The faint groan of an aging radiator hummed through Alastor's apartment, mixing with the soft drip of coffee into a worn carafe. The place carried a certain charm—wooden floorboards creaked underfoot, and the plaster walls bore faint cracks, scars of time etched across their surface. A vintage clock ticked softly on the wall, its pendulum swinging with methodical precision.
Alastor stood by the window, his reflection faint against the overcast sky outside. His dark coat hung loosely over his shoulders, and his fingers curled around a chipped ceramic mug as steam from the coffee curled into the cool air of the room.
"You know," came the gravelly voice of Mr. Thompson from behind him, "this place is just as stubborn as you. All these cracks and creaks, yet it's still standing. Guess that's why you've stuck around here so long, huh?"
Alastor turned, offering a faint smirk. "I suppose it has its charm."
Thompson stepped further into the room, the soles of his boots thudding against the floorboards. He adjusted the collar of his coat, his salt-and-pepper beard catching the light. "Got some news for you. Rebuilding the café's going faster than I thought."
Alastor raised an eyebrow, sipping his coffee. "Already? Didn't realize you hired anyone yet."
Thompson chuckled, the sound warm and rumbling. "Didn't have to. Been rolling up my sleeves and getting to work myself. A few of the regulars even pitched in yesterday—nice folks."
"You're doing it yourself?" Alastor asked, lowering his mug. "You sure that's a good idea?"
Thompson straightened his posture, clapping his hands together. "Why not? Been fixing things my whole life. Hell, I used to overhaul engines when I was your age. A few broken beams and a busted espresso machine ain't gonna stop me."
"You could've asked me for help," Alastor said, his voice measured.
"And let you slack off from whatever it is you do? Nah." Thompson shook his head with a smirk. "I'm not that old yet. Got plenty of fight left in me."
Alastor chuckled softly, but his gaze lingered on Thompson, a glimmer of respect in his eyes. "If you're sure…"
"I'm sure," Thompson said firmly. He stepped closer, squinting slightly at Alastor's face. "You're looking better than you did last week. For someone who was practically dragging himself back home, you're doing alright."
"It's nothing," Alastor said quickly, brushing it off.
Thompson tilted his head, his eyes narrowing just enough to make Alastor shift. "You're a tough one, that's for sure. Sometimes I wonder if you're even human." He laughed as he said it, but the undertone of curiosity wasn't lost on Alastor.
Alastor laughed nervously, glancing away. "If I were, I'd probably find something more exciting to do than rebuild cafés."
"Maybe," Thompson said, his tone playful but knowing. He patted Alastor's shoulder. "Listen, don't waste whatever you've got, kid. Find something meaningful to do while we're closed. You've got potential—don't let it sit idle."
Alastor nodded, his grip tightening slightly on the mug. "I'll think about it."
The chill outside was sharper than it had been days ago. Alastor adjusted his coat as he stepped out onto the street, his breath visible in the frosty air. The neighborhood was quiet, the usual hum of city life dulled by the creeping approach of winter.
As he rounded the corner, he spotted Rachel leaning against her patrol car, her uniform crisp, and her badge gleaming faintly in the weak sunlight. She held a cup of something hot, the steam curling upward as she watched the street with a calm, confident demeanor.
"Morning," Alastor greeted, his tone light as he approached.
Rachel glanced at him, a smile tugging at her lips. "Morning. You look better than last week. Guess you don't need my nursing skills anymore?"
Alastor shrugged. "Coffee helps." He gestured vaguely to the cup in her hand. "And you? Out saving the world one ticket at a time?"
"Not today." She took a sip before nodding toward her car. "Got a lead on a bank robber. Idiot didn't even bother hiding his face from the cameras. We're combing the area."
"Sounds like you've got it covered," Alastor said, his voice carrying a hint of amusement.
Rachel smirked, leaning slightly toward him. "You know, with your mysterious powers, you could probably stop him in a heartbeat. Make my job a lot easier."
"I prefer to keep a low profile," Alastor replied, his tone dry but good-natured. "Besides, I think the police are more than capable."
She laughed, the sound warm and genuine. "Always so serious."
Alastor hesitated, then glanced at her. "About the other day… when we were at the warehouse…"
Rachel's expression shifted slightly, the teasing edge giving way to something softer. She exhaled through her nose, then gave a small shrug. "It was… the moment. You know, adrenaline and all that."
Alastor's brow furrowed, confusion flickering across his face. "The moment?"
"Yeah," Rachel said quickly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Things got intense. That's all."
Before he could press further, her radio crackled. "Suspect sighted near 14th and Pine. Male, mid-30s, black hoodie and jeans. Armed, heading westbound."
Rachel straightened, her demeanor snapping back to professional. "Got it. On my way," she said into the radio before turning to Alastor. "Duty calls. Try to stay out of trouble, alright? Unless you wanna help."
Alastor nodded, watching as she climbed into her car. "Just be careful."
She flashed him a quick smile before the sirens wailed, and her car sped off, disappearing around the corner.
Standing alone on the sidewalk, Alastor watched the world move around him, the weight of the conversation—and the past week—settling on his shoulders.
Alastor stood frozen on the sidewalk, staring at the empty street where Rachel's patrol car had vanished. He drew in a slow breath, the cold air filling his lungs, and let it out in a misty exhale.
That kiss.
It lingered in his mind, vivid and unshakable. It had been fleeting, barely more than a moment, but it carried a weight that he wasn't prepared for. He glanced down at his hand, with tremors passing through his fingers, not from the cold, but from something deeper—something he couldn't define.
