The café was too quiet. The hum of the fridge, the hiss of the fryer—gone, like the air itself was holding its breath.
The waitress, who had lingered behind the counter, flinched at the sudden silence. Then she heard it—tat-tat-tat—sharp bursts tearing the night. Her head snapped toward the window.
The black SUV outside was smoking, bullet holes punched across its body like open wounds. Shadows slumped inside, still.
Her hands shook as she reached for the landline, pressing trembling fingers against the keypad. 9...1...
The glass door swung open.
A man stepped in, face blank, SMG cradled in his arms.
Bullets tore through the air, splintering the counter. The waitress jerked, blood blooming across her apron before she crumpled, her phone clattering uselessly to the floor.
Two more workers screamed—brief, choked sounds cut short as the gunfire shredded them. The scent of gunpowder and blood filled the café, sharp and metallic.
The man with the SMG walked forward, boots crunching over broken glass. He stopped at the booth, pressing the barrel hard against the blonde man’s temple.
Maxim didn’t flinch. He sipped the last of his milkshake through the straw, the slurp obscenely loud in the silence that followed the gunfire.
He set the glass down, licked his lips, then smiled. "So... who do you work for, huh?"
The blonde man smirked through his fear. "You’ll know... when they come for you. You’re going to kill me even if I answer, anyway."
His hand drifted toward his coat pocket.
The SMG pressed harder against his skull.
"Relax," the blonde said, his tone mock-casual. "Just a cigarette."
He drew one out with two fingers, placed it between his lips, and flicked a lighter. The flame trembled, then caught. Smoke curled from his mouth as he exhaled, calm, almost smug.
"I got ahead of myself," he admitted, voice low. "But you should take my warning seriously."
Maxim’s laughter rolled out, dark and sharp. He leaned back in the booth, wiping grease from his fingers with a napkin.
"You won’t realize now," the blonde continued, "But when he comes... you’ll see what I saw. Death incarnate with human head in his hand. Covered in blood. And he will come for you, cause for some reason he is set on protecting Adrent family."
He took another drag. His lips curled in a cruel smile. "Ah. I should’ve said goodbye."
Maxim glanced at his empty glass. Slurp. Slurp. Nothing left.
The gun beneath the table thundered, the bullet tearing up through the blonde man’s testicles. Almost in the same breath, the SMG barked once—TAT!—a neat hole punched clean through his skull.
The man collapsed against the booth, cigarette tumbling from his lips, still smoldering. Smoke curled upward, mingling with the smell of blood.
The SMG wielder bent down, rifled through his coat, then handed Maxim a phone.
Maxim wiped his hands on the dead man’s jacket before answering. "Hello, brother. What are you up to?"
A Excited voice like he was in between a task came from the other end. "Nothing much. Just cleaning out a traitor."
Maxim smirked. "Have a life, little brother."
The chuckle that answered was cold. "I am living. You’re the one with a waitress fetish wasting time chasing waitresses in cafés and bars."
"As much as I enjoy this brotherly banter," Maxim drawled, stretching his legs out under the table, "that’s not why I called. Some men came threatening me about the Ardent family."
The line was silent for a beat. Then came a mocking tone, teasing: "So what are you saying? The mighty Maxim Petrova is scared of a few bodyguards?"
Maxim’s eyes flicked toward the waitress’s corpse, slumped just feet away. Blood had pooled around her, seeping into the tiles. He crouched, brushing a silver strand of hair from her ruined cheek, smearing blood as he did.
"I didn’t say that." His tone was calm, almost tender. "Just... be a little careful."
On the other end, his brother chuckled. "Yeah, yeah. And you know the owner of this little café was a real se—"
Maxim cut the call mid-word.
He lingered, crouched by the waitress. His thumb traced her cheek, now cold, marred by the bullet hole above her brow. Her eyes, once wide and flustered, were glassy and lifeless.
"Poor soul," he murmured.
He straightened, tugging his hood up again. The big man with the SMG fell into step behind him as headlights washed the café in pale light.
A black car slid to a stop outside.
Maxim slipped inside, leaning back against the leather seat.
His lips curved into a faint smile. "Death incarnate, covered in blood, huh?"
Streetlights blurred into streaks of white and yellow, the city a warped, fleeting smear in Franz’s periphery. The wind roared past his helmet, a hollow sound that did little to fill the growing silence in his head. The voices, once a constant stream of commentary and data, were fading.
[Quiet Life System: ... What is happening ?...]
They were distant whispers now, threads of static fraying at the edges of his consciousness. He pushed the bike faster, as if he could outrun the quiet that was chasing him. The engine screamed, but the silence within grew louder.
The voices of the Quiet Life System and Arcadia went silent. He couldn’t hear them anymore. There was just the sound of the wind whipping past him, empty and absolute.
The night air rasped against his hood as he walked the cracked pavement toward his apartment. Each step echoed faintly off concrete walls. He unlocked the door, pushed it open, and let it swing shut behind him with a dull thud.
Franz stepped inside, shutting the world out behind him. No lights. Only the dim, grey glow filtering through the window.
The edge of the couch caught his weight first. Fingers slipped into his pocket, drawing out a cigarette, settling it between his lips. A lighter clicked—metal against metal. Flame flared for a heartbeat, throwing a restless shadow across his face before vanishing into smoke.
The first drag was long, slow, steady. Tobacco burned, smoke curling upward like a ghost trying to escape.
He sank back into the cushions at last, the fabric groaning under him.
From his pocket came the silver case. He slid it open, tapped a cigarette free, and let it rest between his lips. The lighter clicked.
Smoke curled into the dim light, twisting above him before fading into nothing. He stared through it, hollow-eyed, the ember flaring at the tip.
For a moment, there was only the faint crackle of burning tobacco. The sound of his own breath.
"You’re smoking again."
The voice was low. Familiar.
Franz didn’t flinch. He exhaled slowly, watching the smoke trail drift toward the ceiling.
His gaze shifted left.
There, half-draped in shadow, sat a figure. Relaxed posture. One arm draped along the back of the chair as if he’d been waiting for hours. The outline was unmistakable.
Franz’s voice came out flat, drained of surprise.
"...Why are you back, Leo?"
Dear readers please comment I really love to get feed back on my Chapters.
About the writing below this—I am really sorry but I have my reasons. I have really limited time to write, and the time I can write is between the deadline of posting Chapters for any benefit. I don’t think I’m gonna get any, but I am trying. So that’s why sometimes I publish gibberish Chapters first, then I write after. And because of that, I sometimes add more words than I intend, like in this one. If I start writing long Chapters just because of that, it just doesn’t feel right. So, sorry for the inconvenience.
Hello guys, thanks for reading, and if you have any opinion please comment. Hello guys, thanks for reading, and if you have any opinion please comment. About the writing below this—I am really sorry but I have my reasons. I have really limited time to write, and the time I can write is between the deadline of posting Chapters for any benefit. I don’t think I’m gonna get any, but I am trying. So that’s why sometimes I publish gibberish Chapters first, then I write after. And because of that, I sometimes add more words than I intend, like in this one. If I start writing long Chapters just because of that, it just doesn’t feel right. So, sorry for the inconvenience.
Dear readers please comment I really love to get feed back on my Chapters.