The sidewalks were crowded, but Natalie Chmiel walked as if the world were empty. Her hands were in the pockets of her yellow trench coat, her head slightly lowered. Morning traffic buzzed around her, trams rattling past, women with shopping bags chatting in front of cafés, the scent of espresso and cigarette smoke thick in the air. But Natalie didn’t stop. Not for the bakery she once loved. Not for the bookstore where she used to wait out the rain. Not for the street musician whose accordion notes tugged at memory.

  She walked past all of it.

  Focused. Serious. Distant.

  She stopped in front of a boutique, its window displaying mannequins dressed in sequined cocktail gowns and lace-tied heels. Bold red letters on the glass read WYPRZEDA? — SALE.

  Natalie stepped inside.

  The bell above the door jingled softly, but the warmth that greeted her felt thin. The store smelled of synthetic perfume and ironed fabric. Jazz played from a speaker tucked behind the cash register.

  A middle-aged woman looked up from a rack of folded blouses.

  “Dzień dobry,” the woman said, polite but guarded.

  Natalie nodded once. “I’m looking for a dress.”

  Wanda gave her a glance up and down. Not unkind — just calculating. Natalie’s baggy sweater and scuffed jeans didn’t scream ‘fashionable.’

  “Any occasion in particular?”

  Natalie’s eyes were flat. “I’m going to an adult club.”

  The pause in the room was sharp and immediate. The woman's eyes flicked, just slightly, in surprise. But she didn’t ask questions.

  Instead, she nodded, all professionalism.

  “Something elegant? Or something… louder?”

  Natalie replied, “Something that makes people think I belong there.”

  Wanda understood instantly. She motioned for Natalie to follow. They moved through the racks — past velvet, satin, lace. She stopped in front of a narrow section near the back. A muted purple dress hung between flashier sequins and cheap knock-offs. It had a high neckline, an open back, and a slit along the leg. Tasteful. Precise. Dignified but dangerous.

  “This one,” The woman said. “It has weight. People will look at you, but they won’t approach carelessly.”

  Natalie reached out and brushed her fingers against the fabric. It was heavier than it looked. Like armor disguised as something soft.

  “I’ll try it,” she said.

  Wanda led her to the changing rooms — a curtain, a stool, a mirror with light bulbs around it that buzzed faintly when turned on. Natalie stepped inside, drew the curtain, and stared at herself in the mirror.

  She hesitated for a moment.

  Then, slowly, she peeled off her sweater. And then — she slipped into the dress. The zipper slid up her back. She turned slightly, seeing the way the slit along her thigh moved when she stepped. The way the low V neckline forced her to hold herself straighter.

  She looked older. Sharper.

  For a brief second, she didn’t recognize the girl in the glass.

  And that made her feel… ready.

  She stepped outside the curtain.

  The woman looked her up and down and said nothing.

  Then she smiled—not warmly, not like a mother—but like a soldier acknowledging another.

  “It suits you,” Wanda said. “You’re not trying to be someone. You already are.”

  Natalie didn’t answer. Her eyes stayed fixed on the mirror.

  Somewhere in the reflection, behind the layers of makeup and cloth and glass, Casimir's voice echoed.

  "Sasha..."

  But she didn't flinch.

  She took a breath. Steady. Cold.

  This wasn’t for fashion.

  This was preparation.

  This was war.

  Natalie slipped the dress’s receipt into the plastic bag holding the dress with care. The store’s bell jingled softly behind her as she pushed open the glass door and stepped out onto the bustling Warsaw sidewalk. The afternoon sun dipped low, casting long shadows over the cobblestones and the chatter of passing strangers.

  Her heels clicked sharply against the pavement, a steady, confident rhythm that matched the pulse of her thoughts. The city felt different today, charged with an undercurrent she couldn’t shake.

  Natalie’s hand slipped into the pocket of her coat. Fingers curled around a small, wrinkled scrap of paper. She pulled it out and unfolded it carefully, the creases creaking faintly. Her eyes narrowed as she read:

  Mr. Nowak would love to see you, Natalie! Behind the Marriott. Sunday. 12 a.m.

