Chapter Text
“What are you doing?”
The cat with crimson eyes seemed to be assessing her movements. She knew she wasn't an athlete and had never stood next to one, but she didn't think crossing over the closed gate would be that difficult.
And yet.
Her backpack – small, but still bigger than her – landed on the other side. A few T-shirts, shorts, pants, underwear, a sketchbook, a pencil case, and the money, that she had been regularly taking from Cansu for some time, didn't take up much space, and they didn't make that much noise when the backpack fell on the sidewalk on the other side.
“I'm running away,” she announced, shrugging her shoulders.
“Stupid.”
“You're stupid yourself,” she grumbled, watching with irritation as a shadowy cat passed between the bars of the gate and sat down next to her backpack, as if intending to guard it.
The gate was locked. The one time she really wanted to use it, it didn't even want to move because one of the caretakers had decided to lock it.
It was definitely Cansu. Somehow, she had found out about the kid's plans and decided to thwart them, teasing her once again. She hated her, and vice versa, probably even more passionately than the caretaker did. She also knew that the woman was afraid of her – or at least of the powers she possessed – and, whether she wanted to or not, she used this to her advantage in many ways, just to make the older woman's life miserable.
And then she was punished for it, because nothing was ever free.
Shr finally swung herself over the gate, immediately losing her balance and rolling over to the other side, landing on her back on the sidewalk with a quiet moan. The cat snorted, and its shadowy paw began to hit her forehead, as if she were supposed to feel it.
However, there was no time to lie there and contemplate the pain. She got up heavily from the sidewalk, grabbed her backpack by the strap, and slung it over her back.
“Let's go,” she announced, moving forward... ahead. Just like that.
“Where?”
That was a good question. So good that she didn't have an answer. Because, in truth, she didn't think she would ever get to this point. That she would be able to sneak out of the building late at night, walk through the large garden, reach the gate, and then just walk out. She owed this surprisingly easy escape largely to Nightmare, because only it was able to temporarily block the cameras and guarantee her escape without them. But still.
She was only thirteen years old. She had no right to leave so easily. And yet she did.
“Where?”
Nightmare repeated the question, transforming from a cat into smoke for a moment, which wrapped around her legs and climbed up her body as she moved further and further away from the orphanage. Finally, it stopped on her shoulder and took the form of an animal again, swaying to the rhythm of the girl's movements.
“I don't know,” she said, and the thought didn't scare her at all. Or maybe she was just pretending, because her heart had been pounding in her chest for quite some time. “But we'll find something.”
“What are we looking for?”
“Well,” she muttered, looking around for anyone. But there was no one around, so she breathed a sigh of relief and moved on. “A place for us, I guess.”
“Orphanage.”
“This isn't our place,” she said irritably, frowning. “They didn't want us there. They're not even looking for us.”
Probably no one had noticed yet that a kid like her had left the building at all. Her roommate didn't want to talk to her, so she really had no one but her guardians who might be interested in her disappearance.
“Return.”
“We're not going back,” she announced, adjusting the straps on her backpack. “We'll manage on our own. We'll buy a nice house and live there together. And you can do whatever you want.”
This seemed to bribe Nightmare enough to silence him temporarily in her head. It even began to purr, or at least tried to, because apart from looking and behaving like a cat, it couldn't sound like one at all.
She felt... strange. She couldn't quite figure out why and what it could be, because she had never felt this way before. She knew, of course, that what she was doing wasn't very smart, let alone allowed, but she didn't feel particularly bad about it. She wasn't lying when she said she had no one at the orphanage who cared about her, so this feeling wasn't about hurting anyone. At most, it was about confusion, because sooner or later someone would start looking for her.
But wasn't it better for them this way? She had no chance of being adopted anyway. She wasn't a normal child, and Cansu often emphasized this by calling her ‘the devil incarnate’. That alone meant a lot.
In any case, the world was wide open to Hazal Eyletmez, and she didn't know what to do with it.
×××
“Where the fuck is he?”
Anthony Cohen hated Türkiye. If he could, he would have left this fucking country long ago, spitting over his shoulder and doing everything he could to desecrate it as much as possible. At least that's what he told himself as he continued to attend meetings with his Turkish... colleagues, strutting through the streets like a fucking king, which he was not and never would be.
That was Anthony. Probably the only man in the world who was so indecisive and decisive at the same time, who loved and hated at the same time, and who enjoyed his work and shit on it at the same time. No wonder he quickly won the favor of people higher up than himself, because even though he was a sarcastic piece of trash, he did his job the way God made him – perfectly.
