Breathing heavily, Isaac dropped to his knees and then sank fully to the ground. Every muscle protested, as if it had been run through a wringer. His chest burned, his eyes watered uncontrollably, and the urge to cough scratched stubbornly in his throat. Without thinking, he tore the mask from his face, hoping to finally get fresh air.
A mistake.
The unfiltered air hit his lungs like sandpaper. The irritation intensified instantly, sharper, more aggressive. He doubled over, coughing in bursts until his body trembled and his vision went black. Only after several endless seconds did the spasm slowly subside and he was able to breathe shallowly again.
He still couldn't see.
His eyelids twitched, but he had to keep them closed. The artificial light above him burned even through his shut lids and made the nerves behind them throb. The mucous membranes were far too irritated — tear gas. Highly concentrated. And probably illegal in that dosage.
This raid had been far closer than— he couldn't even say what he had injured. Fortunately, nothing seemed broken, which was at least something. The bruises, however, would give him plenty of "enjoyment" over the next few weeks, and not in a positive sense.
Isaac always expected difficulties, or problems that had never occurred before. He had solutions ready for some potential issues. But thanks to Benedict, nothing was predictable anymore.
Traps… they had set damn traps for him. No additional locks or laser alarms. They had gotten creative.
At least he had made it safely into the boss's gallery. Coughing, he leaned against the wall where his painting hung. He raised a hand and touched the canvas.
"I'm releasing the tether," he muttered between coughs. Heat gathered beneath his skin. First a tingling, then pressure, finally a glowing current that traveled from his fingertips over his wrist to his elbow. "The path is blocked."
He let his hand fall limply to the floor as the warmth faded.
"Did you make it in safely?" Ashe asked, worried. "It was more than close in there — they almost saw you."
"It's all okay," Isaac replied in a hoarse voice.
"Good," Ashe said in relief. "Ink Phantom made it too. I'm cutting the connection."
A moment later there was nothing but silence.
They would meet soon anyway and talk about the operation. Until then, he urgently needed to get to the notebook.
Isaac grabbed his phone and forced his irritated eyes to open. The text was nearly impossible to read, but if he saw correctly, he had been in the museum for about twenty minutes. That was far too long. Normally he gave himself a maximum of ten.
The fights had lasted too long. The heists were getting more violent each time, and that damned cop named Benedict wanted him behind bars — or maybe even dead. That cursed irritant gas. Was that even legal?
With all the bullets they had fired at him, Isaac was surprised none had hit him. He hadn't just been lucky — it was as if he had won millions in a damn casino.
He exhaled, only to start coughing again. As a member of the mafia, he was always prepared to die. Since childhood he had known he stood on the illegal side of the law, and he had seen enough members of the organization die. In his line of work, people usually didn't live long, and only those at the very top, directly under the boss, typically made it past forty.
That he had managed seventeen years so far was due solely to his caution and his abilities. Trust was a calculated risk in his profession, one he rarely took. Maybe that was the reason. He was currently twenty-four years old. Perhaps Benedict would end his life even sooner.
He let his head fall back against the wall. He didn't have much time left. He had to change and bring the painting to the boss.
Just a short moment, Isaac thought wearily.
With every second of rest, the sensation of pain returned more strongly. Adrenaline systematically gave way to reality. His body now registered every single blow. What he wouldn't give to properly look at one of his wounds. The little finger had been set back into place, but without painkillers it throbbed in a constant, cutting rhythm. His shin felt heavy and dull — almost certainly bruised. If it were broken, he wouldn't have made it here.
He wiped at his watering eyes and activated his phone's camera.
The image blurred several times before he could focus it halfway. The conjunctiva was deep red, the eyelids swollen. His lower lip had gained volume, torn on the inside. He saw the contrast of his blood against his pale skin, though he couldn't really tell how much he had bled. At least all his teeth were still there.
His ribs hurt, and by now he could precisely tell where the cops' punches and kicks had landed. Isaac clenched his teeth and straightened up. He had to make himself somewhat presentable before going to the boss.
Unfortunately, this time he wouldn't be able to hide that he had been injured.
He wouldn't be able to hide it the next morning at the café either.
Isaac didn't even know how he was supposed to get home.
Quietly cursing, he braced himself against the wall and forced his legs upright. It had been a long time since he had taken this many hits. Carefully he removed the phantom thief's disguise and changed into civilian clothes. He flinched every time his injured finger caught on something.
He poured water onto a handkerchief and used it to rinse his eyes as best he could, then wiped away the blood. He put on his black gloves, which he normally always wore after a job. He never wanted to leave his fingerprints on the objects — or damage them by accident. After all, he sweated when he fled from the cops.
