It was shortly before six in the morning when he arrived at Café Noir. It wasn’t open yet, but through the window he could see Isaac preparing everything for the day. Once he could put a name to a face, he had little trouble remembering people—and Isaac was so distinctive that he would probably recognize him anywhere.

  The young barista wiped down the tables with practiced ease, straightened the chairs, rearranged the simple table decorations. Every movement was precise. At exactly six o’clock, he opened the door, set the sign with the day’s specials outside, and paused for a brief moment.

  Their eyes met. But instead of greeting him, Isaac merely gave a short, almost mechanical nod and disappeared back into the café. Benedict took it as silent permission to follow him inside.

  He still didn’t quite know how to approach the young man. Part of him wanted to apologize again for the situation the day before. Another part remembered that Isaac had either not heard or deliberately ignored his first apology—and that a second attempt had never even happened.

  At the end of the day, Isaac was, after all, just the guy currently making his coffee. So there really was no good reason to chase after him over it.

  Even if his coffee had been damn good.

  Absentmindedly, he ran a hand over his now smooth chin. His beard had gotten far too long. During shaving, he had taken off so much that a sheep might have been jealous. It had already felt uncomfortable in the bathroom—especially because that was when he had truly realized how much he’d let himself go.

  There was no excuse for it. He hadn’t even noticed how dry his skin was, how tired and worn out he looked. He had managed to tame his hair somehow, but there was no way around a trip to the barber.

  Maybe he should just take care of that later today.

  He stepped into the warm, cozy café and inhaled the scent of coffee beans. He could really get used to this smell, to this atmosphere. There was something calming about this place—no matter how restless he felt before, the moment he entered, he found himself slowing down. A sense of inner quiet he hadn’t experienced in a long time.

  At the counter, Isaac was just tying his apron. Once again, he gave him that cool look from the day before. His red eyes studied him briefly before shifting back to the tablet.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked in a neutral, routine tone.

  Isaac truly was a cool beauty. Benedict looked away and pretended to study the menu board behind the counter. He didn’t want to stare at him again—yet it was surprisingly difficult not to. There was simply no one else like him.

  Eventually, he gave up the act and looked him straight in the eyes.

  “A black coffee, please,” he replied. “And could I get those egg sandwiches from yesterday again? They were really good.”

  At his words, Isaac paused briefly. He gave him a quick once-over, then nodded.

  “Of course,” he said calmly. “Will you be eating here again?”

  “Yes. I’ll just sit in the corner over there again.”

  “Suit yourself.” There was a hint of disinterest in his voice. He set the tablet aside. “I’ll bring everything to your table. Just take a seat.”

  With that, he turned away and began preparing the order.

  His manner irritated Benedict more than he wanted to admit. Even when Isaac made an effort to be polite, he came across as distant, almost rude. Benedict snorted quietly and headed for the small alcove where he had sat the day before.

  It was probably the best seat in the café. From here, he had a clear view of the entrance—as well as the hallway leading to the restrooms. He could see who entered the café and who left it again. He sat centrally enough to catch fragments of other guests’ conversations, while also keeping track of what was happening behind the counter.

  He set his backpack down, pulled out his laptop, and arranged everything so he could work while enjoying his breakfast. As soon as the screen lit up, he began his research on Ink Phantom.

  The day was packed. First, the research. Then he wanted to visit the last museum where Ink Phantom had struck. And sometime in between—or afterward—he absolutely needed to go to the barber.

  He really shouldn’t waste any time.

  ___

  Around 3 p.m., Benedict finally arrived at the Aeternitas Museum. He had stayed in the café far longer than he had originally planned—his research had simply captivated him too much. It hadn’t really gotten him any closer to answers, but he had found some rather interesting things.

  Ink Shadow was currently the number-one topic of conversation in the city. Over the years, the damned phantom thief had built up an actual fanbase. There wasn’t just an official forum; there was even an entire website, updated almost daily with new photos, videos, and speculations about him. A mixture of rumor mill, fan project, and unofficial archive.