At least that's what he told himself about his style and appearance, because he had never received a compliment on either subject. On the other hand, a guy with such an ego didn't need to get them. And that was the point of his strange being indecisive and decisive at the same time.
“Can't we start without him?” muttered the man standing next to him, whose name Anthony didn't even bother to remember.
Cohen turned slowly toward him, as if wondering whether he wanted to look at him or not. But he did look, and what he saw made him grimace; it was the kind of grimace that revealed a new expression, and that's exactly what Anthony did.
“Do you remember why we came here in the first place?” he asked, his voice accusatory.
Because, in a sense, he was accusing Nameless. Of stupidity. And of the worst kind.
“I'm not an idiot,” he growled, clenching his hands into fists.
“I would argue.”
Anthony didn't care much about the fact that Nameless, whom he had basically called an idiot, was twice as tall and twice as wide as he was. He took care of his body, of course – after all, he had to escape from other bounty hunters, the police, and, well, the law – but that didn't help much in hand-to-hand combat. Anthony could fight, but his bold theory about the size of his opponent's hand (it was definitely as big as Cohen's head) was enough to tip the scales. So he didn't stand a chance against him.
But Cohen had something that could tip the scales of victory in his favor: a gun, hidden in a holster under his arm.
“You were supposed to be fucking good,” growled Nameless, taking a step forward. “You were supposed to break into their place in a matter of seconds.”
“And I will break in,” Anthony replied confidently, folding his arms across his chest. “But I need a floor plan for that. And, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but you won't find those on just any website.”
He felt almost offended by the accusation of unprofessionalism. However, he quickly calmed down with the thought that Nameless had put all his energy into mass and muscles, and not even into trying to get a higher education.
Another man entered the narrow alleyway they had been sharing. In the middle of summer, he was hiding in a black leather jacket, as if he had just arrived from a country where it was early spring. However, he did not look tired from the heat; what's more, Anthony envied him for not having a red face.
Mikaere Yates was a man of art. Anthony had the honor of working with him only four times, unfortunately, each time for someone very high up; the New Zealander only signed contracts with them because he knew he would not be betrayed even if their employers put a knife to their throat. And money. Mikaere liked money.
And since Anthony also liked money, Yates was never on his list of people he could turn to for help. He was too expensive, so he left paying him to the rich, for whom Mikaere's price was like coughing up for the most expensive cigars.
“Hello, Prince,” Anthony said, bowing in half to deliberately enrage Yates. “Where's the flash drive?”
“Up my ass if you don't shut up right now,” the man grumbled; his voice had a strong accent, which Anthony sometimes made fun of. “Money.”
Anthony turned to the Nameless. He was leaning casually against the wall, watching the two of them as if he had actually remembered the whole incident.
“You heard him,” Cohen said, nodding toward Mikaere. “Pay him.”
Nameless frowned instead of obediently reaching for his wallet. Neither Cohen nor Yates liked this, and Yates shifted nervously from foot to foot.
“What is this supposed to be?” he growled, folding his arms across his chest. “A charity shop?”
Anthony wanted to respond with a joke that would also insult Nameless, but time was running out, Yates' pants were already full because going outside and touching the grass wasn't his style, and Anthony was getting really hot.
“Give him the money and don't whine,” he gasped, waving his hand dismissively. “I know you came here with a full wallet.”
He didn't know. He just assumed, because if he had been sent to meet with him and Yates, his boss wouldn't have sent him with empty pockets. And if he had, he would have been fucking stupid, because Anthony had no intention of paying Yates when he hadn't even made a meeting with him.
“I don't have all day,” Mikaere growled, pushing his hands deeper into his jacket. “You have two minutes. Then I'm turning around and leaving, and you're left with nothing.”
Yates pulled out the flash drive, which he clutched between two fingers tighter than his own mother had clutched him when they handed him to her right after he was born. At least, that's how it looked in Anthony's mind. But he also knew that all the secrets important to them were hidden on that data carrier, so he wasn't surprised by the man's caution.
Which didn't change the fact that it pissed him off immensely.
Nameless gasped loudly, but finally reached into his back pocket. His gaze fell to the ground, lingering there for a moment during the entire ceremony of pulling out the object, so Cohen did the same, staring at the black cat shuffling between them. For a moment, he felt strange, as if he were weak, as if his legs were about to give way beneath him, and his heart began to pound in his chest. So he just placed his hand on his left side, massaging the spot, and sighed quietly.
“Even cats are fucked up in Türkiye,” he muttered more to himself than to the two men, trying to chase the animal away with his foot, as if it were the reason for his brief, strange feeling.
