Alex woke up early. Michael was still asleep. She quietly packed her bag and went out.
At the gym, she put her iPod headphones in and started training on the punching bag with Metallica blasting in her ears.
---
Michael woke up late in the morning. He stretched and stood up. The bruises hurt less and the stitches still pulled, but the wounds had begun to heal.
Alex returned just then.
"Welcome back," he said.
"And good morning to you," she replied, heading to the kitchen. She set down the shopping bags and started putting things in the fridge. "Spaghetti today. I hope you like it."
"Italian cuisine? Excellent!"
---
Later that evening, Muse's Undisclosed Desires echoed from the pub's speakers as Alex moved back and forth between the bar and the tables, taking orders. A haze of smoke hovered near the ceiling of the large room. She set down yet another tray of pints and dried her hands on the small black apron tied around her waist. She glanced out the window. She longed for a breath of fresh night air, but the evening was still long, and there was no time for a break.
That night, Blackout was hosting a private party for a politician, who had brought his entire staff—including security. So when she'd been called in to cover for a waitress, she had accepted without hesitation.
The last two days had gone by more slowly than usual. They had adjusted to Michael's rhythm and needs. He tired easily and slept a lot. During the day, he told her stories about his work in London, they watched movies, or talked about their travels—the places they'd visited or lived in, and those they still hoped to see. Little by little, her distrust toward him had faded, and Alex had begun to relax, partly because Michael never asked her personal questions—which she appreciated deeply.
She wondered what he was doing now. He had probably fallen asleep watching one of the movies she'd left him. She smiled.
"So, is this beer coming or what?"
A slurred voice and a sweaty hand on her arm pulled her from her thoughts. Alex looked down at the bearded face to which the hand belonged and immediately shook it off.
"Coming," she said coldly, and walked toward the counter.
---
After Alex had left for work, Michael had wandered through the house to stretch his legs. He was starting to feel better—stronger. He stood at the window and watched the light drizzle fall. A single streetlamp cast a pool of orange light on the wet street below. He picked up the book Alex had been reading and sat down on the bed, resting his back against the wall. He held the book in his hands, looked out the window again, then began to read.
---
When she finally stepped out of the pub, Alex inhaled the cold night air. The rain had stopped, but the street was still wet and the air heavy with moisture. She zipped up her jacket with a shiver and got on her motorbike to head home.
The house was dark and silent. Had she not known Michael was there, she would have thought it empty. He was asleep on the bed. She gently took the book that had fallen open on his chest and set it on the nightstand. Then she went into the bathroom and quietly closed the door behind her.
---
A firm knock on the door made him look up from the papers he was reading.
"Come in," he said.
A man entered and dropped to one knee.
"You summoned me," he said without raising his eyes. His black hair fell in a curtain across his face.
"Night. Step forward."
The man rose and approached the large walnut desk, his yellow eyes glinting.
"The Barclay pup didn't return to the estate, and his relatives haven't been informed of what happened. So, either he's dead, or he's gone into hiding. The apartment he owns in the city is under surveillance—he hasn't returned. I want you to find him. Or find his corpse."
The man nodded and silently left the room.