Isaac sat in the bay window of his studio, staring out at the street. A heavy wool blanket rested around his shoulders, as if it were meant not only to warm him but to hold him together. For days he had been sitting there like that—motionless, almost detached—his gaze fixed on the activity outside, as though through the pane he were observing not only the city but his own life.
People hurried through the streets, busy as ever. Time kept moving forward, even though he was currently not allowed to leave his apartment. It felt as if time had stopped for him while everything outside continued at its usual pace.
When would he be allowed out again? His eyes had already recovered from the tear gas; there were no visible traces left, and he was no longer affected by it. He almost looked normal again.
If it weren't for the bruises that marked his body. From experience, he knew it would take ages before the hematomas were no longer visible. With his pale skin, they always lingered far too long. His only stroke of luck was that his lip had split only on the inside, and thanks to his mask he had suffered nothing more than a greenish bruise.
He couldn't possibly stay at home that long. After just four days, the walls already felt as though they were closing in on him.
Absentmindedly, he pulled the fabric of his sweater down until his skin shifted from pale to livid. He ran his fingers over it, as though the bruise itself might provide the answers to the questions he so desperately wanted resolved.
Isaac sighed softly. He pulled the blanket a little tighter around himself and leaned his head back against the wall.
The Boss still hadn't contacted him. There was no new assignment, and aside from Ashe and Noah, he hadn't seen a single soul—which wasn't difficult, considering his limited social contacts. They had visited him a day after the raid because Noah had been worried.
So they had gone through their debriefing. Ashe had checked Isaac's injuries, and then they had left again. He had told them the job had failed, that he hadn't been able to return the painting unharmed, and that he was under house arrest until the Boss reached out.
Ashe thought that was a good thing, since it meant they all had a bit of a break and could recover. Noah found it boring, though he didn't mind the part about having time off. Isaac, however, experienced the situation as torture.
But they weren't the ones he wanted to see.
It was Noctis.
Yet since their argument, Isaac hadn't heard a single word from him. He wrapped his arms around his bent legs and rested his head on his knees. His gaze drifted toward the overcast sky. It wouldn't be long before the first drops began to fall.
He wished he could distract himself. Normally he always had so much to do that he had no time to think about anything else.
But now there was nothing to do. There were certainly enough canvases he could paint, yet he lacked the inspiration to create anything, and without inspiration, there was no motivation. If only he had something—anything—that might spark even a trace of it.
The first raindrop struck the windowpane, then a second. Shortly after, a steady drumming spread across the city. The people below quickened their pace, sought shelter beneath awnings, opened their umbrellas. Movement. Reaction. Adaptation.
So he had passed the time by thinking. He had racked his brain over what he could do to make the Boss treat him as he once had. He wondered whether he had been disrespectful.
Hadn't he always tried to make him happy? He had always behaved respectfully and had always given everything to avoid disgracing himself. Because if he failed to carry out an assignment properly, he would not only embarrass himself, but above all the Boss.
Just as he had done on his last raid…
The thought settled like lead in his stomach.
For seventeen years Isaac had belonged to the clan. He had been taken in when there was no one left who could have cared for him. Back then, he had been fortunate that the Boss had saved him from certain death.
He had only discovered his ability to create portals after being accepted into the clan. Before that, he had been nothing more than a filthy orphan, fighting for survival each day.
So the Boss hadn't taken him in because of his ability, but because he had wanted to, hadn't he? Even though Isaac had been such a freak. The Boss had been the first person who hadn't mocked him for his appearance. From the very first moment, he had accepted him as he was. Since then, Isaac had always given everything to satisfy him.
Was it truly wrong to swear absolute loyalty to the man who had saved his life?
His hand clenched involuntarily into a fist. The knuckles stood out white. He pressed his lips together as he thought again of the argument. He had meant every word he had said to Noctis. His life had belonged to the Boss from the day he was rescued.
So he would serve him until he was no longer needed.
But why did he feel so heavy since Noctis had left? He had been trapped in a melancholy unlike anything he had ever experienced before. He could not free himself from it, no matter how hard he tried.