The strongman looked up at him, but didn't look at him for long. Instead, he focused on his own task of opening the black wallet. And, as Anthony had suspected, it was filled to the brim.
“Have you ever wondered what it's like to lose your wallet?” Yates asked suddenly, drawing Cohen's attention, who looked away from the banknotes with heavy regret.
“What kind of stupid question is that?” he retorted, realizing that it was directed to him because Mikaere, despite wearing glasses, had his eyes fixed on Cohen.
“Normal one,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “But yours is getting away, and it’s getting away pretty quickly.”
Anthony, listening to this nonsense, began patting all the pockets on his body. Those on his pants, those in his light jacket – which he didn't want to take at all, but ultimately put on to hide his gun holster – and finally looked over his shoulder at the place Yates was looking.
Nameless laughed at the sight. Some brat was running away without looking back, waving their hand, in which they held the spoils of war in the form of Cohen's brown wallet with all the forged documents.
And a flash drive from another job.
“Fuck,” he growled, turning toward Yates and snatching the flash drive from his hand before Mikaere could even react. “Pay to this fucker.”
Having said that aloud, he ran after the kid.
He didn't shout. He didn't order the little thief to stop. He saved his strength, knowing full well that the brat wouldn't stop. He also knew that sooner or later they would reach the end of the street, and from there there was no escape. That's why he wasn't so upset about losing his stuff – it was more about revenge. About being right. About wanting to murder the fucking brat who dared to take his wallet.
When the fuck did they even manage to take it? Anthony didn't even feel anything slip out of his pocket. And why didn't Yates or Nameless react to it? Fucking bastards. If this information spread further, Cohen's reputation could change; that he robs people of their deepest secrets and screws up himself by letting someone take his fucking wallet.
In his mind, he was already planning the whole course of the cold-blooded murder after getting rid of that fucking kid.
Black hair flashed in front of him every time the kid turned behind a wall, and that was the only clue he had as to where the brat was. He ran after them quickly, but not as fast as he could; he let them get some distance, but made sure they didn't disappear from view completely. He gave the kid a false sense of superiority, which ended the moment they both reached a dead end, just as Anthony had assumed.
The kid ran up to the wall of the building, which blocked their escape route. Anthony stood on the opposite side, hands on his hips, watching as the brat frantically tried to find something, anything, that would allow them to save their own ass from the man opposite, but nothing came to hand. They couldn't jump to the ladder from the fire escape either, because they were too short to even touch the bottom rung with their fingers. Let alone pull the ladder down, because they looked exceptionally scrawny with that ridiculous backpack on their shoulders. But, it had to be admitted, they were shuffling their feet as if they didn't have the backpack at all.
“Come on,” Cohen muttered in Turkish, slowly approaching the child. “It's over. There's no escape.”
Now that the kid had turned toward him, he saw the terror on her face. The girl, whom he had been chasing for the last moment, looked as if her heart was about to jump out of her pitiful chest as she pressed herself against the wall. She looked as if she hoped that the brick would pull her in and protect her from meeting Cohen.
“Don't come any closer!” she shouted, a note of fear dancing in her trembling voice.
But Cohen didn't care.
“Were you going to steal my wallet?” he asked, tilting his head slightly to one side. “You think you were so fucking clever?”
He saw her throat bob as she swallowed hard; then she ran her hand over her forearm as if to scrape something off it and threw the black ball in front of her. Cohen hesitated mid-step, watching as a cat emerged from the shadows. The same cat that had caught his attention with Nameless and Yates, which had probably served as a distraction.
“What the hell is that?” he asked mockingly, pointing at... whatever it was. “Is that supposed to scare me?”
He quickened his pace, heading toward the girl's shadowy creation, and kicked it away, ignoring the strange sounds it made. A chill ran through his leg for a moment, which was a very unpleasant sensation, and Anthony definitely did not want to experience it a second time. He completely dismissed the incident from his mind, instead approaching the kid, grabbing the girl by the front of her shirt, and pulling her toward him with a single gesture.
She squealed. Her short nails scratched his forearm, hidden under the thin fabric of his unnecessary jacket, and her legs furiously tried to push away the taller, equally furious individual. Her two-colored eyes studied his face in terror, and Anthony reveled in it, not caring about her fear.
He had to. Otherwise, every victim would end up with a ticket to a place far away and a pocket full of money. Anthony was a son of a bitch, but until a certain point, he had a conscience and compassion. Then... Well. He had to learn that the world would not fall at his feet that way.
So he shook the child.
“Now you'll get what you deserve,” he said, narrowing his eyes. With his free hand, he pulled his property out of the girl's pocket and triumphantly held it up. “Let's go.”
