His Gifts

When Toran arrived at her apartment on the 15th floor—after taking the stairs, as always—she spotted two packages waiting in front of her door. One wrapped in blood-red silk, just as he had shown her in the picture, and a new, smaller box sitting beside it.

She smirked and scooped them both up, stepping inside and locking the door behind her. Her apartment, when she finally stepped inside, greeted her with its usual contradictions—cluttered but clean, filled with a stranger’s forgotten belongings rather than her own. The flickering overhead light buzzed faintly, casting uneven glows over the few things she actually owned.

Setting the packages down on her small living room floor, she unwrapped the larger one first. A vintage espresso machine gleamed beneath the wrapping, an inked note resting on top in an intentionally messy scrawl.

“For the hazard pay. Don’t break it.” Toran laughed, shaking her head as she read it aloud.

She sat cross-legged on the floor, fingers tracing the smooth metal of the espresso machine before she turned to the smaller box. She dragged it toward her, eyeing it with amusement as she peeled the wrapping away. Inside was a hollowed-out copy of The Art of War and a Remington Double 1930s Derringer—tiny, jeweled, and deadly. The gun’s silver vine engravings gleamed in the dim light, the smooth ivory grip embedded with tiny, colorful jewels that reminded her of his ridiculous hair.

The knowledge of the gun’s presence settled into her mind, though her expression remained unreadable. She tilted her head slightly, brushing a thumb over the weapon before setting it down and reaching into her bag. From it, she pulled out another gift from him—the 1920s espresso tamper he had sent earlier.

Arranging the gifts neatly, she took her phone and snapped a picture. A trophy display, a mockery, a challenge.

A pouch of rare Ethiopian beans.
A switchblade with her initials etched into the handle.
A Remington Double 1930’s Derringer.
A 1920s espresso tamper.
Two tickets to the gun exhibit show — one of them is being auctioned off right now.

Then, finally, she caught up on his texts. A slow, amused smile crept across her lips.

Toran sat on the floor of her small living room area and thought for a moment, then she got up, walking towards her balcony. She drew back the curtains, her gaze drifting beyond the glass. The graveyard stretched out below, a quiet sea of stone markers, unmoving under the dim city glow. Beyond it, the park lay still—empty benches, swaying trees, a place that seemed peaceful by day but carried a ghostly hush at night. A strange contrast. A strange view. She pushed the thought out of her mind. It was a view she'd woke up to countless of times. Toran focused her attention back to the gifts and game. She moved both the espresso machine and other smaller items over and sat down right in front of the balcony window. She wondered if he can see her.

Meanwhile, across the city…

Tamura lounged in his penthouse, feet propped on his desk, relaying footage from the micro-camera embedded in the derringer’s jeweled grip. He was clean. Fresh out of the shower. No more blood. No more gore clinging to his body.

He watched her fingers graze the ivory handle, the faint curve of her lips as she lined up his gifts like trophies. Organized. Precise. Adorable. His dragon tattoo rippled as he chuckled, ash from his cigarette scattering over the Italian marble floor.

His phone vibrated as he snapped a screenshot of her arranging the tamper next to the derringer, then fired off a text:

— Like the décor? Matches your inherent violence. The switchblade’s for carving your initials into my enemies. Consider it an audition.
— P.S. That derringer’s older than your shop. One bullet’s worth more than your manager. Use it wisely.

He tapped his cigarette on the rim of a glass tray, gaze flicking back to the camera feed. She was glancing at the balcony.

His smirk sharpened as he typed:

— Seen the safety? Twist the grinders three clicks left. Or don’t. Might find a Glock staring back. Your call, sweetheart.

Leaning back, he traced the angel wings on his shoulders, the ink a brittle reminder of stakes far deadlier than this game. But Toran—Toran—was a live wire in a city of static. He zoomed in on her expression, lingering on the hunger she couldn’t fully hide. Fearless. Flaunting his leverage by the window.

She’d press the button. They all did.

Another text, softer, coded in threat and velvet:

— Next time you take the stairs, wear red. I’ll send a disturbance to match.

The derringer’s camera blurred as she pocketed it. Tamura closed the feed but kept her smirking photo onscreen—a new addition to his gallery of obsessions. Lindell’s skyline glittered behind him, but his reflection held only her face.

Soon.

The auction page still displayed his latest bid: $200,002.

Yet, nestled beside the derringer in its hollow book, another ticket lay in wait. A ticket to the gun show. He really wanted her there.

Toran eyed the invitation and the snapshots he kept sending her, gaze flicking between them and the espresso machine. His gifts came with hidden eyes. Her lips pressed together as she followed his instructions, twisting the grinder three clicks left. She half-expected it to be a joke—just another play at theatrics.

It wasn’t.

A Glock sat neatly inside.

She shook her head, pulling it out to admire it before adding it to the growing collection of gifts. A sigh left her lips as she covered them all with a sheet. A temporary surrender. Then, she grabbed the espresso machine, hugging it against her chest as she hauled it toward the kitchen. Setting it on the sink counter, she examined it thoroughly.

No more hidden gifts. No more compartments. Just a machine. Just coffee.

Hopefully.

She grabbed her phone and typed swiftly:

— Guns, expensive vintage items, rare coffee beans, deep pockets, and those tattoos… You’re making me think you’re some kind of city mafia boss… Are you?
— Murderous? Violence? Me?? I’m just a simple barista with a penchant for trouble, a sassy mouth, and a good attitude. I must disagree that you would associate me with murder and violence.
— P.S. The décor is nice on the derringer. And here I thought your sense of aesthetic would be as horrible as the shaky pictures you’ve been sending me all day.

She sent it off without hesitation, but the word “mafia” lingered in her mind.

Toran’s grip on her phone tightened, her fingers twitching slightly. A small, almost imperceptible tremor. Despite her casual messages, despite the mocking tone, her brown eyes flickered with something else.

Worry.

At least, that was what the espresso machine’s hidden camera would show Tamura. Even if she was putting on a worried face, Toran felt a sense of unease taking root. If he was indeed with the mafia...

 She shut the thought down quickly.

She inhaled, steadying herself, before sending another text:

— I was kidding about the $100 million… but if you’re offering… I won’t be so shameless as to demand one billion. Maybe $500 million, split into equal parts cash, gold, and crypto, and throw in a villa somewhere near a beach.
— P.S. I hope it’s a working espresso machine. If it blows up while I’m washing it… I’ll haunt you for eternity.

A joke.

Or was it?

Her nervous fingers tapped against her phone, her brown eyes flickering with apprehension, yet her stubborn pride refused to let him sense it. Even though he probably had a live feed of her right now.

Toran shook her head, slipping back into her calm, controlled front as she glared at the vintage espresso machine. She was extra careful when washing it, even as doubt nagged at her mind.

It was just a coffee machine.

And goddamn it, she would use it. With the rare Ethiopian beans.