Fadel

I was busy dismantling and assembling my gun before target practice. It had become a ritual I'd carried out for the last seven years-something to keep me grounded, focused, and sharp. In my line of work, speed and precision were everything, and this task was a reminder of that. It wasn't just muscle memory; it was the only thing that gave me a semblance of control in a world that was rapidly slipping away.

As I was tightening the barrel, something caught my peripheral vision. Bison was getting up, heading for the door.

"Going out?" I asked, my tone flat but sharp, an edge of suspicion creeping in.

Bison glanced over his shoulder and nodded. "I'm going to see Kant."

The moment the name left his lips; I could feel the heat rising. My eyes narrowed, and I rolled them, trying to hide the flash of frustration that was bubbling under the surface. I tightened my grip on the gun, but the action wasn't as steady as I'd like. A few seconds passed before I finally snapped, my voice low, cutting.

"Again?"

Bison paused, cocking his head slightly to the side, a flicker of confusion on his face, though I could see the faintest hint of defiance in his posture.

"He's just a friend. Don't read too much into it," he said, as though it was that simple.

I let out a bitter laugh, my gaze flicking to the gun in my hands. The thing that kept me calm, the thing that didn't lie. I could feel the weight of the situation, the tightness in my chest, but my expression stayed cool-colder than the steel I was working with. My frustration simmered just below the surface, but I couldn't let it show. Not yet. There was no room for it.

I stood still for a moment, breathing, forcing my anger back, pretending it didn't matter. I'd seen enough to know where this was going. Bison wasn't the one I needed to worry about. It was Kant, the damn distraction, the one pulling Bison away when there were more important things to focus on. And I hated that it had to be this way, but it was all I could do to keep my mind from unraveling.

"Whatever," I muttered, my voice a cold rasp. "Just don't let him slow you down."

Bison didn't respond right away, but I could feel his gaze on me, trying to gauge if my words were a warning or just another expression of irritation. I didn't care. If he thought I was overreacting, then so be it. I had bigger concerns than his inability to see Kant for what he really was-a distraction, a potential liability. But I wasn't going to stand here and argue about it.

I set the pieces of the gun down with deliberate precision, each click and turn punctuating the rising tension in the air. There was a part of me that wanted to throw the whole damn thing across the room, to let the frustration spill out, but I kept it under control. Always under control. It was the only way I knew how to operate.

"Just make sure you stay sharp," I said, my voice colder now, the calm exterior belying the storm brewing inside me. "We have a job to do. Don't forget that."

Bison didn't say anything for a long moment. He stood there; his expression unreadable. It was clear he didn't understand the weight of my frustration, the weight of what was really at stake here. But he didn't need to. He wasn't in my shoes, and frankly, I wasn't about to explain it to him.

I turned back to the gun, purposefully ignoring him. The clicking of metal against metal echoed in the room, a constant reminder of the discipline I maintained. That was the only thing that mattered. Focus, precision, control.

Bison left soon after, the door clicking shut behind him. But the irritation lingered, gnawing at the edges of my thoughts. I wasn't just angry at him; I was angry at myself for letting the situation drag on for this long. And for all the efforts to keep my cool, the gnawing frustration that Bison-my Bison-was being pulled in two directions was starting to break through.

I exhaled sharply, pushing the feelings aside. I wasn't going to waste any more time on it. Kant could play his games. I had bigger things to focus on.

But the cold, calculating part of me couldn't help but wonder: How long before Bison's loyalty shifts?

I finished target practice and grabbed my wallet, deciding to head out for something to eat. I was ravenous, which was rare for me-usually, I didn't eat much. But tonight, I needed the comfort, the warmth that only a bowl of spicy noodles could provide. I pulled my cap down low, slipping on a mask as I made my way through the quiet streets toward the nondescript eatery.

The place was nothing special, tucked away between two taller buildings that made it almost impossible to spot unless you were looking for it. The owner had known me since I was seven, and it was the only place I ever came back to, a sanctuary of sorts in a city that never stopped moving. Nobody knew about it, not even Bison. And I liked it that way-kept it my little secret.