  Of course, his colleagues had long been familiar with the site. The entire team had already analyzed it thoroughly, extracted every relevant piece of information, and documented everything carefully. Still, Benedict had been curious. He wanted to get his own impression of this phantom, to see firsthand what fascinated people so much about him. And maybe—just maybe—he hoped to discover something the others had overlooked. In any case, he had been curious about how the phantom thief operated. It was never a bad idea to form one’s own opinion.

  Until now, he had never paid much attention to Ink Shadow. The guy’s early heists had never affected him directly, and he had always found the media attention more annoying than anything else. That was why he had never actually seen for himself what this incredibly irritating phantom thief was capable of.

  But even Benedict had to admit that the show the thief put on in those cellphone videos looked impressive. Graceful movements, perfect coordination, and an ease that seemed almost superhuman. No wonder he had gained such a following over the past two years—though Ink Shadow had only been performing his shows publicly for that long. Before that, he had carried out his heists in secret.

  He had probably grown bored of stealing quietly and anonymously, and the magic-show flair gave him the thrill he needed.

  What truly irritated Benedict, however, was the fact that his colleagues still hadn’t managed to catch the guy after all these years.

  All in all, Ink Shadow seemed to have been stealing for about six years. At least, there were several older cases that could be attributed to him with high probability. The pattern matched to a certain extent.

  The biggest commonality among all the cases was that not a single alarm had ever been triggered, despite museums now having extremely high security standards. These weren’t works by lesser-known artists—they were pieces by truly famous ones.

  Paintings, statues, jewelry—all valued in the six-digit range and up. Some of the stolen items had even been worth billions.

  What was even more surprising was the fact that none of the pieces had ever surfaced on the black market. The thief came, stole, and just as he vanished without a trace, so did all the things he took.

  Frustrating.

  A truly frustrating case.

  Benedict had spent the entire morning going through the countless videos and images fans had shared on the website. Ink Shadow always wore the same distinctive black suit, which looked surprisingly flexible. Not as tight as a combat suit, but not elegant like business attire either. More like something a nighttime graffiti artist might wear. The deep hood concealed the transition to the intricately designed mask that covered his face completely.

  Not a single inch of skin was visible. No scars, no hair, no identifying features of any kind. He was a walking silhouette; even his physique was difficult to make out beneath the clothing.

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  His movements were as smooth as those of a showman who knew exactly how to present himself. The only thing he carried was a small notebook, from which he conjured his illusions. But he didn’t limit himself to that.

  He also seemed able to bring graffiti to life.

  Not just elaborate murals, but even fleeting chalk scribbles on the ground transformed under his hands into glowing, pulsating figures. Watching his magic tricks was an incredible spectacle. Yet every illusion he created made each artwork vanish—the ones that had decorated walls and floors moments before. They disappeared like everything else connected to this thief.

  At some point, he had begun digging through the theories of the fans. He compared the times of Ink Shadow’s disappearances with the ones recorded in the police files—those marking when the items had gone missing. Or at least when they had been reported stolen.

  Most of the items vanished before Ink Shadow disappeared. So he was either working alone, or the man himself was nothing more than an illusion while the real thief stole unseen inside the museum. Or perhaps a full organization was behind the whole affair, involving far more than just two people.

  Benedict asked himself only one truly important question: How did Ink Shadow manage to keep his performance going for up to ten minutes, and yet none of his colleagues managed to arrest him?

  Part of the answer lay with the fans, who always blocked the way. Often, they were already on-site before the phantomthief even appeared. Thanks to his public announcements, the entire city knew in advance when and where he would perform. The message was always the same: a signal that briefly knocked out all networks, followed by his signature symbol, the exact location, the time, and the object he planned to steal. A kind of macabre invitation that drew crowds like moths to a flame.

