Okay, fine, I admitted it. I was the biggest hopeless idiot on the planet.

Did that earn me some kind of certificate?

A medal?

No idea.

I left my apartment so early that morning, I started wondering if renting the place even made sense anymore. Maybe I should move into the bar?

At this hour, I usually had just rolled out of bed and was debating whether I had anything decent for breakfast, but there I was instead, walking toward the bar as a model employee, fully aware that Kazuo wouldn’t be there this early anyway.

The keys had basically taken up permanent residence in my pocket. I used to barely touch them, showing up only after Kazuo had already opened. Now look at me. Showing up obscenely early, like some kind of crazy version of myself.

Kazuo joked that I had become “weirdly responsible” all of a sudden. I kept showing up earlier and earlier. According to him, each day, I somehow managed to beat my own record.

He wasn’t entirely wrong. I volunteered to clean, prep, and do whatever needed doing. I didn’t even complain about scrubbing out the beer taps anymore. He thought it was something impressive. As though I had grown up overnight and turned into a reliable, well-behaved adult.

But the truth was way less flattering.

It was pathetic, really.

I kept coming in earlier because I was terrified of missing him.

He was completely unpredictable. Sometimes he didn’t show up at all. Sometimes he appeared right before closing, took a single sip of a cocktail, then vanished. Other times, it was the opposite. He came in so early that I barely had time to tie my mask. So I kept coming early, not wanting to miss my chance.

It was embarrassing, sure, but I couldn’t help how much I loved it when he asked me to surprise him with something new. Inspiration hit me immediately. I wanted to surprise him, to crack that calm, indifferent expression and draw out something else. Any emotion at all. I caught myself hunting for those reactions like a starving animal.

The walk toward the bar was familiar: cracked pavement, graffiti on the walls, laundry hanging from windows above old shops.

The sun was still high, turning the old rooftops gold and making warm air stick to the back of my neck as I pulled my hood up out of habit. Summer had snuck up fast that year. Early June was already carrying the heat of late July.

It was too warm for my hoodie, but off-shift, the hood was practically mandatory. I couldn’t stand the idea of people looking at me. Eye contact was almost unbearable, as was any kind of attention. I just wanted to pass unnoticed, to slip through the streets like a shadow. Whether it actually worked or just made me look more suspicious was an open question. Still, I felt safer with the weight of the hood resting on my head.

I was halfway down my usual shortcut when I heard sirens in the distance and saw flashing lights bouncing off the glass of a corner building ahead.

I slowed down.

Police barricade. Two cars were blocking the small intersection. Some officers were talking to someone sitting on the curb, while the rest moved around the area, stopping pedestrians. A few onlookers hovered at a distance, whispering.

My stomach clenched.

I hated running into cops. Not because I had done anything, but because hybrids in police uniforms simply didn’t exist. Humans or beastkin only, and if even one of them hated your kind, there wasn’t much you could do about it except pretend you were invisible. I’d seen it too many times: harmless hybrids who let themselves be noticed, hauled into a station, and later shoved back out into the street covered in bruises. They never returned unhurt, always with some charges pinned to them, or something even worse.

I backed up slowly before any of them noticed me, dug through the pocket of my hoodie, and found the medical mask I kept for emergencies. I tucked my head down and slipped a sharp left into a side alley. I would circle around. No big deal.

Except the next street was blocked too. Police tape, more sirens, more uniforms. Some people on the street were muttering about hybrid riots, ripped posters, and a fight that had gone bad. That made my skin crawl, even though I wasn’t a part of it.

I kept walking, trying not to make it too obvious that I was avoiding them. I was just a guy on his way to work. Yeah, I was wearing a hood and a medical mask—so what? Nothing suspicious about that. Totally normal. I just didn’t want to get in anyone’s way, so I turned down a side alley instead.

You know. That kind of thing happens. Right?

I turned onto another street and passed a row of trash cans, back entrances to shops, or… hell, if I knew what any of it was. It smelled like garbage, and… yeah, someone had definitely thrown up here.

I didn’t like it. It was too quiet, too dark. Or maybe I was imagining it because of the panic crawling up my spine.

That was when I saw the car.

