09:24 A.M.
The alley was quieter now.
Not safe. Just emptied of noise, like a room after an argument where the words still hung in the air, refusing to leave.
Nico stood there, breathing.
"Sir," he said, his voice calm, "how did you do that?"
The man in the suit smiled.
It was the only thing visible on his face. The rest remained hidden beneath the black homburg hat.
"Well," he said, tilting his head slightly, "we both did that."
Nico blinked.
Before he could respond, the man's attention shifted. His gaze moved to the woman still steadying herself in Nico's arms.
"Are you alright, miss?"
She straightened, pulling herself together with effort. Her hair hung loose now, strands clinging to her face. Her clothes were rumpled, dark at the collar. She swallowed and nodded.
"Yes," she said softly. "I… I think so."
Then, after a pause, she added, "What about the robber, sir?"
The man turned his head.
The unconscious body lay near the wall where she had been held moments earlier. Slumped. Still. The knife was gone. The danger with it.
The man looked back at her and smiled again, lighter this time.
"We will hand him over to the police," he said cheerfully. "He knows what he did."
He adjusted his cuff, as if the matter were already settled.
"Let us pray," he added, almost casually, "that he turns back from his ways."
The certainty in his voice was unsettling.
Assuring.
He gestured gently toward the street beyond the alley.
"And you," he continued, "we should get you to the medics. Yes?"
Nico watched all of it with something close to awe.
Minutes ago, this place had been a trap. A narrow stretch of brick and shadow where death felt inevitable. Now it felt… concluded.
He became aware of how little he could actually see.
The alley remained dark. The woman's face was half in shadow. The man's suit absorbed the light, hiding the shape of his body. The brim of his hat kept his eyes concealed, unreadable.
Nico glanced once toward the robber.
Then looked away.
He spoke before the silence grew teeth.
"Shall we leave?" he asked. "Judging by the sirens, there must be an ambulance. We should leave."
The man nodded.
"Mm," he murmured.
Then, as if remembering something important, he raised a finger.
"Before we leave…"
The man walked toward the unconscious robber with casual steps, stopped, and grabbed him by the collar with one hand. He lifted him easily, as if weight had become optional.
"Shall we move?" he said.
Nico and the woman exchanged a glance.
Neither of them spoke.
They turned and walked.
***
Back toward the street. Toward the broken shop. Toward the flashing lights that now painted the walls in red and blue.
As they stepped out of the alley, the world returned.
Paramedics were already kneeling beside one of the men who had been struck outside. Police voices cut through the noise, sharp and procedural. An ambulance stood nearby, its doors open, waiting.
The woman was gently guided away by medics, their hands firm but kind.
Nico watched her go, the adrenaline draining from his limbs all at once.
Only now did the details return.
She was smaller than he had realized in the alley. Blond hair loose and tangled, clinging to her face and neck. Hazel eyes that should have caught the light, should have been warm or striking, now dulled by exhaustion.
Whatever strength she'd held earlier was gone.
Her top was stained dark with blood, uneven patches spreading across the fabric. The cut at her neck was shallow, mercifully so, missing anything vital. The medics didn't hesitate. They took her without questions, voices calm, hands already working as they guided her toward the ambulance.
Nico stood there, watching.
'She's pretty,' he thought.
The realization came quietly, almost guiltily, as if it didn't belong after what had just happened. The thought faded as quickly as it appeared, swallowed by relief more than attraction.
He turned.
The man stood beside him.
Up close, he looked different.
Built like a fortress, Nico thought. Broad shoulders. Solid frame. The kind of presence that didn't need motion to be felt. His suit was immaculate. No dust. No blood. No crease where there should have been one.
That bothered Nico.
It should have been dirty.
It wasn't.
The black suit was tailored to perfection, sharp lines untouched by the chaos they had just walked through. The homburg hat matched it. Glossy. Refined. Almost ceremonial.
The man lifted the hat and examined it briefly, tilting it to catch the light, as if checking for dust.
There was none.
He lowered it, then paused and removed it fully.
Nico saw his face clearly for the first time.
He was older than Nico had guessed. Somewhere in his fifties. Blond hair cut short, combed neatly into a perfect side part. Blue eyes, steady and alert.
Wrinkles lined his face, but not the kind that came from age alone. They spoke of years. Of decisions. Of things endured.
A scar ran diagonally across his left cheek. It should have made him terrifying.
It didn't.
His face carried a cheerful smile. Not forced. Not careless. Just present.
A faint beard shadowed his jaw, the kind that suggested it had been shaved only a day before.
The man noticed Nico staring.
He raised an eyebrow.
Only then did the question rise again.
"Sir," Nico said carefully, "who are you?"
The man chuckled.
"It's rude to ask someone's name without offering yours."
Nico swallowed.
"Nicholas," he said. "Nicholas Olivia."
For a moment, the man stopped.
The cheer vanished. Not replaced by anger. Not by fear.
By stillness.
As if a word had been spoken that didn't belong here.
Then he laughed.
Bright. Genuine. Almost relieved.
"Well," he said, extending a hand, "nice to meet you, Nicholas."
Nico shook it. The grip was firm. Certain.
"I am Peter Christovan."
The name settled.
Peter glanced toward the police vehicle.
"Come," he said. "Let's finish our work."
They walked a few steps before Nico spoke again, unable to help himself.
The robber was still in the tall man's grasp, unmoving. Unconscious.
