They cut away from the main street and into the backstreets, where Amsterdam stopped pretending to be charming.

  The bricks were older here, darker, slick with moss and old rain. Laundry lines sagged between narrow windows. The canals shrank into quiet veins, water black and unmoving. Zawisza moved fast—not running, but with the purposeful stride of someone who knew exactly how panic made people sloppy.

  Daan struggled to keep up at first.

  “So,” Zawisza said casually, hands in his coat pockets, eyes never stopping their slow sweep of reflections and corners, “on a scale from mild inconvenience to existential nightmare, how bad is your day going?”

  Daan let out a breath that almost turned into a laugh.

  “I found my police chief dead in the woods and got framed for it a few days ago... And now we're running from something you saw.”

  “Ah.” Zawisza nodded. “Solid eight, then.”

  Daan huffed despite himself, then went quiet again. His footsteps echoed too loudly for his liking.

  “You’re… strangely calm about all this,” he said.

  Zawisza glanced sideways, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth.

  “I’m not calm. I’m practiced.”

  That earned a look.

  “Practiced at what?”

  “At walking while terrified,” Zawisza replied. “It’s a useful skill. You should learn it. Keeps the blood pressure reasonable.”

  They turned sharply into a narrow alley barely wide enough for two people. Zawisza slowed just a touch, letting Daan fall into step beside him.

  “Are you a good cop?” Zawisza asked.

  Daan blinked. “I—what?”

  “Not ‘by the book,’” Zawisza clarified. “I mean… do you still lose sleep over things you didn’t do wrong?”

  Daan hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Good.” Zawisza smiled faintly. “Those are the ones who get eaten alive first.”

  “That’s not comforting.”

  “I know. But it’s honest.”

  They passed a shuttered bakery, its windows covered in old newspaper. Zawisza slowed just enough to glance at their reflection in the glass—two men, walking too fast, trying too hard to look normal.

  Daan lowered his voice.

  “Back at the café… You looked like you’d seen a ghost.”

  Zawisza’s jaw tightened for half a second. He kept walking.

  “I saw someone,” he said. “Or maybe I remembered someone.”

  Daan waited.

  “That smile,” Zawisza continued. “You ever see a person smile like they’re not doing it for you, but at you? Like you’re a joke they’ve already finished laughing at?”

  Daan swallowed. “No.”

  “Lucky you.”

  They crossed a small footbridge. The water below reflected the sky in broken shards. Zawisza paused briefly, pretending to tie his shoe, eyes tracking a couple on bikes passing behind them.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  When he straightened, his tone lightened again—almost theatrically.

  “Anyway,” he said, clapping his hands once, “enough nightmare fuel. You hungry? I make a decent omelette when I’m stressed.”

  “You just escaped a police raid.”

  “Yes,” Zawisza agreed. “Which means I’m very stressed.”

  Daan shook his head, a weak smile breaking through the exhaustion.

  “You’re… not what I expected.”

  “Good,” Zawisza said. “Expectations get people killed.”

  They turned down another side street, quieter than the last. Apartment blocks loomed close, fire escapes zig-zagging like crooked ribs. Zawisza slowed now, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly.

  “Listen,” he said, more seriously. “You’re safe with me. For now. I don’t hand people over just because someone in uniform asks nicely.”

  Daan’s voice dropped. “Why?”

  Zawisza didn’t answer immediately.

  Finally, he said, “Because I’ve been the kid no one believed before.”

  That stopped Daan in his tracks for half a second.

  By the time he caught up, Zawisza was already unlocking a side gate, disappearing into shadow.

  “Welcome to the boring part of Amsterdam,” he said over his shoulder. “Try not to look like a fugitive.”

  Daan followed him in, heart still pounding—but for the first time since the woods, not entirely alone.

  

  The gate clanged shut behind them, muting the distant traffic. Their footsteps echoed softly now, shoes brushing damp stone.

  Daan cleared his throat.

  “Hey—uh… can I ask you something that’s not about murder?”

  Zawisza glanced sideways, amused.

  “That’s my favorite category.”

  Daan hesitated, cheeks faintly flushed beneath the sunlight.

  “There’s this girl. Online. We’ve been talking for a while.”

  Zawisza’s pace didn’t change.

  “Ah.”

  “That’s all you’re gonna say?”

  “Oh, no,” Zawisza replied smoothly. “That ‘ah’ contained several chapters of lived experience.”

  Daan let out a nervous breath.

  “She’s… kind. Funny. She listens. She knows when I’m lying even when I don’t type it. But every time I ask to meet, she says she can’t. Or that it’s not the right time.”

  Zawisza nodded, eyes forward, scanning balconies and dark windows.

  “And you’re wondering if that means she’s hiding something.”

  Daan swallowed.

  “Or if I’m doing something wrong.”

  Zawisza stopped under a tree, the sunlight flickering through. The light painted his face in alternating bands of gold and shadow. He turned, studying Daan with a seriousness that cut through the casual tone he’d worn all evening.

  “Tell me something,” he said. “Does she ask questions about you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Specific ones?”

  “…Yeah.”

  “Does she remember things you forgot you told her?”

  Daan frowned.

  “How did you—?”

  Zawisza raised a hand.

  “Answer later.”

  He started walking again, slower now.

  “People don’t avoid meeting because they don’t care,” he said. “They avoid meeting because they care too much… or because they’re afraid of what meeting would change.”

  Daan kicked at a pebble.

  “So which is worse?”

  Zawisza smiled faintly.

  “That depends on whether she’s afraid of you… or afraid of herself.”

  They crossed another bridge, this one narrower, the railing cold and rusted. Water lapped quietly below. Daan leaned his elbows on the metal for a moment, staring down.

  “I keep thinking—what if she’s not real?” he said quietly. “Or not who she says she is.”

  Zawisza rested his forearms beside him.

  “She’s real,” he said without hesitation.

  Daan looked up sharply.

  “You don’t know that.”

  Zawisza’s jaw tightened, just a little.

  “The person behind a screen always exists.” He straightened, slipping his hands back into his pockets. “Here’s my advice, kid. Stop asking her to meet.”

  Daan blinked. “What?”

  “Tell her you want to,” Zawisza clarified. “Tell her honestly. Then stop pushing. Let the silence do the talking.”

  “That sounds like giving up.”

  “No,” Zawisza said gently. “It’s giving her room to step forward without being chased. If she never does… then the answer was already there.”

  Daan stared at the water again, shoulders sagging.

  “I really like her.”

  Zawisza clapped a hand on his shoulder—warm, grounding.

  “Then that’s already something real. Don’t let fear rot it from the inside.”

  They resumed walking. Ahead, the apartment block loomed, quiet and unremarkable.

  As they approached the fire escape, Zawisza added, almost offhandedly,

  “And one more thing.”

  Daan looked at him.

  “If she knows things she shouldn’t,” Zawisza said softly, eyes lifting to the dark windows above, “pay attention to that. Curiosity can be romantic. Obsession is something else.”

  Daan’s stomach tightened.

  “You think she could be connected to all this?”

  Zawisza didn’t answer right away. He reached up, grabbed the cold metal ladder, and yanked it down with a hollow clatter.

  “I think,” he said finally, “that the city is full of people watching from behind screens.”

  He looked back at Daan, smile returning—lighter now, but not empty.

  “Come on. You can tell me more about her. Walls make better listeners than streets.”

  And with that, he started climbing, leaving Daan below with the echo of his words—and a name on his mind he hadn’t dared say out loud.