However, blood had recently become one of his concerns as well.
He then stuffed his clothes into his backpack.
It was reassuring to see that the completely white outfit didn't have huge red bloodstains this time.
He slipped the phone into his pocket, slung the backpack over his shoulder, and only when he was finished did he take the painting into his hands. He didn't bother inspecting the object — he couldn't examine it in detail. But since he couldn't see any major obvious damage, he was reassured for the moment.
What would the boss say when he saw him like this?
Isaac stopped and quickly pulled the hood of his jacket over his head, as low over his face as he could. He was ashamed of what had happened. He had failed, even if he had successfully stolen the painting. He simply didn't know what condition it was in. Handing the boss something whose state he himself couldn't confirm went against everything he stood for.
He opened the door leading out of the gallery and was greeted by Constantin.
"There you are, Mr. Walker," he said politely. "You took longer than usual — did something happen?"
But when he saw Isaac's face, his expression tightened.
"I see."
Without wasting further words, they walked silently toward the boss's office. At least his eyes were no longer watering, and the urge to cough seemed to ease somewhat. Unfortunately, he still couldn't really make out what lay before him. Everything was blurred and indistinct. Were his contact lenses even still there? He wouldn't be surprised if he had lost them.
"The boss is expecting you, Mr. Walker," Constantin said politely and opened the door.
Isaac nodded to him. He wanted to avoid coughing and revealing even more of his current weakened condition. On the way here he had already tried with all his strength to conceal his limp.
The door closed quietly behind him.
He pulled himself together, pushed aside the exhaustion and pain, and stepped as confidently as possible toward his boss's desk. He pulled the hood from his head, openly showing the state of his face.
He couldn't hide the consequences of the fight anyway, and the boss hated it when one was not properly dressed in his presence.
"Good evening, boss," Isaac said calmly. "Apologies for the delay."
"Isaac," his boss began. He looked up from the documents he had been reading, his gaze now fixed on Isaac — what he wouldn't give to see his expression. His voice, however, was sharp and unyielding as he continued. "Is the painting intact?"
"I'm afraid I can't assess that," Isaac apologized with a quiet cough. "Unfortunately, I can barely see anything."
A brief pause.
"Give me the painting."
Wordlessly he handed it over. His boss inspected it just as silently. The silence in the room was oppressive. Isaac desperately wanted to know whether he had managed to bring it back without visible damage; the quiet was unbearable, and with every passing second he felt as though he aged a hundred years.
He feared he had botched the job. He always delivered everything perfectly. There had never been difficulties; he had never been injured, nor had the idiotic cops ever noticed when he stole something. Usually they only realized it when he was already escaping.
And all of this just because Noah wanted his fun and Benedict had recently started interfering.
They would have to change their tactics, and as quickly as possible. The boss supported Noah in everything he wanted to do, so Isaac would get nowhere that way. The boss would never forbid Noah from participating in the heists as long as he walked away uninjured.
The boss placed the painting into a velvet-lined case.
"Unacceptable," the boss broke the silence. His voice sounded furious and sent a chill down Isaac's spine.
He had ruined the assignment — completely. Isaac opened his mouth to apologize, but at that very moment he felt a gust of air along his left cheek. A second later something shattered against the wall behind him.
Whatever the boss had thrown… Isaac was glad it hadn't hit his face.
"Do not dare speak before I allow it," the boss hissed.
Isaac pressed his lips together.
The boss's hand slammed onto the desk. An object slid down and hit the floor with a dull thud. Shortly afterward Isaac heard footsteps — heavy, direct, without hesitation.
"Do you have any idea how important this job was?!" he shouted at him now. "I won't be able to honor the deal, and only because you failed to steal a painting the size of your palm without damaging it!"
Isaac still said nothing; the boss had said he could only speak when given permission. He had never seen him this angry.
The painting must have suffered irreparable damage…
He felt awful. It was the first time he had failed at something. The boss was rightfully angry. He relied on Isaac for these jobs because there was no one else with his abilities.
Isaac had broken the trust the boss had placed in him.
"Do you even realize what you've done?!"
Isaac nodded. Heavy footsteps approached him; the boss grabbed him by the collar and pulled him closer.
"I asked whether you realize what you've done," he growled threateningly.
"Yes," Isaac replied quietly. "And I will do everything to restore your name."
