The silence of his apartment felt different when Karl returned from his evening run. It wasn't the peaceful quiet he'd cultivated, but a violated silence. The air was still, but it held the faint, acrid scent of a stranger's sweat. The hair he'd carefully placed on the seam of his door was gone.
He became a statue in the entryway, every sense screaming. He could hear them. The soft, almost imperceptible shift of weight from the main room. Two of them. Amateurs, but not complete fools. They'd bypassed his lock but hadn't accounted for the subtler signs.
The Ghost took over. Matthias Vogel vanished. He slid the SIG from the small of his back, the cold metal a familiar comfort. He moved without a sound, a shadow gliding across his own floor.
He saw the first one first, a hulking figure rifling through the drawers of his small desk, his back to the door. The second was in the kitchen area, quietly opening cabinets.
They never heard him come in.
Karl's left arm snaked around the first man's neck in a vicious chokehold, cutting off all sound and air. The man's eyes bulged, his hands clawing uselessly at Karl's arm. He was unconscious in eight seconds. Karl lowered him silently to the floor.
The second man turned, alerted by the faint rustle of clothing. His eyes widened in shock, his hand darting towards his jacket. He never made it. Karl closed the distance in a blink, the butt of the SIG cracking against the man's temple with a sickening thud. The man crumpled like a sack of flour.
The entire engagement had taken less than fifteen seconds. Utterly silent.
Just as Karl was straightening up, breathing steady, a sound froze him solid.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
It was polite, familiar. Coming from his front door.
"Matthias? It's Elara." Her voice was cheerful, muffled by the wood. "I was wondering if you'd seen the new historical drama everyone's talking about? I was thinking of renting it, if you'd like to join me…?"
Karl's blood ran cold. He stood between two unconscious bodies, the SIG still in his hand. The door was only reinforced against a kick-in; it wouldn't hide the scene from a direct look.
He had to answer. Not answering would be more suspicious.
"One moment!" he called out, his voice impressively even. He moved with frantic speed. He grabbed the first man by the collar and dragged him into the bathroom, shoving him into the shower stall behind the curtain. The second was heavier. He grunted with effort, hauling him across the floor and into the bedroom, kicking the door mostly shut.
"Matthias? Everything alright?" Elara called, a note of concern creeping into her voice.
"Perfectly fine!" he said, slightly breathless. He snatched a throw blanket from the bed and tossed it over the legs of the man protruding from the bedroom door. He kicked the SIG under the sofa, wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, and ran a hand through his hair to compose himself.
He took a final, sweeping glance. It was a mess, but it would have to do.
He opened the door just a crack, his body blocking the view inside. He offered her a slightly breathless, apologetic smile.
"Elara. Hi. Sorry, I was just… doing some rather enthusiastic cleaning." He gave a self-deprecating chuckle that sounded almost natural.
She stood there, holding a bowl of popcorn, her expression shifting from concern to amusement. "Cleaning? At this hour?"
"Best time for it," he said, his heart hammering against his ribs. He could feel the consciousness of the man in the bedroom returning, a low groan threatening to form. He shifted his weight, subtly nuding the door with his heel to mask any sound.
She smiled, and the warmth of it almost made him forget the two would-be assassins lying in his apartment. "Well, the offer stands. The movie awaits, if you're done… polishing the floorboards."
For a terrifying second, he considered it. The absurdity of sitting through a movie with her while two men slowly regained consciousness in his rooms was almost appealing.
"I… I would love to," he said, the regret in his voice utterly genuine. "But I'm actually expecting an important overseas call for work any minute. Rain check?"
"Of course," she said, her smile never faltering. "Another time. Don't work too hard."
She turned and walked back to her door. Karl held his smile until she was inside, her door clicking shut.
The moment she was gone, his expression hardened into ice. He closed his door, locked it, and retrieved the SIG from under the sofa. The low groan from the bedroom was now unmistakable.
He had guests to deal with. And a very important call to make to a man named Nightingale. The message would be clear: sending boys to do a man's work was an insult. And the Ghost did not tolerate insults.