Chapter 09 - KASSUR:

  The day had started gray and turned darker by midafternoon, not just because Muldoon and Ruld left. Clouds the color of old brass and bruises filled the sky, and then the rain came. At least the drains here worked better than the ones back home; In the Central Borough, a half hour of rain was enough to make the streets reek of rot.

  Well, he wasn’t exactly happy. He’d burned half a day chasing dead ends. Chasing leads is part of the investigative process, but it builds up frustration fast.

  Most of the cruisers were out on missions. And the few docked were on standby. So Morty wouldn’t even bother to requisition one. Instead, he went to the front desk and used the official line to call a shuttle company. Even the front desk workers looked ragged.

  He didn’t have official permission to enter the residences of the other three, but he could check around.

  Caleb, the bison, was separated but not divorced. Which made his ex, technically, a widow.

  His current place was a cramped bachelor pad. The neighbors — two old widowed sisters that moved in together — waxed poetic about the guy. Saying that he always looked sad, always drinking, but would always help them with chores. Other tenants on the floor echoed more or less the same. The landlord just noted that Caleb paid on time and that he was on a month-to-month lease.

  Morty didn’t have a warrant, and there were corridor cameras, so breaking in was off the table. The landlord allowed him to check the footage, which only showed the Bison leaving for work the day before.

  Next, Morty tried calling Lucille the bison’s technically widow, but a man answered the Phone — Peter, Calbe’s cousin. Also, the reason for the separation. The bison didn’t tolerate cheating. A quick database search revealed a domestic incident in Caleb's old address. No one was arrested then, but there was a note about a bison named Peter being taken away by ambulance with a broken horn and snout.

  Peter sobbed on the call, to the moment he needed a moment to recompose, said he’d tell the information to the rest of the family. He also provided the phone numbers and names of Caleb’s parents. They didn’t pick up. Both lived in a retirement community in the Southern Borough.

  It turned out that Evan Kóvacs — the one whose head ended up in the fridge — had a daughter from a previous marriage. Clara, 18, freshly out of high school. She and her mom, Marlene, came in to speak about their relationship with the deceased. Morty nearly decked Bianca before the technician could show a picture of the decapitated head. He stopped her, using a still from the club surveillance instead.

  The young woman was honestly and completely devastated. Her mom… less so. She just wanted to know about the survival pension, which ends at 18 unless the kid’s in college, then it’d be paid until they turn 21. Morty passed them off to the front desk people, but handed both of them his card in case they could remember any more info.

  Marlene shoved the card into her purse and dragged Clara downstairs to fill out the paperwork.

  The mustang still had a mother and a younger brother who lived and took care of her. Morty couldn’t give details over the phone. Since they lived in the Western Borough — too far for a detour — he called in a favour from the Western precinct. Eventually found someone on duty whom he knew well, explained the situation, and asked for a discreet inspection. Maybe poke around to see if the mustang was hiding there and, if not, to ask them to come to the station for a video interview.

  It was the usual loop — tragedy translated into paperwork, paperwork into silence. Still, he worked each angle. Followed names through school registries, traced calls logged by the precinct. By the third stop, the rhythm had dulled from sharp to sluggish — the kind of dull only experience could smooth over.

  He even sent the surveillance stills of the husky and his friends to Aldeham. Maybe there were students who pulled something off at Silas’ workplace, and that is why the mustang snapped. But no luck. They didn’t match any of the enrolled students.

  He was a bit frustrated. He needed a break

  “Sometimes when you get stuck in a puzzle, you take a break, leave it aside, and pick an easier one”.

  “What was that?” Bianca asked.

  “Nothing important,” he looked at the redhead packing her things. “Where are you going?”

  “Going home,” she said, rubbing her eyes.

  “In the middle of this?”

  “Twelve on, thirty-six off. If I don’t sleep now, I’ll start swabbing my own fingerprints. So I’m heading home to sleep, and Patricia’s going to replace me if you need.”

  “Is she around?”

  “She waved and went to the lockers while you were talking to the guys from Western Borough. She’s the human with the weird eye.”

  “Well. Just in case we don’t cross paths again. Nice to meet you, Bianca.”

  “You need to eat, right?” She fumbled in her pockets and pulled out a card. “Vee has a gig at this pub tonight. So I am going to grab a meal there while he plays and then we are heading to his place.”

  “We?”

  “I’m only inviting you for the meal. Not for the afterparty. She said with a wink.”

  =================================

  Ferros Repairs was a small shop that sat between a laundromat and a pawn office that looked like it hadn’t pawned anything since the last mayor’s term.

  The laundromat was narrow but alive. An older lady sat reading a book while her load of laundry was being washed. The air was thick with steam, smelling of detergent and fabric softener. The low hum of washers rolling like distant thunder.