The shop itself was old, its wooden counters worn smooth from years of use, and the air always smelled like something simmering, rich and spicy. The owner was a grumpy old man who didn't offer much conversation, but I appreciated it. The silence between us was comfortable, mutual. Words were unnecessary.

As I pushed open the door, the familiar scent hit me, and I stepped inside, feeling the warmth of the space wrap around me. But something felt different tonight. There, sitting at the counter, was Kant.

I froze for a moment, my steps halting as I took in the sight of him chatting animatedly with the owner, a wide grin on his face. The old man, usually as gruff as a bear, was actually laughing. The entire scene caught me off guard. Kant, effortlessly slipping into a warmth I could never seem to find with this man. I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen the owner so animated, so...human.

My breath caught for a second, the sting of surprise and frustration rising in my chest. I had been coming here for years, and this-this easy camaraderie-was something I'd never gotten. Not from him.

I couldn't help but feel a sharp pang of something I couldn't name as I watched them. I thought I knew this place, this man, better than anyone. But Kant? He apparently had this effortless ability to make connections, to wrap people around his finger without even trying. And the damn thing that stung the most was that he was doing it in my place, the one place I held onto like a secret treasure.

I stepped forward, trying to mask the tension that had suddenly seized my shoulders, but Kant turned to face me, his usual easy grin widening.

"Fadel," he said with a lilt of amusement, like we were old friends instead of mere acquaintances. The old man barely looked up, just gave a grunt and nodded in acknowledgment, though his expression softened, a contrast to the usual stone-faced routine I was used to.

I blinked, swallowing the tight knot of irritation that had formed in my throat. "Kant," I muttered, forcing my voice to remain neutral despite the sudden shift in the air around us. I couldn't help it. Seeing him here, in my space, with my grumpy old friend-it felt like an intrusion. A breach of an unspoken rule I never realized existed.

The initial shock slowly ebbed away, leaving a creeping sense of unease in its wake. I had come here expecting solitude, a chance to breathe, but instead, I found myself standing at the threshold of my sanctuary, watching as Kant casually interacted with the owner, who now seemed almost... too comfortable. The gnawing tension in my chest wouldn't let go.

I had thought Bison was meeting Kant-again-and the idea of it didn't sit well with me. I tried to push the thought away, but my mind kept circling back to the same damn thing. Bison. What was he really up to? The distraction was always there, hovering in the back of my mind, gnawing at me. Was he in trouble? Had something gone wrong? I couldn't ignore the possibility, no matter how much I tried.

I pulled my cap lower, masking my growing frustration. Kant's eyes followed me as I approached, his expression unreadable but with that same easygoing air that always made me want to throttle him and thank him in the same breath.

I couldn't help it. The moment I was close enough, I asked, my voice tight, "Where's Bison?"

Kant raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by the sudden question. "Relax, Fadel. He's fine. He's out meeting Style."

My heart skipped a beat. Style? Why hadn't Bison told me? I stared at Kant, trying to gauge if he was messing with me or if I really had been overreacting. My mind was still spinning, trying to process the pieces.

"You sure?" I asked, unable to hide the concern that laced my voice, despite my best effort to keep it cool.

Kant gave a shrug, leaning back casually in his chair, not a hint of tension in his posture. "Yeah, he's fine. Just needed to meet with Style for some business. Nothing to worry about."

For a moment, I just stood there, the weight of his words settling into my gut like a rock. The way Kant said it, so offhandedly, like it was the most normal thing in the world-it didn't feel right to me. But there was something about the calm in his voice that made it hard to argue.

I ran a hand through my hair, still uneasy. "You know, I don't like him being out there with those kinds of people. Style's not... predictable."

Kant's grin softened, his gaze flicking toward the counter where the owner was now quietly humming, making an order. He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping a little as if to emphasize his point. "Fadel, you worry too much. He can handle himself. He's not a kid anymore."