It was a black, polished car with glossy, tinted windows. Whoever owned it was definitely not from this neighborhood. Cars around here usually had mirrors taped on, missing bumpers, and were old, cheap models. This one, on the other hand, looked as if it cost more than our entire bar.

I kept walking.

The car stayed still… until I passed it.

Then it rolled forward.

I ignored it and continued on my way. Head down, hood up, trying to look calm. But my pulse started hammering in my ears, and the mask made it increasingly difficult to breathe.

Maybe it was nothing, plenty of rich assholes got lost trying to take scenic routes through the “historic district.” But when I turned left, the car turned left too. When I crossed the alley to the next street, it followed. It started to feel like the driver was trying to corner me.

Shit!

Another turn. Then another.

Somewhere behind me, wheels crunched over gravel.

After a few more turns, I started to think I’d managed to lose that creepy tail. Relief had barely settled in when the black car appeared out of nowhere and cut me off. I stumbled over my own feet or maybe tripped on something, who knows, and went down hard, landing on my ass and scraping the hell out of my palms.

The back door opened slowly, and I sucked in a breath.

The reason I’d dragged myself to work so early was sitting in the back seat. Legs crossed, one arm draped casually along the seatback. He looked completely calm, as if he hadn’t just chased me halfway across the neighborhood. His gaze fixed on me. The driver, on the other hand, kept both hands tight on the wheel, acting like he didn’t notice me.

And me? Well... I was sitting in the dirt of some godawful alley, surrounded by dumpsters and all the ugly clutter that comes with bad parts of the city, flat on my ass. I couldn’t have looked more pathetic if I tried.

But the man in the back seat kept his eyes on me.

“Going somewhere in such a hurry, bartender?”

To say I was shocked didn’t even come close. It was an emotional rollercoaster. A minute ago, I’d been panicking, running for my life from some faceless stalker, and now I was sitting in the dirt in that humiliating position, right in front of the man I’d been obsessively hoping to see.

Somehow I pulled myself together, got to my feet, brushed the grime off my hands, and muttered, “I… how… how did you know it was me?”

His expression didn’t change. He slowly looked me over from head to toe, and his gaze stopped at the level of my hips.

“Some things,” he said, “are rather hard to miss.”

I looked down at myself and went completely blank.

Just recently, I’d been scolding myself for being foolish, and like one more piece of evidence against me: the mask dangling from my belt. The same mask I wore at the bar. The same one we’d already talked about more than once.

“That’s… that’s all?” I managed. My fingers were shaking as I tried to unhook it and shove it under my hoodie.

“I wouldn't say it was that difficult to notice.” There was no emotion in his voice, which somehow made it worse. “If anonymity was your goal today, you should consider keeping your… bar traditions somewhere less visible.”

He was right, and I wanted the sidewalk to swallow me whole.

“I wasn’t trying to hide,” I muttered, even though we both knew I absolutely had been.

“Mm.” His mouth curved. “Of course.”

That tiny, barely noticeable reaction sent a shiver down my spine. He didn’t mock me any further. Instead, he nodded toward the open car door and made a short gesture.

“Get in. I’ll take you the rest of the way.”

“I— I can walk,” I said automatically.

“Certainly,” he replied. “If you’d prefer to keep running little circles through alleys in broad daylight.” He sighed. “You can do that too. But you look pretty worn out, by the way.”

My ears burned. The mask hadn’t let me breathe properly since the moment I’d started hurrying.

I swallowed hard. “…You’ll take me straight there?”

“Directly,” he said. “No detours. Unless you ask for them.”

My instincts were screaming at me to refuse. Every muscle tensed to bolt. Somewhere behind me, sirens still wailed, but for some reason, that scared me far less than the idea of ending up in that car with him.

I glanced down at myself and winced. I was filthy and sweaty, wearing old clothes that had definitely seen better days. Me, in that polished, expensive car? I didn’t belong there.

“I’m… kind of a mess,” I muttered.

“Be smart,” he said softly. “This is safer. And… considerably faster.”

I hesitated a few seconds longer. My pulse was racing so hard it nearly drowned out everything else. Then I let out a sharp breath. Screw it. I stepped toward the car and slid into the seat beside him.

The door shut behind me with a soft, expensive click.