In all his millennia, he had never known such intimacy. Levanzo, his home, had taught him duty, discipline, and the unyielding demands of war. He had fought for his people, for the stars themselves, only to watch them vanish. His planet, his kind, reduced to memories and dust.
There had been no time for love, no space for tenderness. His life had been a series of battles—against enemies, against despair, against the crushing solitude of being the last of his kind. And yet, in that fleeting moment with Rachel, something unfamiliar had stirred within him.
"What does it mean?" he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible.
The question hung in the air, unanswered, as he began to walk. His footsteps were slow, almost aimless, as his thoughts churned. Was it just as she said—a reaction to the intensity of the moment? Or was there something more?
Their bond was undeniable. In the short time he had spent with Rachel, she had become his anchor, her kindness and strength a balm for his ancient wounds. She made him feel understood in a way no one else ever had. He valued their connection deeply, and the thought of jeopardizing it terrified him.
But as the confusion began to settle, Alastor's mind sharply pushed away any thoughts of romance. No, he thought firmly. There would be no romance between them.
"It was just a kiss," he muttered, almost to himself, as if saying it aloud could somehow make it true. "Nothing more."
He quickened his pace, trying to banish the sudden surge of emotion. He had lived too long, seen too much pain, to let himself fall into the dangerous territory of hope. He had never allowed himself such luxuries before, and he wouldn't start now. Rachel was a beautiful and capable woman, someone deserving of more than what he could offer.
And yet, as much as he tried to deny it, the ache in his chest remained. The uncertainty was a weight he couldn't shake. How could he offer her anything more than heartache? His kind did not live forever, and his lifespan was already nearing its end. He couldn't, in good conscience, let someone he cared for be part of that eventual sorrow.
The thought of falling for her, of allowing himself to be vulnerable, made his chest tighten. It was just a kiss. He could not allow himself to believe otherwise, for the consequences would be far too great.
For the first time in centuries, Alastor was afraid—not of battle or death, but of the cost of letting himself hope.
As for Rachel, the city had never felt more alive. The roar of an engine shattered the stillness as she slammed her foot down on the accelerator. Her eyes locked on the black sedan weaving dangerously through traffic ahead. The radio crackled beside her, the voice of her partner updating her on the suspect's location.
"He's heading west on Pine, approaching the intersection at 12th. Armed with a handgun, no confirmed injuries yet."
"Copy that," Rachel replied, her voice steady despite the adrenaline surging through her veins.
The sedan swerved sharply, nearly clipping a parked car before careening into an alley. Rachel cursed under her breath, slamming the brakes and pulling her car into a hard turn. She grabbed her radio.
"Suspect just turned into the alley behind 12th and Oak. I'm in pursuit. Request backup."
"Backup en route," the dispatcher confirmed.
Rachel killed the siren as she pulled into the narrow alley, her hand instinctively resting on her holstered weapon. The sedan screeched to a stop ahead, and the driver—a wiry man in his mid-30s with a wild look in his eyes—jumped out, clutching a duffel bag in one hand and a handgun in the other.
"Stop right there!" Rachel shouted, stepping out of her car and drawing her weapon. She kept her stance firm, her eyes locked on the man.
He hesitated for a moment, his gaze darting between her and the open street beyond the alley. Then he ran.
"Dammit," Rachel hissed, holstering her weapon and taking off after him.
The chase was swift and brutal. Rachel dodged piles of trash and leaped over a fallen shopping cart as the suspect barreled through the narrow backstreets. She could feel the burn in her legs, but she pushed through it, her focus razor-sharp.
"Stop! You're only making this worse for yourself!" she shouted, her voice echoing off the brick walls.
The man turned a corner sharply, and Rachel nearly slipped as she followed. She saw him dart into an abandoned building, the door slamming shut behind him.
She slowed her pace, pulling her gun again as she approached the door. Her breath came in steady, controlled bursts as she pressed her back against the wall beside the entrance. She reached for her radio.
"Suspect entered the building at 14th and Grand. Still armed. Proceeding with caution."
"Backup is five minutes out," came the response.
"Understood."
She pushed the door open slowly, her weapon raised. The inside of the building was dimly lit, with beams of light streaming through cracks in the boarded-up windows. The air was thick with dust, and every creak of the floorboards seemed deafening.
Rachel moved carefully, her eyes scanning every shadow. She caught a glimpse of movement to her right and turned just in time to see the suspect emerge from behind a pillar, his gun aimed at her.
"Drop it!" she commanded, her voice firm.
The man's hands trembled, his eyes wide and frantic. "I can't go back to jail!" he shouted.
"You don't have to," Rachel said, her tone calm but unwavering. "Put the gun down, and we'll talk this out. No one has to get hurt."
He hesitated, the gun wavering in his grip.
"You're scared," Rachel continued, her voice softening slightly. "I get it. But pulling that trigger isn't going to solve anything. You put the gun down, and we'll figure this out together. You have my word."
The man's breathing was ragged, his eyes darting between her and the exit behind her. For a moment, Rachel thought he might bolt again.
Then, slowly, he lowered the gun.
Rachel exhaled, her shoulders relaxing slightly. "Good. Now kick it over to me."
He did as she asked, the weapon skidding across the floor. Rachel holstered her own gun and reached for her handcuffs. "Turn around and put your hands behind your head."
The man complied, and Rachel moved quickly to secure him.
Just as she finished, the sound of approaching sirens filled the air. She led the suspect outside, where two patrol cars screeched to a halt.
"Nice work, Officer Thompson," one of the arriving officers said as he stepped out of his car.
Rachel gave a small nod, handing the suspect over. "Just doing my job."
As the other officers took over, Rachel glanced down at her hands, which were still trembling slightly. She flexed her fingers, letting out a slow breath.