The coffee was perfect. The silence, even more so.
Five days before the world shattered, Karl stood at his kitchen counter, methodically wiping down the already-spotless espresso machine. A single, pristine cup of dark roast steamed beside him. The morning sun, pale and gentle, streamed through the window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the still air. It was Tuesday.
His routine was a liturgy, and he its devoted priest. Every movement was precise, economical. The towel was folded into a perfect square and hung on its designated hook. The used coffee grounds were tapped into the compost bin, the filter rinsed and set to dry. There was a profound peace in this order, a silence he had spent years cultivating.
He carried his cup to the small wooden table by the window, the one that looked out over his postage-stamp garden, still dewy and shadowed. He did not sit to scroll through a phone or read a newspaper. He sat to drink his coffee. That was the entire purpose.
His gaze, usually so focused on the interior world of his home, drifted outside. Mrs. Henderson from two doors down was already out, fussing with her rose bushes, her movements sharp and birdlike. A black sedan, sleek and unfamiliar, was parked further down the street. New neighbors, perhaps. He noted it, the way he noted everything—a data point, filed away without conscious thought. It was out of place on a street of sensible sedans and well-used SUVs, but not threateningly so. Just an anomaly.
He took a slow sip of coffee, the rich flavor blooming on his tongue. This was the reward for the ritual. This moment of pure, unadulterated calm.
A flicker of movement caught his eye. A jogger, a man in dark gray athletic wear, turning the corner onto his street. His pace was steady, measured. Karl watched him absently. The man's head was down, his face obscured by a baseball cap and the angle of the morning sun. As he passed Karl's house, his head turned—just a fraction, a barely perceptible shift—and for a split second, his eyes seemed to scan the front of the property, the windows, the door.
It was nothing. A man catching his breath, looking around a neighborhood he was running through. Entirely normal.
But something, a ghost of a instinct buried so deep it was almost extinct, stirred in Karl's gut. It wasn't the glance itself; it was the quality of it. It was too assessing, too calculating. It was the look of a man measuring, not sightseeing.
The feeling was gone as quickly as it came, dismissed by the rational part of his mind that cherished the quiet. You're getting paranoid in your old age, Vorlender, he chided himself silently. Seeing shadows where there are none.
He took another long, savoring drink of his coffee, allowing the warmth to push the unease away. The jogger had already disappeared around the next corner. The black sedan was just a car. The morning was just a morning.
He finished his coffee, rinsed the cup, and placed it in the dishwasher. The day awaited. There was grocery shopping to do. The lawn needed mowing. A life, ordinary and serene, stretched out before him.
He had no way of knowing that the jogger, two blocks away, was whispering into a mic hidden in his collar. "Subject confirmed. Location confirmed. Routine is predictable. The package is ready for delivery."
The watch had begun. The hunt was in its earliest, most delicate stage. And Karl, the Ghost, had just enjoyed his last truly peaceful cup of coffee.