5

The witness lay unmoving on the bed, monitors flashing numbers that no longer meant anything. Doctors stood frozen, unsure. Nurses whispered, hands trembling.

Kamin stopped a few steps in.

Slowly, he reached up and pulled the mask down from his face.

His breath caught.

He lifted a hand to his mouth. His eyes moved over the room, sharp even through the shock, taking in everything at once. The bed. The mask. The untouched sheets. The faces around him.

Dead.

He swallowed, jaw tightening as his hand dropped back to his side.

Chapter 5 - Handled With Care

The CCTV control room was dim, lit by the cold glow of stacked monitors.

Footage played in quiet loops—hospital corridors from every angle, nurses passing, stretchers rolling, doors opening and closing. Ordinary.

An officer sat forward in her chair, fingers tapping lightly against the desk as she rewound and replayed the same stretch of hallway. Kamin stood beside her, leaning against the back of the chair, arms folded loosely. His eyes were sharp, steady, tracking details most people would miss.

Nothing broke pattern.

Nothing stood out.

"We'll call you once we catch a clue, Detective," the female officer said, eyes still on the screen.

Kamin nodded once. Calm. Composed. "Alright."

His phone vibrated in his hand.

He glanced down.

Bell.

For a brief moment, his gaze lifted—taking in the room, the officers, the endless footage that showed everything and somehow explained nothing. Then he pushed off the chair and stepped out, answering the call as the door shut softly behind him.

"Kai," Bell's voice chimed through, light and familiar. "Where are you? Did you go to work yet?"

Kamin blinked once, listening. His expression barely shifted.

"I'm on my way," he replied.

"Mmm. I just called to ask how it's going," she said. "If Fadel troubles you, let me know, okay?"

A faint smile curved Kamin's lips—polite, restrained, the kind that came easily and meant very little.

"Sure," he said.

The call ended.

Kamin lowered the phone.

The corridor outside was quiet, the hum of fluorescent lights filling the space. His smile faded just as smoothly as it had appeared.

He slipped the phone back into his pocket and walked on—

already replaying last night in his head.

The bell above the door chimed softly as Kamin stepped into Heart Burger.

Morning light filtered through the front windows, pale and clean. The place smelled faintly of disinfectant and yesterday's oil—new day, same routine. Chairs were still down, tables half-wiped, the restaurant not yet open.

Fadel stood near the window, wiping a table with measured, unhurried movements.

Kamin walked toward him, steps slow, deliberate.

Fadel noticed.

The cloth paused.

He glanced up.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Their eyes met—quiet, assessing.

Fadel set the cloth on the table and walked over.

"You're late," he said, voice flat.

Kamin met his gaze, calm.

"If you don't want to work," Fadel added without inflection, "you can just quit."

He turned away immediately, heading back to the counter. Kamin stayed still. He drew in a slow breath—steady, controlled—then let it out just as quietly.

The day had begun.

Kamin worked under Fadel the entire day.

Fadel didn't like anyone else in his kitchen. That much was clear. So Kamin was kept out front—taking orders, serving food, clearing tables. No questions asked. No explanations given.

And Kamin didn't complain.

He moved easily through the space, calm and unhurried, offering a small, polite smile to every customer. His voice stayed even, respectful. Professional.

But the night before lingered in his body.

Lack of sleep weighed heavy behind his eyes. At one point, as he stood by the counter waiting for an order, Kamin tilted his head slightly, shaking it once—subtle, practiced—forcing himself back into focus.

For him, this wasn't new.

As a detective, sleepless nights were routine. Long hours. Cold cases. Bodies that didn't let you rest even when you closed your eyes.

Still—

Fadel noticed.

Just a glance. The brief dip of Kamin's head. The tension in his shoulders.

Nothing was said.

The day went on.

It wasn't until evening—barely an hour before closing—that things shifted.

The door swung open and a man stumbled in, reeking of alcohol. Loud. Unsteady. His voice cut through the low hum of the restaurant almost immediately.

Kamin noticed from the counter.

A raised tone. A woman's sharp reply.

He moved without thinking.