He knew the boss was in the process of bringing the city under his control. There were many negotiations with other criminal groups, and quite a few had already switched over to them. The boss wanted to make the city safer, to make it cleaner, and anyone who stepped out of line was to be punished.
Since the boss had begun doing this, there had been fewer street and territorial fights. People could walk the streets with less fear, and in recent years they had grown happier.
Isaac saw the effects of all his boss's years of effort at the café. He felt it himself as well, because it happened far less often that he was harassed because of his appearance.
The boss had probably been about to subjugate another organization, and Isaac was to blame that it wouldn't work — just because he had been tricked. His guilt weighed heavily.
"You?!" the boss shouted at him. "You want to clear my name?!"
The blow hit him without warning. His head jerked to the side; a sharp ringing filled his ear for a moment. A metallic taste spread across his tongue. His split lip began bleeding again.
Isaac made no sound.
It wasn't the first blow he had taken from the boss, and it wouldn't be the last. Especially in his early days in the clan he had endured a great many hits. Over the years Isaac had earned his respect. For all those years he hadn't taken a single blow, and the boss had been satisfied with him.
Isaac fixed his blurred gaze on the boss. How could he regain his trust?
"Yes," he said quietly. "I belong to you, and I will do everything so the negotiations don't collapse. Just tell me what I must do and I will do it."
He hoped the boss would forgive him. He was the one Isaac owed everything to. The boss had not only saved his life — he had given him the chance to live it. He had taught him how to defend himself and what abilities he needed to live safely.
Isaac would damn well do anything to regain the trust of the man before him — and he would do even more to ensure his safety.
The boss said nothing, his hand still clenched in Isaac's jacket. He was tense and breathing heavily. The anger still simmered in him, and Isaac could do nothing but wait.
Would he hit him again?
Isaac braced himself internally. It was fine. He had failed, so the boss could punish him however he wished. Until Isaac died, he belonged to the boss.
But nothing of the sort happened.
Before the boss could say or do anything else, the office door burst open loudly.
"Father! I'm back home!" Isaac heard Noah's satisfied voice. "You won't believe everything that happened there! The show was a complete success!"
He sounded energetic as always, and unlike Isaac, Noah seemed practically bathed in adrenaline. Before Noah came closer, the boss pulled Isaac a little nearer.
"Next time I expect absolute perfection from you," the boss hissed. "This will not happen again."
"Understood," Isaac replied. "I await your orders."
The grip loosened. The boss stepped past him.
"Noah, my boy," he said with the calm friendliness reserved exclusively for his son. "Did you have fun?"
"Absolutely. It went exactly as I planned," Noah said, audibly pleased.
"Wonderful. Come, I wanted to go out to eat with you to celebrate — a new restaurant has opened in the city."
"You don't mean Pete's Grill, do you?" His voice immediately grew livelier. "My friends have been talking about it for days. The burgers are supposed to be incredible."
"Exactly that," the boss replied, a clearly audible smile in his voice.
"The day just keeps getting better! Is Isaac coming along? We haven't eaten together in so long!"
"Today I want to eat alone with you and hear how you impressed everyone. Isaac needs to rest."
The tone allowed no contradiction.
The words sent a chill down Isaac's spine. He pulled his hood back over his head and as low into his face as he could so Noah wouldn't see his condition. He should leave — the boss certainly wouldn't want him lingering here any longer while he spoke with his son.
He smoothed his clothes, turned around, and ignored the pain running through his body with every movement.
"Must've been tough in there," Noah guessed. "Hey, Isaac — see you this weekend?"
Isaac only nodded and walked past them.
"Good! I'm looking forward to it!" Noah called after him.
"Isaac," the boss said in a cold tone. "Keep a low profile at home until I give you further instructions."
"Understood," Isaac said and left the office.
"Did something happen?" he heard Noah ask. "Why are there shards on the floor?"
"I dropped something," the boss said.
Then the door closed.
___
Outside, cool night air hit him. His eyes immediately began burning again; the aftereffects of the gas stubbornly lingered. Still, the darkness was more pleasant than the artificial light inside.
At least he had always walked this route home and could manage it even completely blind.
He considered what he could do on the next job to keep the upper hand. He had to find something Benedict wouldn't expect, and he had to manage to disarm potential traps before they were triggered.
He needed to improve his equipment. Maybe he should talk to Ashe.
He had to show the boss that he was still worthy of handling important assignments and, as usual, delivering nothing but perfection. Today had been the first and only time he had messed something up, and it certainly wouldn't happen a second time.
If the damn cops wanted war, they would get it. Benedict especially would have to brace himself — Isaac had no intention of going easy on the cop.