How many hours had he been sitting here? He hadn't looked at the clock, and it hardly mattered. He had sat down here late in the evening, had watched the moon, and eventually seen night give way to day. He had only stood up once to get himself a coffee—only to leave it untouched.
He had no appetite. He couldn't sleep. He felt empty.
Ever since Noctis had simply walked away, he felt as though the ground had been torn out from under his feet.
It would probably be different if I could at least work… then I could distract myself a little…
But even that thought now sounded like an excuse.
He hadn't come back. His phone remained silent, and somehow Isaac sensed that Noctis truly wasn't going to return. And yet he kept expecting to see him standing in his apartment at any moment. He expected to feel his breath against his neck or a sudden embrace that would startle him half to death.
Isaac missed him.
He swallowed, then bit down on his lower lip as if he could control the rising pressure inside him that way.
What do I have to do to make you come back?
The thought struck him unprepared and made him inhale sharply. Why had he been so stupid? He had driven him away with his words, simply because he was too inept to have a proper conversation. Why was he always so blunt? Why were his words always hurtful? Why hadn't he called after him? Why hadn't he asked him to stay?
He should have apologized. Even though he had never apologized to anyone who meant as much to him as Noctis did.
Should he send him a message?
The thought made his heart race—only to stutter again a second later. No, that was probably not a good idea. Noctis had already mocked his last message; what if he pushed him even further away? What if Noctis misunderstood his attempt to apologize and never came back at all?
The idea tightened his throat.
Isaac closed his eyes briefly. He missed his closeness, his warmth, the way it felt to be with him. There was nothing he wanted more than to lean against him and talk. Even sitting in silence would be enough. As long as he was with him again.
When had he started to need his presence so desperately?
Suddenly, the doorbell rang.
Isaac flinched violently. He wasn't expecting anyone, and Ashe had said she would check on him again the next day. So who was standing at his door? The bell rang again. Isaac snapped out of his rigidity and stood up. His leg still hurt, especially after sitting motionless at the window for so many hours. He was still limping slightly, but with each step he could put more weight on it.
When he reached the apartment door, he looked through the peephole.
What is he doing here? Why is he showing up without announcing himself?
He didn't know whom he had expected—but it certainly hadn't been the cop.
"Just a moment," he called out, loud enough for the officer to hear him.
He couldn't exactly present his face to him. Isaac's gaze slid over the sideboard in the hallway. He quickly opened a drawer, pulled out one of his face masks, and slipped it on. It was black and fit snugly enough that the cop wouldn't be able to see anything.
That would have to suffice for now.
Under no circumstances could he arouse suspicion. He quickly checked his clothes. No bruises or wounds visible. Perfect. Without wasting another second, he opened the door.
But the cop merely stood there, looking at him with visible relief. He was holding a bag in one hand.
"Hello, Isaac," he greeted him with a smile. "Sorry for just showing up like this, but your boss said you're sick. I wanted to check on you."
He wanted to check on him? Just because he was supposedly ill?
Isaac couldn't suppress the surge of anger that rose within him. Standing in front of him was none other than the very cop who had made it increasingly difficult for him to carry out his raids as easily as before.
And now he came here to check on him?
If only you knew whose house call you're making.
What did one even say in a situation like this? It was the first time someone had come to see him who wasn't named Noctis, Ashe, or Noah. Isaac felt almost paralyzed. Words failed him, and the silence slowly grew uncomfortable.
"You…" he began, then cleared his throat. "You didn't have to come."
"To be honest, I was worried about you," the cop admitted. "You live alone, and when people are sick they tend to neglect themselves. Are you at least eating properly? You look pretty tired."
The officer studied him closely. As usual, nothing escaped his notice.
"I'm just not sleeping enough," Isaac replied.
Right on cue, his stomach growled loudly.
The cop smirked and lifted the bag he had brought.
"May I come in? I'll cook you something."
Isaac eyed him skeptically. "You can cook?"
"Quite well, actually," the cop replied with a crooked grin. "So?"