He let go of the T-shirt and grabbed the small handle of the backpack. The girl struggled, screamed, begged, and finally began to cry. On the way back to the two men, she even tried to leave her backpack with Cohen and run away, but Anthony anticipated this move, neutralizing it too quickly for the child to get more than an arm's length away from him.
“Shut up,” he finally growled, tired of her screaming. “It won't help you, it'll just piss me off more.”
The screams stopped. They were replaced by heavy, shaky breathing, which she couldn't regulate due to crying and stress.
Leaning out from behind the corner, Anthony immediately spotted Nameless and Yates, both leaning against the walls of buildings opposite each other. He frowned, but said nothing – yet. All humor disappeared like a soap bubble, leaving Anthony's stern figure, unmasked by his high ego, because he simply didn't feel like pretending anymore. Now he was just angry.
“Do you speak English?” he asked the girl, shaking her gently to get her to look at him. She looked at him with teary eyes, snot trying to escape from her right nostril. She shook her head ‘no’. “Great. Wipe that snot off, it's disgusting.”
She obeyed, wiping her face with the back of her hand, then the back of her hand on her pants, making Anthony grimace.
“Why are you still here?” he asked gruffly, throwing the girl toward the empty crates, into which she flew with a quiet grunt. “Shut up, I said.”
“She stole your wallet?” Yates asked, amused, pointing at the child with his cigarette. “I thought it was some kind of dwarf. You could at least defend yourself somehow.”
“It's ‘short person’, you son of a bitch,” Anthony said, standing next to the child so she couldn't escape. “Believe me, if you tell anyone about this, I'll blow your head off.”
Mikaere laughed – his laugh didn't sound like a rich man's laugh at all, but rather like a strangled animal – and then held out a pack of cigarettes to Cohen. They were one of the more expensive brands, which was strange, because Yates was rather frugal when it came to cigarettes.
That was probably the only reason Anthony took one of them, letting him light his cigarette.
“Did you pay him?” he asked Nameless, who was watching the girl. “Why are you staring at her like that?”
He frowned. Suddenly, he felt that he should take care of the brat, which was a damn strange and unfamiliar feeling in Cohen's life. It was just the look in that man's eyes... Anthony glanced briefly at the girl, who had climbed onto a crate for some reason and was sitting on top of it. Of course, she felt uncomfortable being in the company of three men, but now she was trembling, staring at her own shoes.
Anthony took a step back, covering her with his body. Just like that.
“He paid,” Yates replied for him, blowing tobacco smoke out of his nose.
“Then what are you waiting for? Fuck off,” Anthony grumbled, gesturing with his wrist toward the exit of the narrow alley.
“I could use her,” said Nameless, pointing with his chin at the girl hiding behind Cohen.
Anthony... he didn't know what had come over him. Why was he so interested in the child's fate, or why did he suddenly not want the huge man to come within a meter to her, even though a moment earlier he had planned to kill her in cold blood for taking his fucking wallet?
“Why the hell do you need a child?” Anthony asked, frowning.
“Why do you need her?” Nameless retorted, folding his arms across his chest. “You let her get the better of you like a piece of shit without hands.”
“Shit usually doesn't have hands,” Anthony reminded him unceremoniously, taking a drag on his cigarette. “Now mind your own business and fuck off. You're not needed here. I got what I wanted. Tell the boss he'll get what he wants by the end of the week.”
“I'll pay you for her. My...”
“Do I have to spell it out for you? Fuck off, what don't you understand?”
The man didn't say a word, although Cohen's insolence clearly irritated him. He clenched his hands into fists, glanced briefly at Yates, and then walked away, his steps heavy. No counterattack, no further strange attempts. Nothing. Zero. As if the conversation had never taken place.
What a fucker, Anthony thought as he watched the big guy walk away. What was his deal? What was that supposed to mean? And why did he want that fucking girl?
And why did Anthony care so much that he didn't get her?
He glanced over his shoulder at the girl; red-eyed from crying, she sat stiffly in the same spot, watching the man walk away. As if she knew he didn't have good intentions toward her. But, damn it, Cohen didn't either.
“Do you even know who you got this job from?” Mikaere asked after a long, really long moment, tossing the green cigarette butt aside and immediately pulling out another one.
“What? Are you worried about who I work for?” Cohen asked emotionlessly, flicking the ash off his cigarette. He had one last puff left, so he took advantage of it and tossed the butt away just like Yates had done.