  On top of that, Ink Shadow didn’t need a stage. He used rooftops, balconies, fa?ades, or even ropes he had set up himself to move above the crowd. Places that were difficult for the police to reach. They couldn’t very well shoot him down from above—they wanted to arrest him alive, not have his corpse examined in pathology.

  Ink Shadow was as flexible as his heists—and every movement of his body.

  It really was a shame that within the city they could operate only from the ground, and helicopters were useful at best for car chases. Either way, they could hardly get close. Benedict wondered whether they shouldn’t start taking more drastic measures.

  Snipers, for example.

  Surely there had to be a good angle to hit him—one that wouldn’t send him plummeting to his death after being struck.

  He hadn’t come close to fully combing through the website yet, but he had decided to look more closely at the most recent case first. Which now brought him to the Aeternitas Museum—the place where a heavy stone bust from the 16th century had been stolen.

  Said stone bust was so heavy that even a trained adult man could barely carry it. It required special equipment or at least two fully grown men to remove it without difficulty.

  And yet, it had simply vanished. Without a trace.

  It had depicted a saint who was later burned as a witch—supposedly for using her magic to cause harm. Apparently one of her herbal mixtures had gone wrong and someone had gotten an upset stomach, or something like that. Benedict wasn’t particularly interested in the stories behind the stolen pieces anyway. The basic facts were more than enough for him.

  His job was to figure out which spot the thief had used to enter the museum silently and unnoticed—and how he had managed to haul that heavy stone bust out without being seen.

  He paid the entrance fee and strolled through the corridors as if he were admiring the artwork, though in truth he was more focused on discreetly observing the security. He took mental notes of where the windows and emergency exits were located and where cameras had been installed.

  He noticed the small sensors that presumably triggered motion alarms at night if someone walked through.

  There were countless nearly invisible traps in this museum, and the thief had bypassed all of them with ease. However, Benedict still hadn’t reached the room that interested him the most. He discreetly checked the restrooms—through which the thief had certainly not entered. The windows were far too small for a grown person to fit through.

  After two hours of closely observing the exhibition rooms, he finally reached the place he had wanted to visit from the beginning. It was a large hall dedicated to historically significant women. There were statues, stone busts, paintings, and objects closely connected to these women. Clothing and jewelry, utensils, and books they had used during their lifetimes.

  There were even one or two diaries.

  Benedict examined the various items, letting his gaze wander over the paintings until it lingered on a particular one.

  It was a huge, exceptionally detailed painting of a woman standing with her back to the viewer. Her head was turned slightly to the right, allowing her beautiful, delicate profile to be seen. One finger rested against her lips, as if urging the viewer to keep silent. An elegant, quiet gesture—if not for the other hand she held behind her back. In it, she gripped a bloody knife.

  She appeared in the upper half of the tall canvas. The lower half was filled with dead men, piled atop one another in a bloody heap. A cold shiver ran down Benedict’s spine as he looked into the lifeless eyes of the men. It felt so real that he had the sensation of being pulled into the painting.

  The artwork depicted the calmness of the woman who had killed all those people. Only when he looked back at her face did he notice the cold, satisfied smile on her lips. It was incredible how much he discovered in the painting the longer he looked at it.

  It was as if each new detail revealed even more to him.

  Perhaps it was the first time he had ever looked at a painting for longer than five seconds. Whatever the reason, his interest had been piqued—disturbingly strongly. He tore his gaze away from the painting and glanced at the artist’s name displayed on a small brass plaque beside it.

  The painting bore the simple title “Antonia Sawetta 1769.” The artist’s name was “I. Walker.” The artwork had been painted at the end of last year.

  He would definitely Google the name later.

  He then made his way to the spot where the stone bust had been stolen, now marked only by an empty pedestal. Slowly, he looked around the room. There were three cameras positioned so that they covered the entire space. There wasn’t a single blind spot.

  There were no windows, and aside from the entrance, only one emergency exit—whose door had been locked at the time of the theft.

  Three guards had been stationed there. One had remained permanently by the object. Another had patrolled within the room, and the last one had kept an eye on the corridor while staying close to the object as well.

