Zawisza pushed the window shut behind them and latched it with a practiced twist of the wrist. The room was bright, lit by the window and a single lamp near the couch.

  Janssen climbed in after him, awkwardly, nearly catching his foot on the sill.

  “Sorry—” he muttered.

  Zawisza waved it off, already moving.

  “If you didn’t trip at least once, I’d assume you were an imposter.”

  Janssen managed a weak smile.

  They set their things down. Janssen placed his jacket carefully over the back of a chair, as if trying not to disturb the space. He stood there for a moment, unsure what to do with his hands, eyes darting around.

  The place felt lived-in. Not messy, not clean. Human. The kind of apartment where an average person lives.

  Zawisza watched him from the kitchen doorway, amused, then crossed the room and flicked on another light.

  “Relax,” he said. “I don’t bite. And if I did, you’d probably deserve it.”

  Janssen exhaled, shoulders lowering just a fraction. He sat down on the floor, hands clasped together between his knees.

  Zawisza disappeared briefly into the kitchen and returned with two mismatched mugs. He handed one to Janssen.

  “It’s tea,” he said. “Don’t ask what kind. I stopped keeping track.”

  Janssen took it with both hands.

  “Thanks.”

  They stood there in a fragile quiet, the city murmuring faintly through the walls. Somewhere outside, a tram bell rang.

  Zawisza leaned against the counter, studying Janssen again—really looking this time. The exhaustion. The way his eyes kept flicking toward the door, as if expecting it to burst open at any second.

  “You can breathe here,” Zawisza said calmly. “No one’s knocking today. I'll make sure of that.”

  Janssen nodded, though he didn’t quite believe it.

  Zawisza smiled—small, genuine—and scratched the back of his neck.

  “Oh. Right,” he said. “I should tell you.”

  Janssen looked up.

  “A friend of mine will be coming later,” Zawisza continued. “Another stray. He's a Scientist, actually.”

  Janssen frowned. “Another…?”

  “Another person who’s been framed,” Zawisza said plainly.

  That landed heavier than Janssen expected.

  “Oh.”

  Zawisza shrugged.

  “Seems to be a theme lately. Wrong place, wrong time, wrong face.”

  Janssen stared into his tea.

  “So… you’re just collecting us now?”

  Zawisza chuckled.

  “Not collecting. Housing. Temporarily. Like emotionally damaged cats.”

  That pulled a quiet laugh out of Janssen before he could stop it. He covered his mouth, surprised.

  Zawisza’s smile softened at the sound.

  “He’s… different,” Zawisza went on. “Calmer than you. Quieter. But good. Very good. You two might get along.”

  Janssen hesitated.

  “Does he… know what he’s being accused of?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he’s innocent?”

  This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

  Zawisza’s expression sharpened—not defensive, not angry. Certain.

  “Without a doubt.”

  Janssen nodded slowly. Something about the way Zawisza said it made the words feel solid.

  “His name’s Dr Kazou Kuroda,” Zawisza added. “You’ll meet him soon.”

  Janssen's grip tightened around the mug.

  “Kuroda…”

  The name stirred something uneasy in his chest, as a half-remembered headline or a whisper overheard too late.

  Zawisza noticed. Of course he did.

  “Hey,” he said gently. “You don’t have to trust him immediately. Or me. Or anyone. Just don’t assume the world’s version of the story is the truth.”

  Janssen looked up, eyes glassy but focused.

  “I don’t know what’s happening anymore,” he admitted. “I don’t know who to believe.”

  Zawisza pushed off the counter and crouched in front of him, resting his elbows on his knees so they were eye level.

  Tears welled and spilled over Detective Janssen's tired eyes, tracing silent paths down his cheeks. The accusation was suffocating — framed for the murder of the police chief, hunted by his own department, and branded a fugitive in the city he once served.

  Zawisza reached out with rough hands, gently lifting the younger man’s tear-streaked face. His own eyes held a calm steadiness that seemed to pierce through the despair.

  “Mr Janssen,” Zawisza said softly, voice low but firm, “I know it feels like everything’s falling apart, like you’re alone in the dark. But you’re not. Not while I’m here.”

  Janssen's breath caught, his lips trembling. He tried to shake his head, to reject the hope, but the weight of exhaustion made him surrender.

  Zawisza smiled faintly, the corners of his mouth pulling up just enough to be almost kind.

  “You’re stronger than you think. Stronger than you believe. And I’m not about to let you face this alone.”

  He patted Janssen's shoulder, steadying the younger man as if the contact alone could anchor him.

  “Stay here,” Zawisza continued, voice low and certain. “For as long as you need. This place… It’s yours too.”

  Janssen gave a weak nod, the first flicker of relief touching his eyes.

  Then, suddenly, a thunderous gunshot ripped through the floor above them, shattering the fragile quiet. The bullet slammed into the plastered wall near their heads, sending a shower of dust and debris cascading to the floor.

  Both men yelped, heartbeats spiking in unison.

  Zawisza’s calm was shattered for just a moment before he snapped back to focus, his voice hard and urgent.

  “S-shit... The police sent a raid... They’re close. Too close.”

  Janssen scrambled to his feet, wiping tears hastily from his cheeks, eyes wide but alert.

  Zawisza rose and moved to the window, peering cautiously through the cracked blinds. He could hear distant footsteps echoing in the building, the sharp tap of boots on concrete — closing in.

  "I-I thought we were safe!" Janssen cried.

  “We will. We won't let them hurt us. They’ll come through that door next,” Zawisza murmured, his tone cold and measured, “but we’ll be ready.”

  Janssen's hands clenched into fists, resolve slowly building in his chest.

  Despite the danger, despite the fear — there was a quiet strength in that shared moment. An unspoken promise that whatever came, they would face it together.

  Zawisza’s hand moved swiftly to the worn grip of his emergency pistol resting on the battered table. Without hesitation, he grasped it firmly, the cold metal grounding him in the moment. He backed toward the wall to the right of the window, careful but deliberate, never breaking his aim from the creaking door. The soft tap of boots drew closer, a slow, deliberate approach that spoke of professionals hunting their prey.

  Janssen shifted uneasily near the window, peering out briefly but quickly turning back toward Zawisza. His voice was low, almost resigned, but threaded with frustration.

  “I told them... I told them over and over — I didn’t kill the chief. But it didn’t matter. No one believed me. Even as a junior detective, my word was nothing.”

  Zawisza’s eyes narrowed slightly, but his grip didn’t waver.

  “Trust,” he murmured, voice rough with experience. “It’s a fragile thing. Especially when the world wants you guilty before you speak.”

  Janssen swallowed hard, running a hand through his hair damp with sweat.

  “I had to watch them turn their backs on me... colleagues I trained with, friends... all convinced I was the enemy.”

  A faint, bitter smile curled at Zawisza’s lips.

  “It’s a familiar story. They framed you to cover something darker. The truth always smells worse to those who bury it.”

  Janssen's gaze met Zawisza’s, the weight of his despair clear but mingled with a spark of newfound resolve.

  “I don’t know how to fix this... but I can’t just disappear.”

  Zawisza shifted his stance, voice dropping to a quiet but steady command.

  “You won’t have to. We’ll get through this together. And if they come for us,” he raised the pistol slightly, “we’ll remind them who’s really in control.”

  The footsteps stopped just outside the door. A tense silence fell, the room shrinking to nothing but two men, their breaths steady but hearts pounding.

  Janssen nodded slowly, gripping the windowsill, eyes sharp now.

  “I’m ready.”

  Zawisza’s gaze hardened as he prepared for whatever would come next.

  “Good. Then let them come."