“So you don't know,” Yates gasped in disgust, standing sideways to Anthony, but still with his head turned toward him, and raised his hand as if pointing at something. “That idiot would pay you so much for her that you wouldn't have to touch work for the next three years.”
Anthony's throat went dry. Suddenly, the smoke he had exhaled long ago, began to suffocate him. That much? For some scrawny kid?
“Two-colored eyes, black hair, girl,” Mikeare began to list, glancing at the child. “And radiant.”
“How do you know she's a radiant?” Anthony muttered, staring at the wall in front of him as if it had suddenly become the most interesting thing in the world.
“You don't think all three of us got heart palpitations at the same time, do you?”
This conversation was probably the longest conversation Anthony had ever had with Yates in his entire life. They knew each other... not well, not at all, in fact. Anthony had no idea if Mikaere Yates was his real name or not. But they knew a little about each other, and one of those things was that they both liked money.
Hence the shock in Yates' voice. Anthony rejected easy money as if he were swatting away an annoying fly.
“Besides, she stole your wallet, and you didn't even notice,” he added, as if Anthony wasn't trying to forget about it.
“I'm not interested in human trafficking,” Cohen replied curtly, glancing again at the girl, who was now picking at the skin around her nails.
“Cut the crap,” Mikaere gasped, and Anthony was sure that the man had just rolled his eyes. “What are you going to do with her? She's a fucking orphan, you won't get anything for her.”
Cohen shrugged as if he were making decisions about expired documents rather than a human life that was now sniffling behind him.
“You'd better tell me about that building,” Anthony muttered, not very discreetly changing the subject. “Stop poking me.”
He frowned, turning toward the girl, then adjusted his jacket, which she had grabbed. She looked like she wanted to say something, but Cohen turned away too quickly for her to do so.
“You're not going in there,” Yates announced casually, tossing away his half-smoked cigarette.
“Don't even fuck with me,” Anthony gasped, glaring at the man. “Really?”
“No, I'm just kidding,” Yates gasped, folding his arms across his chest. “It'll take you two weeks, if not more, to disable the security system, even with help. And once you do that and somehow get inside, they'll shoot you like a sieve.”
“There must be something...”
“You want to break into Kingdom,” Yates reminded him, frowning. “Do you think they have a day off there? That they have gaps in their security?”
“There's gotta be something, damn it,” Cohen growled, pacing back and forth nervously.
“There is,” he said, but he didn't sound happy. “But you won't fit in the vents.”
His gaze wandered toward the girl, who was still sitting on the box, unaware of the conversation taking place right in front of her.
“You want me to send the kid who stole my wallet to the fucking lab?” Anthony asked, pointing at the girl with his thumb. “Are you fucking crazy?”
“It's either that or you get shot,” Yates replied, shrugging his shoulders. “Even if she fails, you know... you won't have any trouble getting rid of her.”
“You talk a lot for someone who doesn't have much time,” Cohen muttered, clenching his hands into fists. “So, is that it?”
“All I can do is arrange for the cameras to malfunction through my connections.” Mikaere sounded helpless. Anthony hated that tone.
Nevertheless, he nodded, accepting the offer. He still had time to set the exact date and time, so he said goodbye to Yates, letting him walk away and leaving him alone with the girl.
“What's your name?” he asked, even though he was sure he wouldn't remember her name.
The girl looked up from her shoes. She did so hesitantly and didn't even try to look Anthony in the eye when she raised her head.
“The devil incarnate,” she replied, which made Anthony even angrier than he already was.
“Very fucking funny,” he growled, then grabbed the handle of her backpack and pulled the girl off the crate.
She gasped in surprise, but managed to catch her balance without falling onto the pavement.
“Let's go,” he said, pushing the child in front of him. “Now you're going to pay for what you did.”
He knew he sounded terrible to the girl, but, to be honest, he had no idea how not to sound that way. And he couldn't talk to children. In fact, he had never been around them because he had no family or relatives who could have had any.
“I don't want to go with you,” she said in a firm tone, but she obediently took steps forward.
“I don't give a fuck,” he said without hesitation, reaching into his sweatshirt pocket to check if his flash drive and wallet were still there. “It's better for you if you play by my rules, because I swear you won't get out of this alive.”
The child shivered. However, she said nothing out loud.
“Do you hear what I'm saying?” he growled, tugging lightly on her backpack, but even that slight movement caused the black-haired girl to stagger backward.
“I do,” she replied in a strangled voice, adjusting the straps that had once again dug into her petite body.
“Good,” he muttered. “So, starting today and for the next week, you have a new papa.”
It sounded... strange and uncomfortable, and... weird, and if Anthony felt that way, he didn't even want to think about how this child felt.