  It was truly a mystery to Benedict how the thief had gotten past the guards.

  They had all been in perfect health, there were no signs of a struggle, and the cameras had recorded nothing unusual.

  He hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary when he had walked through the room either.

  It really was a mystery how the thief had managed this heist.

  Benedict racked his brain, but no matter how much he thought about it, he wouldn’t get any further—at least not for the moment.

  He glanced at his smartwatch and decided that he had gathered enough information for the afternoon. It was only half past five. He still had a bit of time. So he decided to quickly find a barber and get his unruly hair taken care of.

  What he had on his head could technically be called hair, but certainly not a hairstyle.

  If he wanted to catch the murderer of his beloved with style, he ought to take care of it as soon as possible.

  He let his gaze wander through the room one last time.

  When he was finally allowed to officially work on this case, he had several questions he planned to ask the staff.

  At the very least, he was now motivated to bring down this phantom thief.

  He imagined confronting Ink Shadow someday—grabbing him and ripping the mask from his face, right before the eyes of his cheering fans. A small, dangerous smile crossed Benedict’s lips as he left the museum.

  On his way to the barber, he suddenly felt as though he were getting his life back under control, piece by piece.

  ___

  Around midnight, he stretched and let out a hearty yawn.

  He had sketched a plan of the museum in his notebook and marked everything he had observed there. Every camera, every motion sensor, every emergency exit, window, and staircase. The pages were so scribbled over that probably no one but him would be able to make sense of them.

  There were many ways to get in and many to get out. Just not a single one you could use without being seen.

  He compared his drawing with what he had in the reports. He added the positions of each guard that evening and the route they had taken during their patrols.

  The museum’s security was of the highest quality. He had rarely seen such a high security standard.

  Yet there had been no alarm. Only when the guards noticed the object was missing had things become hectic inside the museum.

  This damned case was truly tricky—and it was only one of many he intended to take a closer look at. Slowly, the thought solidified that he would find the same thing in the other cases. Namely, that he would find nothing at all, and that it was an impossible crime.

  Thoughtfully, he rubbed the back of his neck, which felt wonderfully refreshed thanks to his trimmed hair. Going to the barber had been a very good decision. He felt not only like a complete human being again, but also somehow lighter.

  Strange—he had always thought a haircut only did that for women. He still felt absolutely miserable, but at least he didn’t look quite as miserable anymore.

  Except for his dark circles and his constant exhaustion, of course.

  He dragged himself into the bathroom, brushed his teeth, and changed for the night. His reflection stared back at him—familiar and yet foreign. For weeks, he had neglected his appearance, and the overgrown mess of hair had almost become part of his identity. A symbol of the pain that had sunk its claws deep into his life.

  He hated himself for letting things get so bad. But he simply couldn’t help it. The loss still sat deep in his bones. All he had been able to do was bury himself in the case, obsessing over every detail as if the devil himself had taken possession of him.

  He avoided the bedroom as if the plague itself were lurking inside. At least for tonight, he didn’t want to go in there.

  Instead, he sank back onto the couch, took a sleeping pill, and switched off the lights using the corresponding phone app. A thick darkness settled over him.

  Before he closed his eyes, something occurred to him. He grabbed his phone and typed in the name of the artist he had meant to Google that afternoon. But to his surprise, there wasn’t much to find about the artist.

  The search engine showed a few of his most well-known works and a short description of the artist himself. But unfortunately, there wasn’t a single picture of him anywhere. Benedict’s mouth twisted in dissatisfaction. The man seemed just as mysterious as the phantom thief. A damned ghost.

  It wasn’t important anyway. The painting had been interesting, and he had wanted to know who was behind it. At the same time, it wasn’t important enough for him to invest more time in it.

  With a tired sigh, he put his phone aside and closed his eyes.

  He didn’t need to set an alarm. He knew that even with a sleeping pill, he would only get a few hours of sleep.