  The words felt like a whispered challenge — sharp, mysterious. Her mind flashed back to a few days ago. She was walking through a narrow alley near her family's home when a woman approached her swiftly, almost like a shadow slipping between buildings. The woman handed her this very note, her eyes cold but flickering with something unreadable. Then, just as quickly as she appeared, the woman vanished into the crowd.

  How did they know who I was? Natalie thought, her breath catching in her throat.

  And more importantly… who was Mr. Nowak?

  She looked around the crowded street, the faces blurred by distance. No sign of the mysterious messenger. No answers.

  Still, something deep in her chest urged her forward. A nagging certainty that Casimir’s presence was woven through this cryptic message. That somehow, this meeting was a piece in the dark puzzle she’d been chasing.

  Natalie folded the note carefully, slipping it back into her coat pocket. Her jaw tightened. She was going.

  Because the game had only just begun.

  ***

  The city’s evening glow faded slowly behind them as Kazou and Hannah stepped through narrow streets, the clatter of trams and distant conversations fading into quiet murmurs.

  Hannah kept close to Kazou, her small hand tucked tightly in his. She glanced up at him now and then — those bright brown eyes flickering with a trust. Kazou’s calm presence was an anchor she hadn’t known she needed.

  “Do you think Casimir was really like a bad guy? Like in stories?”

  Kazou glanced down at her, the hint of a smile touching his lips despite the heaviness in his heart. “Not exactly. Casimir… he was complicated. Not just good or bad. Sometimes people aren’t just one thing.”

  Hannah thought about that, nodding slowly. “Like how sometimes I’m happy and sometimes I’m scared, all at once?”

  Kazou’s smile grew warmer. “Exactly like that.”

  She looked up at the darkening sky and asked softly, “Did Casimir have friends? Someone who loved him?”

  Kazou’s gaze drifted. “I think he did. A mother... A father... Siblings... Adults...”

  Kazou's thoughts drifted back to the memories of the Lab.

  Suddenly, Hannah’s eyes caught a bright splash of color through a shop window. She gasped and broke into a quick run toward it, tugging Kazou’s hand.

  “Look! Toys! Can we go see?”

  Kazou chuckled softly and followed her to the toy store’s window. Inside, wooden trains and painted dolls were arranged like little treasures. Hannah pressed her nose against the glass, eyes sparkling.

  “I used to have a doll like that,” she whispered, voice full of wonder. “I wonder if she’s still happy somewhere.”

  Kazou watched her, feeling a rare lightness in the evening. “Maybe she’s waiting for you to find her again.”

  Hannah smiled, her small hand curling tighter around his. “Maybe.”

  The quiet moment by the toy store window shattered like glass.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  A firm, authoritative voice cut through the air.

  “Excuse me, sir,” a police officer called out sharply, stepping closer. His eyes narrowed as they landed on Kazou and the little girl. “What are you two doing? Might you be that scientist?"

  Kazou straightened slowly, keeping his voice calm but wary. “I’m not who you think I am,” he said quietly. “My name’s not Kazou Kuroda.”

  The officer’s gaze hardened, skeptical but not yet convinced.

  Before Kazou could say more, a second officer appeared, his silhouette looming from around the corner, eyes sharp and fixed on Kazou.

  “That’s him,” the newcomer said without hesitation.

  Hannah’s small gasp was almost lost in the mounting tension. Her fingers gripped Kazou’s arm tightly.

  Kazou’s eyes widened as he caught sight of the second officer pulling out handcuffs, the cold metal gleaming in the streetlight. His heart hammered, instinct screaming danger.

  Suddenly, Hannah tugged hard on his sleeve, her voice urgent but thrilled.

  “Run! Now!”

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Kazou took her hand. The world narrowed down to pounding feet, ragged breaths, and adrenaline flooding through his veins.

  Together, they sprinted down the uneven cobblestone street, the officers’ shouts echoing behind them.

