Mysterious Man

The police came and the rookies were visibly disappointed when Toran lied and told them that some bright-haired, bird-brained hooligan had thrown a brick through the café’s window for shits and giggles. The surveillance cameras outside and inside the café never worked—the owner was too cheap to replace them when they got damaged—so even if they searched, they wouldn’t find any footage of Tamura. Toran gave her report and called the owner after the police left.

The cold-hearted bastard told her to clean up and tape up the café before leaving. Extra work with no pay. He didn’t even wait for her reply before hanging up. She scoffed and tossed the phone onto the counter with a thud. "Fucking slavedriver..."

Despite her frustration, Toran picked up a broom and the heavy-duty commercial dustpan and began sweeping up the shards of glass. Tamura and his business card slipped from her mind. She didn’t dwell on the incident or the man she didn’t expect to see again.

After sealing up the gaping window as best as she could, she locked up the shop and headed home. Lindell City was riddled with crime, and it was never safe to walk alone so late. If it weren’t for the accident, she would have been home by now. Her pace quickened, fingers curled around the sharp brass knuckles in her pocket. Yet, she never needed to use them. The streets were eerily empty, as if something—or someone—had cleared a path for her.

She shook off the ridiculous thought and dug out her keys as she reached her apartment complex. Opting for the stairs instead of the elevator, she ascended fifteen flights and let out a quiet sigh as she finally stepped inside her apartment, locking the door behind her with a deliberate click.

Tamura hadn’t planned on thinking about her again.

After all, he’d already made his entrance—a spectacular, glass-shattering one at that. The job was done. He should have been back to business, back to handling the real problems in Lindell City, back to playing chess where the stakes actually mattered.

Yet here he was.

Sitting in the dim glow of his penthouse, whiskey swirling lazily in his glass, watching the security feed from outside the cafe, Bean There, Done That.

Watching her.

Toran Voss.

She wasn’t special.

Not in the way people usually were in his world—no bloodline of influence, no criminal empire, no reason to hold power. A simple barista in a rundown café with a boss who didn’t even respect her enough to pay her properly.

She wasn’t supposed to matter.

And yet—

Tamura tilted his head, watching her on the screen. The café was empty now, late enough that only fools and predators still walked the streets. She should have looked exhausted. Frustrated. Nervous.

Instead, she was cleaning with precision, hands moving in a fluid, disciplined rhythm that felt too practiced. He recognized that kind of controlled efficiency—a habit that came from training, not just repetition.

Interesting.

He had been waiting—waiting to see the moment she would let her guard down, let her frustration slip through, let herself act like someone rattled by the chaos of the last twenty-four hours.

But Toran?

She was acting.

Tamura smirked, rolling his glass between his fingers.

She was putting on a show.

He knew what fear looked like, knew what people did when they wanted to feel in control of a situation that had already spiraled away from them. Toran should have been shaken, should have been glancing over her shoulder, should have been flinching every time the door creaked open.

Instead, she carried on as if nothing had happened.

And that?

That made her dangerous.

He let out a slow chuckle, the sound low and entertained.

She was playing a role, just like he was.

She wanted him to think she was just a normal, irritated barista who had dealt with one too many weirdos.

And Tamura?

He wanted her to think he was a crazy stalker with no sense of personal boundaries.

A smirk curled at the edges of his lips.

This could be fun.

Tamura leaned back in his chair, stretching lazily before reaching for his phone. His fingers hovered over the burner for a second, then tapped in a message: Next time, take the elevator. I cleared the rats.

He didn't send it. Not yet. In the morning, he mused to himself.

Then, almost as an afterthought, he reached for another line, calling in a favor. "Fix the café window," he said smoothly, swirling his whiskey again. "Tonight. And leave her a gift."

A pause.

"Hawaiian pizza. Extra pineapple."

He laughed to himself as he hung up.

Let’s see how long you keep pretending, Toran.

---------------------------

By dawn, the coffee shop’s window was pristine, a box of steaming pizza and a triple-shot latte waiting on the counter. Tamura watched from across the street, shirtless beneath his leather jacket despite the chill, the angel wings inked on his back flexing as he stretched. A note tucked under the latte read: Miss me yet? -T.

His phone buzzed. Julien’s latest taunt: Playing handyman for peasants now, cousin? Tamura deleted it. Let the bastard sneer. Lindell’s crown was heavy, but Toran’s stubborn smirk? That was a jewel worth stealing.

Tamura leaned back in his car, fingers drumming a restless rhythm on the steering wheel as dawn crept over Lindell’s jagged skyline. The city’s grime softened under the pale gold light, but his mind stayed sharp—tracing the memory of Toran’s scowl, that lethal mix of irritation and reluctant competence. The security feed on his dashboard flickered to life, showing her stepping into the coffee shop, pausing at the spotless window. Her brows furrowed, lips pressing into a thin line as she spotted the pizza box and latte. He watched her pick up the note, those brown eyes narrowing—there it was, that flicker of frustration he’d gambled on.

He chuckled, low and self-satisfied, rolling down the window to let the morning air mingle with the scent of his clove cigarette. A breeze tugged at his colorful hair, catching the light like fractured neon. Across the street, Toran lifted the rose emoji screenshot on her phone, her expression morphing from confusion to outright suspicion. Tamura’s grin spread. Oh, she’d connect the dots soon enough.

His burner phone buzzed in the cup holder. A single message lit up the screen—Unknown Number: You’re not subtle. He didn’t reply. Subtlety was for people who didn’t own the ground they walked on. Instead, he palmed a switchblade from his jacket, twirling it absently as he plotted his next move. A "care package" had been child’s play. What she needed was a proper moment—something to crack that armor of hers.

An idea sparked. He texted an associate: Secure two tickets to the antique gun exhibit downtown. Leave one at her counter. No name, no explanation. Let her wonder if it was a threat or an invitation.

As he pulled away from the curb, the dragon tattoo coiled beneath his shirt seemed to ripple with anticipation. Tonight, he’d send a courier with a vintage espresso machine—"compensation," of course—and a note inked in his messy scrawl: For the hazard pay you deserve. Don’t break it.

Lindell City hummed with possibilities, but none as intriguing as the barista who’d bandaged his arm without flinching. Tamura Blood didn’t chase. He lured. And Toran Voss? She’d already taken the bait.