her gaze lingers, cheeks flushed red…but the fear is still there.

”Funny, cause I thought you were into dark-haired men,” the boy murmurs in a teasing tone as he gently nudges her toward the door.

“He’s kind of pretty.” She shrugs as they push through the door. “Like a doll.”

Kael can’t help scoffing. Being called a doll is a measured insult. He is no doll. He is the big bad wolf. He is anarchy. He is war…he is death. His pale and fragile appearance just happens to be a durable mask, one he nurtures with devotion.

Through the transparent door, he watches her go, every gentle step of her echoing her softness and fragility. And he can’t help it when an unfamiliar hunger pulses in his veins, a torment in his mind.

His fingers itch, his body trembling with the raw starvation, the need to bleed, to break, to destroy.

But this isn’t what he came to America for. His purpose here is not to hunt for a new game. He came to tighten loose ends. And he will be gone in an hour.

He settles back into his chair and takes another sip of his coffee. The unskilled assassin is still patiently waiting for perfect timing. A sinister smile graces Kael’s lips. He better save this man’s time and get it done with.

He glances around the room and finds that the counter is currently deserted, and the rest of the patrons are engrossed in whatever they are doing on their phones, some reading a book.

How perfect the timing is. No one will see him enter the restroom. And hopefully, no one will see him come out, too.

He runs his fingers through his frosty hair, then stands, pushing the chair backward.

He veers for the restroom, his steps slow and unhurried. Though nearly soundless, Kael feels it, the assassin’s boot against the hardwood floor almost immediately.

He scoffs at the killer’s predictability. For a hired man, he really lacks skills. If he isn’t bound to die today, Kael would have taught him a few tricks to this game.

As Kael reaches the restroom, the door swings shut behind him.

His hand hovers over his belt’s buckle, fingers grazing the cold metal. Then he hears it—footsteps and a door creaking.

Kael waits for him to use the poor skill that probably took him years to hone. And indeed, the man believes himself to be in the lead. But Kael didn’t spend years in this game just to be killed by a sloppy assassin with a stupid gun. So he moves before the assassin can.

All it takes is a brutal elbow to the ribs, the sound of bones cracking, and air being knocked out of the lungs.

The assassin staggers backward, but a lithe step is more than enough as Kael is crossing the room, on him, twisting his wrist, forcing his gun against his throat.

A clear struggle, a two-minute choked sound, then a quick, efficient neck snap.

The gun hit the floor with a clatter. A loud thump followed the body’s impact.

Wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead, Kael crouches before the man, his head slightly tilted.

This is not enough for him, though. You see, that redhead from earlier already ignited the hunger he thought he had chained before coming down here. So, slipping a hand into his pocket, his switchblade whispers free, gleaming under the dim fluorescent lights, ready to carve into a skin.

By the time he is done, the man isn’t recognizable anymore. Blood pulls across the tiles, thick and black under the dull glow.

A satisfactory sigh escapes his lips as he watches his perfect craft; gaping throat, torn tendon, splintered fingers, and broken fibula. And he can’t seem to get down from the high he got from the mere sound of blade tearing through the flesh, the warm splatter of blood against his pale skin, the smell of death. He can never really get enough when it comes to destruction.

Rising to his feet, he walks to the sink to wash off his blade and hands. And every single aspect of the action is performed with such poise, as if he didn’t just take someone’s life in the restroom of a tiny coffee shop.

Done, he fixes his cuff, then runs a hand down the waves of icy hair which is braided halfway on one side, left to spill free on the other side.

Glancing one more time at his masterpiece, he exits, returning to his table like a man that just simply went to relief himself.

The counter is still missing the bartender.

Kael scans the room. A couple have departed, leaving those absorbed in books or screens. No one even hears his footsteps. No one realizes he left a while ago. No one knows what he has done. And even if it turns out that someone knows, he has a way of making people and things disappear. With a snap of his fingers, this coffee shop and the people inside it can easily become a forgotten memory.

Sitting back gently on his chair, he lifts his cup to his hand. It feels cold, but he takes a sip, anyway. Ready to go, his hand slips into his pocket, fishing out a white handkerchief. He wipes the body of the ceramic cup, erasing traces of his presence.

He returns the handkerchief to his pocket and pulls out his wallet. A door creaks, slicing through the quiet room as the barista finally exits from the backroom.

Kael’s fingers brush over crisp notes, and without counting, he pulls out more than enough for even a hundred cups of coffee, placing them gently on the table. His action causes the barista to raise a shocked brow, but the smart kid doesn’t utter a word.

Rising to his feet, he slings his jacket over his shoulder and walks out, the smell of blood lingering in the air. But the people in the shop don’t realize it.

They don’t know that they are sitting in the same building with a dead man.