  “Stop! Police! Halt!”

  Kazou’s lungs burned; his legs pumped with desperate energy as Hannah’s excited laughter rang out beside him.

  “This is so fun!” she cried between breaths, her eyes bright with exhilaration.

  Kazou’s legs ached, his breath ragged and shallow as he darted through the twisting streets of Warsaw, Hannah clasped tightly to his side. The sounds of shouting officers reverberated behind them, sharp and relentless—like a pack closing in on prey. His heart thudded so loudly he feared it might burst from his chest.

  Hannah, despite the danger, grinned up at him with sparkling eyes. “This is better than playing hide and seek!” she laughed, the pure joy in her voice a fragile balm to the crushing fear weighing Kazou down.

  But Kazou’s mind was a torrent of urgency and calculation. He couldn’t afford to be caught—not like this. Not now.

  “Stay close to me,” he whispered, voice low, steady, as they twisted through narrow alleys and squeezed past shuttered storefronts. “We have to lose them.”

  Hannah nodded, stepping faster to keep pace.

  Kazou’s gaze darted over the streets, searching for refuge—a place to disappear.

  Ahead, a small coffee shop glowed warmly in the early evening twilight, its windows steamed with soft light. A handful of patrons lingered inside, the hum of quiet conversation and clinking cups spilling faintly into the street.

  “Here,” Kazou said urgently, pulling Hannah by the hand toward the door. The shop’s bell jingled softly as they slipped inside.

  Instantly, the harsh sounds of the chase fell away, replaced by the cozy murmur of warmth and calm. The smell of fresh coffee, baked bread, and worn leather filled the cramped space.

  Kazou pressed himself against the wall near the counter, sitting on a booth with Hannah, heart still hammering.

  Hannah's wide eyes scanned the room nervously, but she relaxed as the realization of where she stood set in. A Safe Coffee Shop.

  A barista glanced over, raising an eyebrow but saying nothing. The other customers barely noticed the new arrivals.

  Kazou crouched beside Hannah, brushing damp strands of hair from her forehead.

  “You did good back there,” he said quietly, voice thick with a rare tenderness. “You’re brave.”

  Hannah’s smile faltered for a moment, the weight of what just happened settling over her. “But why are they chasing you?” Her voice was small, almost lost.

  Kazou swallowed hard. “Because... they think I’m someone dangerous.”

  “But you’re not,” she said firmly.

  “No,” Kazou agreed. “I’m not.”

  They sat in silence for a moment, Kazou’s thoughts raced.

  How much longer could he keep running? How much longer could he protect her?

  

  Kazou shifted in his seat, trying to blend in, while Hannah peered up at the chalkboard menu on the wall behind the counter, her face scrunched with concentration. The warmth of the café, the clinking of mugs, and the smell of yeast and coffee all soaked into his skin like a distant dream. After everything—running, hiding, bleeding—this moment felt almost impossible.

  Kazou tapped gently on the wooden table. “Hungry?”

  Hannah nodded quickly. “I haven’t had anything since… before the museum,” she said quietly. "Plus, I can't read that. But that brown chocolate drink looks good!"

  Kazou stood up and walked to the counter, eyes scanning the pastries behind the glass and the neatly typed list of sandwiches above. He kept his hood low, his voice soft when he ordered: a grilled cheese, a small bowl of tomato soup, and a hot chocolate with extra whipped cream. For himself, just a coffee—black, nothing else.

  The cashier, a university-aged girl with tired eyes and a pierced nose, didn’t seem to recognize him. She smiled politely and passed the receipt back.

  When Kazou returned to the table, Hannah was still tucked into the corner of the booth, hugging her knees up, watching the other patrons quietly. There was a couple near the window talking softly in Polish. An old man reading a paper. Two students studying near the back.

  No sign of the police.

  No alarm bells.

  Just normal life.

  He sat across from her, his body sagging from exhaustion, though he masked it well. Moments later, their food arrived.

  Hannah’s eyes went wide at the sight of the hot chocolate—steaming and piled high with whipped cream and chocolate shavings.