"What's wrong, sir?" Kamin asked, stepping in smoothly, that same polite smile still in place.

The drunk man turned toward him, eyes bloodshot, expression twisted. "This bitch thinks she can have her way," he snapped, slurring. "If I want to sit here, who is she to stop me?"

The woman stood abruptly, anger flashing across her face. "You can't sit next to a stranger while being drunk and expect them not to react."

She grabbed her bag and turned to Kamin, clearly shaken but composed. "He was abusing someone on call. In public. That was very uncomfortable. Please get him out right now. I'm leaving anyway."

Her frustration wasn't aimed at the restaurant.

It was aimed at him.

The drunk man's ego took the hit.

As the woman turned toward the door, he stepped after her—too fast, too aggressive.

Kamin reacted instantly.

He reached out to stop him—

And the moment his hand made contact, he was shoved hard.

Kamin hit the ground, palms scraping the floor.

"Don't touch me, you asshole!" the drunk man yelled.

The sound echoed.

In the kitchen, Fadel heard it too. His brows flinched. And without hesitation, he walked out.

Kamin was still on the floor.

Whispers spread through the restaurant—low at first, then louder. A few customers stood. Someone lifted their phone.

The drunk man grabbed Kamin by the collar, pulling him halfway up.

Kamin's hands stayed where they were.

He didn't resist.

He couldn't.

One wrong move—too fast, too precise—and everything he was hiding would surface. He'd been undercover before. In America, too. Bruises, punches, blood in his mouth—none of it was unfamiliar.

He braced himself for the upcoming punch.

Then—

A gloved hand clamped onto the drunk man's collar.

Hard.

The next second, the man was yanked backward, feet stumbling as he was dragged across the floor.

Kamin looked up.

Fadel.

The restaurant went silent as Fadel hauled the man straight out the door and into the street. He released him there—right in the middle of the road—and walked away without a word.

The man shouted. Cursed. Threatened.

Fadel didn't even turn.

He went back inside and shut the glass door behind him.

The sound was final.

Inside, his eyes landed on Kamin—still on the floor, shock not fully gone from his face.

Fadel exhaled once. Then he walked over and held out his hand.

Kamin stared at it for a moment. Their eyes met. Without another thought, Kamin reached out and took it. Fadel pulled him up, steady and wordless.

The work continued.

The next hour passed without incident. Orders were served, tables cleared. One by one, customers left—satisfied.

When the last door closed, the restaurant settled into silence.

Kamin removed his apron and cap, placing them neatly back where they belonged. He glanced once at Fadel.

He knew better.

Even if he said goodbye, there would be no response.

So he turned toward the exit.

Behind him, the sound of gloves being pulled off, Fadel's gaze paused.

A dark bruise was blooming across Kamin's hand—angry against his skin.

"Wait."

The word cut through the quiet. Cold. Flat.

Kamin stopped.

He turned back.

They sat outside, at the back of the restaurant.

A narrow bench. Cold air. The hum of the city distant enough to feel unreal.

Kamin sat beside him, shoulders relaxed for the first time that day. There was a faint smile on his lips—small, almost unconscious.

Fadel sat close.

He uncapped the ointment and took Kamin's hand without asking. His fingers were steady, deliberate, as he pressed the medicine into the forming bruise.

"Why did you not fight back?" Fadel asked.

He didn't look at Kamin. His eyes stayed fixed on the bruise, his thumb moving slowly, controlled.

Kamin blinked once.

"If I did," he said quietly, "it would've caused chaos. And the more chaos there is, the more damage it does to the restaurant's image."

Fadel's hand stilled. He glanced at Kamin then—just a brief look. Measured. Searching.

Nothing else followed. He capped the ointment, released Kamin's hand, and stood up. He was about to walk away.

"Thank you," Kamin said. "For today." The smile was still there. Small. Unforced.

Fadel paused. Only for a fraction of a second. Then he walked back inside without turning, without answering. The door shut behind him.

Silence settled.

Kamin exhaled slowly and lowered his gaze to his hand.

A small smile curved his lips—soft, restrained, unmistakable.

He stayed like that for a moment longer, letting the night take it with him.

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