Maybe this way Isaac could at least get his hands on the man's notebook. Without a word, he stepped aside to let him in. Finally having something to do again felt almost invigorating. The cop entered Isaac's apartment with a smile.
Isaac's gaze followed him. Besides, he felt a certain temptation to take revenge on the cop in this way. Maybe he would even come up with a suitable trap for the next raid—something that would put the officer out of action, leave him unable to move.
That would be an entertaining outcome.
The thought carried a certain satisfaction.
"Do you have the day off?" Isaac asked casually as he closed the door behind him.
The cop gave him a questioning look.
"No, I worked a normal shift."
So you got it with you?
"I sent you several messages. Didn't you read them?" the cop asked, puzzled.
Isaac could hardly admit that he had more or less been living in his window the past few days. So he simply shook his head.
"…No."
As discreetly as possible, Isaac studied him. The cop didn't have his notebook tucked into his pants. His jacket pockets appeared empty. He was carrying the bag, but Isaac doubted the notebook was in there.
Besides, he smelled as though he had just showered.
He would likely have to abandon the idea of getting hold of that notebook today.
"It's fine," the cop continued in good spirits. "I brought everything for a soup. It'll get you back on your feet in no time."
"I won't eat with you. I'm… still contagious," Isaac deflected.
Only then did he realize how foolish it had been to let the cop in for food. What if he noticed the bruises? The split lip. He would ask questions Isaac wasn't prepared to answer.
"The soup is for you, Isaac. I already ate at the station," the cop replied with an easy smile.
He rolled up his sleeves, exposing muscular forearms, and began laying out the ingredients. He washed everything, then grabbed one of Isaac's cutting boards.
It felt strange to see someone else in his kitchen—especially someone as tall and broad as the cop. Isaac stood there, watching him thoughtfully.
"Where do you keep your pots?" the cop asked suddenly, pulling him from his thoughts. "And I'll need a knife."
Isaac looked straight into those blue eyes—eyes that, according to Noctis, he had once admired rather closely. The color truly was striking.
Maybe he could make use of that.
"Isaac?"
"Hmm?"
"Where are your knives?"
"Oh—wait." He gently pushed the cop aside, took out two knives, placed a large pot on the stove, and grabbed a cutting board for himself.
The cop frowned. "Wouldn't you rather rest?"
The sooner we're done, the sooner you're gone.
"I can't very well let you work alone in my kitchen," Isaac replied evenly.
He picked up the leek and sliced it into thin rings with swift, precise movements. When he finished, he swept them into the pot. The cop stared at him in surprise.
"Wow. I thought that kind of thing only existed in movies."
"It's just practice," Isaac said, unimpressed.
They stood quietly side by side, preparing the soup. Eventually the cop added everything to the pot, and once it only needed to simmer, they moved into the living room. Isaac made coffee for both of them and drank in a way that kept his mouth hidden from view.
"Is everything okay?" the cop asked after a while.
Isaac lowered his cup. "What do you mean?"
The cop leaned back slightly, studying him with that calm, assessing look. "You seem down. I could be wrong—you're sick, sure. But it doesn't look like just fatigue."
How had he figured that out despite the mask?
The cop was far too good at reading him. That wasn't reassuring. Should he lie and claim everything was fine? The cop likely wouldn't believe him. So what was he supposed to do?
Perhaps it was better to stay close to the truth. His low mood had something to do with his Boss, yes—but the argument with Noctis was what truly weighed on him.
"It's nothing serious. I just had a fight with someone," he sighed at last.
"The friend who always shows up unannounced?" the cop guessed.
Isaac nodded.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
Isaac didn't even know what exactly he could tell him. There was so much—and at the same time so little—he could share with the cop. But simply sitting there beside him, waiting for him to finally leave, wasn't an appealing prospect either.
"…I don't think so. It's my fault we argued." He decided to let the subject drop. He didn't want to talk about it—especially not with the cop. "I'm not very good at finding the right words at the right moment."
"Have you tried talking to him again?" the cop suggested carefully.
"That would only make things worse."