Peter held him by the collar with one hand and dragged him along without effort. The man's feet skidded uselessly across the pavement, heels knocking against stone, body swaying with each step. He didn't resist. He couldn't. The weight of him seemed irrelevant in Peter's grip, like an object being returned to its place.
Nico watched the way it happened. No strain. No haste. Just inevitability.
He cleared his throat.
"We're handing him over to the police," Nico said, more statement than question.
Peter glanced down at the unconscious man, then back at Nico.
"Yes," he replied calmly.
"Mr. Peter," nico asked. "What are you… actually?"
Peter raised an eyebrow.
Nico hurried on. "I mean—who throws a banana at someone holding a knife? I thought you'd pull out a gun."
Peter stopped.
He turned slowly.
The humor drained from his face, replaced by something older. Heavier.
He said calmly,
"What would you gain, if you kill one to save another"
Nico had no answer.
Peter's smile returned, faint this time.
"Come," he said again. "This morning has done enough talking."
And Nico followed.
***
He stood with his back against the wall of a building near the jewelry shop.
Nico exhaled slowly and tilted his head back, eyes tracing the pale stretch of winter sky caught between rooftops. The morning had moved on without asking his permission. Clouds drifted lazily, indifferent to what had just happened below them.
He checked his wristwatch.
10:00 A.M.
Time felt unreal. As if the last hour had been borrowed from somewhere else.
His gaze shifted forward.
Across the street, near a police vehicle, Peter Christovan stood with two officers. They spoke casually, bodies relaxed, hands loose at their sides. Nico couldn't hear a word, but he could see their faces.
They were smiling.
One of the officers laughed. Peter answered with a small grin, nodding along as if they were old friends catching up over something trivial. The contrast unsettled Nico. The morning had nearly swallowed a robbery, a hostage, and a knife. And yet here they were, trading smiles like it had all been a minor inconvenience.
Today could have gone very wrong.
But it hadn't.
Fortunately, no one had died. The jeweler had suffered only minor injuries. A few pedestrians were shaken, scraped, bruised. Nothing permanent, the medics said. Luck, maybe. Or something else.
Nico's attention drifted toward the ambulance parked farther down the street.
It was still there, doors closed now, engine idling softly.
"She said her name was Stacy," Nico murmured.
The sound of his own voice surprised him.
She was gone now. After treatment, the medics had assured them she would be fine. Shaken, yes. Exhausted. They recommended rest. Home care. Therapy if the nightmares came. The word PTSD had been spoken carefully, like it might bruise if handled roughly.
Nico pictured her face again. The hazel eyes dulled by fear. The way her hands had trembled even after she was safe.
Something twisted in his chest.
'I am not in love,' he told himself quickly.
The thought felt absurd the moment it appeared. There hadn't been time for that. There hadn't been space. Still, the image lingered longer than it should have, stubborn and unwelcome.
He shook his head, as if the motion might dislodge it.
His eyes returned to the police vehicle.
Peter had finished speaking.
He adjusted his suit, straightened his posture, and tipped his hat in a fluid, elegant motion. Not exaggerated. Not theatrical. Just precise.
The officers bowed.
Actually bowed.
Nico frowned.
'Do police officers bow to someone?' he thought. 'Must be someone powerful.'
Peter turned and began walking toward him.
Earlier, before speaking to the police, Peter had gestured for Nico to remain where he was. Nico had obeyed without thinking. Standing still felt easier than deciding what to do next.
As Peter approached, the noise of the street softened around him, as if his presence bent the atmosphere inward.
He stopped a step away and smiled.
"I hope you got your coffee this morning."
The words landed out of nowhere.
Nico blinked. "Y-yes," he said reflexively. Then paused. "I mean—no. I was about to."
Peter nodded, as if that answer satisfied him anyway.
"Good," he said. "Then come."
He turned without waiting.
Nico hesitated for half a second.
Then followed.
They walked side by side down the street, away from the flashing lights and murmuring crowds. The city resumed its rhythm around them. Shops reopened. Pedestrians reappeared. Life stitched itself back together with careless speed.
Peter walked unhurriedly, hands clasped behind his back, eyes forward.
After a few steps, he spoke.
"Olivia."
Nico startled slightly. "Yes?"
Peter glanced sideways. "Nicholas Olivia," he corrected gently. "That's what you said."
"Yes," Nico replied. "That's… that's me."
Peter hummed, thoughtful.
"You know," he said, "most people run when they hear gunshots or see knives."
Nico swallowed. "I know."
"And most who don't," Peter continued, "regret it."
Nico waited.
Peter stopped near a small café tucked between two older buildings. The sign above the door flickered faintly, half awake. Morning patrons sat inside, cups in hand, unaware of how close chaos had brushed past them.
Peter gestured toward the entrance.
Nico nodded.
Inside, the air smelled of roasted beans and warm bread. Peter ordered without looking at the menu. Two coffees. Black. No sugar.
They took a small table near the window.
Nico wrapped his hands around the cup when it arrived, grateful for the warmth. His fingers still felt numb, as if the cold from the alley hadn't fully let go.
Peter watched him over the rim of his cup.
"Why did you jump in, Nicholas?" he asked quietly. "You could have died."
Nico looked up. "I don't know."
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
"I have this odd feeling," Nico continued. "Whenever there's danger. I feel… excited. Curious."
Peter smiled faintly. "Excited," he repeated. "That's interesting."
He set his cup down, still half full, and folded his arms.
"Even if it was exciting," Peter said calmly, "why curiosity?"