I didn't answer at first, the words hanging in the air between us. It was true-Bison wasn't a child, and I wasn't his keeper. But the unease still gnawed at me, digging deeper as I considered how easily Kant seemed to brush it off. The problem was, Kant had a way of making everything seem so easy, so casual, and I hated it.

I watched him for a moment longer, still feeling the flicker of doubt lingering in my chest. "Just making sure he knows what he's doing," I muttered finally, not meeting his gaze.

Kant's smile widened, a glint of something unreadable flashing in his eyes. "Always do," he said, that same calm demeanor never wavering.

I wanted to say more, to press the issue, but the words stuck in my throat. Something about Kant's reassurance didn't feel solid-it was like the ground beneath me was shifting. I was used to being the one in control, the one who made the decisions. But tonight, everything felt off, and I hated it.

I could feel the tension in my jaw as I tried to steady my breath. The last thing I wanted to do was sit here, face-to-face with Kant, who always had this way of making everything feel too comfortable. I'd come here for some peace, a brief escape from the mess that had been piling up, but now, it seemed like I couldn't even get a moment to myself. I needed space to think, to process.

Without saying anything, I glanced over at an empty table across the room. A small, quiet corner where I could be alone. I was about to make my move when Kant's voice cut through the air, smooth and persistent, like a rope pulling me back.

"You're not gonna sit with me?" he asked, his tone just a little too casual, like he already knew what I was thinking.

I hesitated, looking over at the empty table again, before I turned back to him. There was something in the way he said it, the way his gaze lingered, that made me pause. It was almost like a challenge-one I didn't feel like accepting. But I was already here, and walking away would only make it obvious that I was uncomfortable. So, I took a breath, pressed my lips into a tight line, and made my way to a seat next to him.

"Fine," I muttered, sliding into the seat across from him. I wasn't happy about it, but at least it would give me a chance to keep an eye on things.

Kant didn't seem bothered by my irritation. Instead, he just flashed that annoying smile of his, as if he hadn't even noticed. He leaned back in his chair, swirling the cup in his hand, looking more at ease than I'd ever felt in my life.

"Good choice," he said, still grinning. "I thought you might try to avoid me, but that wouldn't be any fun now, would it?"

I didn't answer. My mind was still half on Bison, half on the odd, unsettling atmosphere that had taken hold of the place. The owner-now quiet again, grumbling as he prepared my order-had gone back to his usual gruff demeanor, but it didn't stop me from noticing how different things felt. It wasn't just the familiar warmth of the food or the old man's routine that seemed off. It was him. Kant.

I shifted in my seat, trying not to let my unease show. It wasn't easy.

"So, you and Bison?" Kant's voice was a low murmur, but I could feel the weight of the question as if he was waiting for me to crack, to give him something more than what I'd already said.

I glanced up at him, keeping my expression neutral. "What about us?"

He leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing just enough to let me know he wasn't dropping it. "You've been off lately. Something you're not telling me?"

I could feel my chest tighten. I wasn't here to hash out my problems with him-not when I still didn't fully trust him. My irritation flared, but I forced it down. If there was one thing I knew, it was how to keep my emotions in check.

"I'm not in the mood for this, Kant," I said, keeping my voice steady, controlled.

Kant didn't seem put off by my tone. Instead, he raised his hands in mock surrender, his grin never fading. "Alright, alright. I get it. You're a man of few words. But you know, keeping things bottled up isn't good for you. Especially with everything going on."

I didn't respond. Instead, I sat back in my chair, staring at the empty counter where the owner had gone back to quietly prepping food. My order would come soon, and for a moment, that was the only thing I could focus on.

Kant seemed content to let the silence stretch, but I could still feel the weight of his eyes on me, like he was studying me. And it made the air feel thicker, suffocating. This wasn't the kind of distraction I needed tonight.

Finally, the owner placed my bowl of noodles in front of me with a grunt. The warmth of the steam rising from it was a small comfort, but it didn't ease the knot in my stomach. Kant was still watching me, his gaze sharp and calculating. And even though I hated admitting it, I couldn't shake the feeling that he knew something I didn't-that he always did.