"Maybe he's even waiting for you to reach out," the cop considered. "When I argue with my friends, they can be pretty stubborn too. It's happened quite often that we didn't speak for days. But as soon as one of us made the first move, we were close again in no time."
"Sounds pretty simple when you say it like that."
The cop smiled. "It is. And your friend knows what you're like. He probably doesn't expect you to do a complete one-eighty and text him in a totally different way than usual."
Noctis knew him better than anyone. Maybe he really should try later. But the fear of failing again was too great. He couldn't risk losing Noctis for good. If he left, Isaac would truly be alone.
But hadn't that been exactly what he had wanted during their argument?
He sighed quietly.
No—he had said it, yes, but only because he had been so angry. Mostly at himself.
"Can I cheer you up somehow?" the cop suddenly asked, breaking the silence.
What could the cop possibly do to lift his spirits when Isaac himself hadn't found a solution to his problems in the past four days?
"I don't see what you could realistically change about my situation," Isaac replied flatly.
The cop didn't let that discourage him. "What do you usually do when you're feeling bad?"
Isaac hesitated.
"When we went out, you mentioned that you paint," the cop reminded him.
Isaac's gaze drifted involuntarily toward the studio. The untouched canvases. The dried paint on the palette. The unfinished painting that had stood on the easel for days.
Isaac nodded. "Normally I focus on my work or on my paintings."
The cop glanced around the living room. "Did you paint these as well?"
"Yes. I did those when I had a little time to myself."
The cop stood up and walked over to the painting of the forest scene Isaac had created a few years ago.
"This painting caught my eye last time as well. I don't understand much about art, but it feels so alive, as if I were standing right in the middle of it," he explained. "It's like I can hear the leaves rustling and the birds chirping. Does that sound strange?"
Isaac shook his head. "No. That's exactly what I feel when I paint. You have to be able to picture the scene precisely. Only then can I bring the colors to life."
His gaze lingered on the cop's muscular forearms.
"Maybe you can help me after all," Isaac said at last and stood up.
He didn't often get the chance to do a body study. In his private life he was far too withdrawn for that. If he couldn't get his hands on the notebook, he could at least stimulate his imagination.
"Really?" the cop asked with a smile, turning toward him. He seemed genuinely pleased to be able to do something helpful. "What can I do for you?"
It wasn't a big request.
Isaac rose and gave him another brief assessment from head to toe. The man was well trained; if his forearms were that defined, the rest of his physique would be equally aesthetic.
It had been a long time since he had been able to work on a study.
One should seize an opportunity when it presents itself.
The idea appealed to him more and more. At the very least, it would dispel the lethargy that refused to loosen its grip on him.
"Take your shirt off," Isaac said matter-of-factly.
The cop blinked. "W-what?"
Isaac raised an eyebrow as though he had said nothing unusual. "Not completely. I don't need you fully naked. Just your upper body. I'd like to do an anatomical study."
For a moment, silence hung in the room.
The cop studied him carefully, as if to make sure it wasn't a joke. "You want to paint me?"
"Sketch," Isaac corrected calmly. "It's about muscle structure, light and shadow. Your physique isn't bad. I can see how much dedication you put into your body and your training."
It sounded almost like a technical assessment.
The cop ran a hand over the back of his neck. "That's… unexpected."
"You wanted to help," Isaac replied dryly.
A brief, incredulous laugh escaped the cop. "I guess that's true."
He hesitated for a moment longer, then reached for the hem of his shirt. "Alright. If it really helps you."
Slowly, he pulled the shirt over his head.
Isaac watched the movement closely. He observed the play of muscles and how even the smallest motion shifted the light and shadow across his body. All at once, he was completely focused.
The cop was incredibly irritating, but he had a well-built body. Isaac noticed the bruises he had inflicted on him. Each hematoma gave him a certain satisfaction. At least he wasn't the only one left with reminders of the last raid.
His mood lifted. Once the cop had taken off his shirt, Isaac headed toward his studio.
"Follow me," he said, clearly in better spirits.
Those injuries must hurt quite a bit, Isaac thought with quiet satisfaction. At least he'll be reminded of it for a while too.