  “You weren’t kidding,” she said, licking the whipped cream off her spoon. “This is real?”

  He smirked, finally allowing himself a breath. “It’s real.”

  She bit into the sandwich, pausing mid-chew to smile. “It’s so warm... my stomach feels like it’s waking up.”

  Kazou stirred his coffee absently, his eyes flickering around the room with the precision of a man still on edge. He took a slow sip, the bitterness grounding him.

  Hannah, mouth full, asked, “Why do you help people like this?”

  He blinked. “People like what?”

  “Like me.”

  He tilted his head, unsure how to answer at first. Then, after a quiet pause, he said,

  “Because someone helped me once. And because… when you see something wrong, you can’t just walk away. Not if you’re still human.”

  Hannah looked down, chewing slowly. “I think some people forget how to be human.”

  Kazou nodded, eyes distant. “They do. But you haven’t.”

  They ate in a quiet rhythm for a few minutes, the kind only fugitives and drifters knew—tasting every bite like it might be their last hot meal for days.

  “I used to pretend the museum was a castle,” Hannah said suddenly. “At night when I cleaned, I imagined I was the only one left after a war. The Princess of the castle that had been destroyed, but I was still alive. Like the last person on Earth.”

  Kazou smiled faintly. “That sounds lonely.”

  “It was. But not anymore.”

  She looked at him seriously.

  “You're not leaving, right?”

  Kazou was quiet for a moment.

  “I don’t think I can. Not until I finish what I came here to do.”

  “Because of Casimir?”

  He looked her in the eyes. “Because of what Casimir did. And what he’ll do again if someone doesn’t stop him.”

  There was weight in his voice now—something Hannah didn’t quite understand, but she felt it. A history too deep to put into words. A war waged in silence.

  “Is he really that bad?” she whispered.

  Kazou looked away, toward the window, toward the streetlight flickering in the dark.

  “He’s not just bad,” he said softly. “He’s the kind of person that makes you wonder if evil has a face.”

  Hannah stared at her hot chocolate. The whipped cream was starting to melt.

  “I want to stop him too.”

  Kazou leaned forward. “You’ve already done more than you know.”

  Hannah smiled a little. “You’re like one of those sad heroes in old stories.”

  He chuckled. “Maybe. But I’m not the hero. I’m just… someone who made mistakes.”

  She tilted her head. “So what are we?”

  Kazou sipped his coffee. “That's your choice Hannah.”

  And in that moment, as the hum of the café returned and the shadows lengthened across the tiled floor, there was something unspoken between them—something neither age nor war could define.

  Something like family.

  Kazou stirred the last sip of his coffee. Hannah had finished her sandwich and was now quietly playing with the sugar packets on the table, building tiny towers and watching them fall with soft giggles.

  But Kazou’s eyes were distant, unfocused—his mind spiraling into thought.

  Mr. Nowak…

  He remembered the way Tomasz had said the name earlier. It hadn’t been casual. There was weight behind it, like someone speaking of an old ghost.

  “Go to the Marriott… city center,” Tomasz had muttered. “Behind it. You’ll find someone there. A man. Calls himself Nowak."

  Kazou felt a chill crawl up the back of his neck. Slowly, he pulled his notebook from his coat and scribbled the words: NOWAK. MARRIOTT. BEHIND.

  "Dr. Kuroda?" Hannah asked, interrupting his train of thought.

  He blinked, then looked up. “Yeah?”

  “Are we okay now?”

  Kazou smiled softly, folding the notebook shut. “We’re okay.”

  She leaned back in the booth, content. But he could see the weariness in her small frame, the long shadow of the museum still clinging to her. And somewhere in the center of Warsaw, something was waiting for them. Not the police. Not a social worker. But someone far worse.

  “Do you trust me?” he asked gently.

  Hannah looked at him, head tilted. “I did when I pulled you out of the museum, didn’t I?”

  Kazou chuckled. “Fair.”

  “Where are we going next?”