I dug into my noodles without a word, the heat of the broth burning through the cold shell I'd wrapped around myself. The spicy kick hit my tongue, familiar and comforting, but even that couldn't dull the edge of my irritation. Each slurp of noodles felt like a distraction from the underlying tension that had taken root inside me. I didn't want to be here with Kant, but there I was, stuck in the same small space as him, trying not to acknowledge the subtle pressure he was placing on me.

Kant, ever the observant one, didn't speak much either at first. He simply watched me, his gaze never far from my face, though he made no overt moves to prod or question. It was almost like a game to him, the way he let the silence stretch, studying my every little reaction.

I could feel his eyes flicking to my hands as I twisted my chopsticks, the way my fingers tightened around the bamboo with each bite, the small furrow in my brow when the heat of the noodles caught me off guard. Kant noticed it all-the flicker of discomfort, the tiny signs of annoyance that I couldn't quite hide.

"You're tense," he said, after a moment, his voice soft but carrying a subtle edge of knowing. He wasn't asking for confirmation, just stating the obvious, but it made my stomach tighten. I didn't want to be read that easily.

I didn't look up at him. "I'm fine," I muttered, hoping the words would be enough to close the door on any more probing.

But Kant didn't let it go. He shifted slightly in his seat, just enough for me to catch the way his eyes softened, as if he were trying to gauge my mood without making it obvious. He didn't touch his own food, just let it sit there, forgotten on the table, his attention fully on me.

I hated how he could do that-how he could make it seem like he wasn't pushing, but you could feel his focus like a weight on your skin. Like he was studying the way I held my chopsticks, or how my jaw clenched a little when I swallowed. It wasn't the way I wanted to be seen, not here, not now.

He finally spoke again, this time with a little more care, as if trying to coax something from me without forcing it. "You've been working too hard. I can tell. You're wound tight, Fadel."

I paused, the chopsticks halfway to my mouth, and glanced at him-just a quick, fleeting glance. It wasn't the first time I'd heard this kind of thing from Kant, but it still irritated me, as if he had some secret understanding of me that I hadn't given him.

"I don't need a therapist," I snapped, the words sharper than I intended, but he didn't flinch.

Instead, he leaned forward, just a little, his smile more thoughtful now, but still that same annoying calm that never seemed to leave him. "I didn't say you did. But it's hard to ignore when it's written all over your face."

I couldn't keep the bitterness from creeping into my voice. "So what? You're here to tell me how to live my life now?"

Kant's eyes flickered with something-maybe amusement, maybe something else-and he shook his head slowly, his fingers tapping lightly against the edge of his cup. "No, I'm just here to listen. If you need someone to talk to."

I wasn't sure if that made me feel better or worse. Talking to Kant was like walking on thin ice-never knowing if the next step would send everything crashing down, or if he'd just smile and pretend nothing had ever happened. He made everything feel like it had some deeper meaning, even the smallest things, and it unsettled me more than I cared to admit.

But still, I couldn't bring myself to answer. The quiet stretched between us, my chopsticks clinking against the edge of the bowl as I ate, the heat of the noodles a sharp contrast to the cold knot in my stomach. Kant didn't push any further, though I could feel the weight of his gaze on me like a pressure I couldn't escape.

After a while, I could tell he wasn't going to let me sit in silence forever. He picked up his cup, sipping his tea slowly, almost meditatively, as if the act itself were a way to lull me into talking. And it almost worked.

I set my chopsticks down and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, finally giving in to the feeling of his focus weighing down on me. "I don't know why you're here, Kant," I muttered, my voice low. "But I didn't come here for a damn therapy session. So if you're done..."

He didn't seem at all offended, just nodded slowly, as if my words were a cue to move on. "Fair enough," he said quietly. But even then, his eyes stayed on me, never really leaving.

I finished my noodles in silence after that, my stomach full but the unease still lingering. And even as I sat there, surrounded by the quiet warmth of the shop, I couldn't shake the feeling that Kant wasn't done watching me-not by a long shot.