  Kazou stood, taking a breath and slipping his notebook back into his coat.

  “We’re going to see a man behind the Marriott Hotel.”

  Hannah blinked. “Why behind it?”

  “I’m not sure,” he said honestly. “But I think he might know something about Casimir.”

  "Wow! SO FUN!" She pulled on her coat, her tone curious. “What’s his name?”

  Kazou hesitated for a moment, then answered, “Mr. Nowak.”

  Hannah’s brow furrowed. “That’s a boring name.”

  Kazou laughed softly. “That’s probably the point.”

  They left the café and stepped out into the street, the city colder now as the night air settled in around them. Kazou pulled up his hood again, careful to stay alert. Hannah stuck close to his side, glancing up at him every few steps. The streetcars rattled. The neon signs above convenience stores flickered on.

  And far across the city, the Marriott towered into the sky like a silent witness.

  "The Marriot. There it is." Kazou nodded.

  ***

  The city noise dulled behind her as Natalie stepped off the main avenue, her heels clicking against uneven cobblestones as she turned down the narrow alley behind the Marriott.

  The change was immediate.

  Bright hotel lights gave way to flickering neon signs half-dead and buzzing. Trash bins lined the sides of the alley. A man smoked quietly in the corner, eyes trailing her, but not saying a word. The scent of cigarettes and cheap perfume clung to the damp night air.

  Natalie kept her pace steady. Her dress — a sleek black number hugging her frame, sleeveless but paired with a coat she now gripped tightly — was meant for confidence. The lipstick was deep red. Bold. She had done everything she could to feel older, dangerous. Like someone who belonged here.

  But inside… her heart was thudding like a war drum.

  She passed a row of nondescript doors — one locked, one open to reveal a flickering TV screen and no people.

  Then she saw it. A faded wooden sign nailed sloppily above a black doorway.

  NOWAK’S BURN CLUB“Otwarte do pó?nocy” (Open until midnight)

  Her breath caught.That was the name.The same name from the note. Mr. Nowak. The same note that had been handed to her by a woman who disappeared before Natalie could even ask how she knew her name.

  She stepped toward it. The paint was chipped. A rusted buzzer sat beside the doorframe, blinking red.

  No line. No music. Just the dull bass of something vibrating behind heavy soundproofing.

  Natalie hesitated. Her fingers curled around the handle of her purse, where she’d hidden her pistol — a safety net she hoped she wouldn’t have to use. She looked down at herself one last time: hair sleek, heels steady, breath sharp.

  And then, without waiting for her fear to catch up to her, she pushed open the door and stepped inside.

  The heat hit her first — thick and dry, like walking into a furnace. The interior was dim, lit in red and amber, casting long shadows on the black leather booths and dark-glass stage at the center of the room. Smoke curled lazily in the air from cigars and scented vapor. A woman in heels moved slowly on the stage, bathed in crimson light, but most of the eyes in the room weren’t watching her. They were watching the door.

  Natalie.

  She didn’t flinch. She walked, chin raised, every inch of her body language rehearsed.

  Past the bar. Past the men watching her too long. Past the music that wasn’t music — just a low, rhythmic throb like a heartbeat about to burst.

  She didn’t stop until she reached the back, where a thick black curtain hung beside a velvet rope. A Man stood infront of the curtain, gaurding.

  She faced him. "I'm here to see Mr. Nowak."

  He didn’t answer. Just looked at her with dull eyes, as if trying to decide whether she was a threat or a toy.

  "I was invited," she said, lowering her voice, her fingers gripping her purse tighter. "You know my name. Natalie Chmiel."

  A pause.

  Then the man stood. Without a word, he reached behind the curtain and pulled it aside. The hallway beyond was narrow and dark. A single hanging bulb illuminated nothing but shadows.

  The man stepped aside, nodding toward the hallway.

  Natalie inhaled once — slow and full. This was it. The message. The invitation. The club. The name. If Casimir had left her anything to follow, this was the trail.

  And she wasn’t turning back.

  She stepped into the shadows. The curtain fell behind her.