  A woman stood behind the counter, folding clothes into perfect stacks - dark hair streaked with silver, sleeves rolled up past her elbows. She looked up when Morty stepped in.

  “Picking up?” she asked, turning her gaze back to her task;

  “No, Ma’am,” he said. Then picked his badge and showed it to her. “Mortimer Roitman, DAIR. I’m just asking a few questions about your neighbor — Kassur Ferros.”

  The old lady sitting on the waiting chair clicked her tongue.

  “Those predators should be all locked up then you guys could get rid of the keys.”

  The woman behind the counter rolled her eyes and shrugged.

  “Ignore old Hetty. She is still bitter her husband ran away with a very bendy tigress that happened to be a pred.” She whispered in a conspiratorial tone.

  “What was that?” Hetty asked.

  “Just telling this officer about our neighbor.”

  Morty winked at the woman behind the counter and she smiled. She finished with the garment she had in her hand and then turned fully to Morty, using her hands to straighten her apron. “My name is Marion, by the way.”

  “So what kind of questions do you have?”

  “Routine ones,” he said. “We’re tracking some people who were last seen a few blocks from this area last night. Mr. Ferros name came up in the work registry and it is customary to check all the boxes off during an investigation.”

  “I see. But I still haven’t heard a question.”

  “True. So, regarding Mr Kassur. What can you tell me about him?”

  Marion chewed on her lower lip while looking up, but her posture was relaxed. She then gestured toward the washers where a girl — maybe her daughter — was coaxing a stubborn machine door shut with a knee while muttering a few curses. “He is a quiet man. Fixes things. Pays his rent on time. Doesn’t cause trouble. I wish my husband was that quiet.”

  “Your husband’s around?”

  “In the back.” She said. “Fixing, or trying to fix the dryer he broke. He’ll tell you Kassur is bad news. Says no predator ever changes. But between you and me, that is only because our girl’s got a star in her eye for him.”

  “MOM!” the teenager protested, cheeks flushing as she slammed the machine’s door. “You don’t have to tell everyone that!”

  Morty chuckled. “Does he come by often?”

  “Every week or so. The older dryers do work better than the newer models, but they eat belts like candy. “So he keeps them running.”

  Morty nodded, listening — but also watching. The way the woman had a knowing smile while she talked. The way the daughter stole a glance at the repair shop window through the glass door, then looked away quick.

  “What’s he like with customers?”

  “Patient,” the woman said, and that came without thinking. “Too patient, sometimes. People yell, he just nods. You’d think a man that big would bark back, but he just stands there. Like he’s apologizing for taking up space. I ought to know. My Charles is always finding some way to be a jerk to the guy.”

  That lingered with Morty.

  “This building has a second floor. Do you happen to live upstairs?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “Any chance you saw anything out of the ordinary yesterday?”

  “Not really. He was working late on a motorcycle project yesterday.” Marion’s daughter said as she got behind the counter with her mom.

  “And how do you know that?” Marion asked, looking at her daughter under raised eyebrows.

  “Well… I was in the living room watching that zombie movie, and you can see his shop window from there. He was working on his motorcycle until late.”

  “What time did you go to sleep?”

  “About 1 A.M.”

  “Is that why your grades aren’t that good this semester?”

  “Mooooom…” the teenager groaned.

  He closed his notebook and smiled, polite but genuine. “Thank you. That’s all I needed.”

  “You think he’s in trouble?” Marion asked, worry slipping into her voice.

  “Not for now. It doesn't sound like that” Morty said, tipping his head. “But we’ll see. Here is my card and you can try to reach me through the local DAIR’s unit.”

  Marion just nodded and stored the card on a book under her phone.

  The daughter called after him as he reached the door, voice small but curious. “You’re not… gonna arrest him, right?”

  Mortimer paused. “Does he look like someone who should be arrested?”

  The girl shook her head.

  “Then we’re in agreement,” he said softly, and stepped back into the rain.

  =================================

  The sign above the door read FERROS REPAIRS. The letters were painted with a newer coat than the rest of the sign, meaning that place had another kind of business before, and it got some make-up on top of its old bones instead of a full new build. It was carefully done.

  Morty paused at the curb, rain spattering his shoulders in slow, heavy drops. A single motorcycle sat under the awning — a heavy frame, a patchwork made from different brands, same for the sidecar. But the care and attention to detail were evident.

  He took a breath, smoothing his jacket. He’d talked to the other neighbors first. The stories were always the same: Quiet man. Keeps to himself. Works late. Pays on time. Doesn’t talk much

  But, now and then, there was that pause followed by the question: “But he’s a predator, isn’t he?”

  Morty had smiled politely, thanked them, and let the words roll off.

  Now he wanted to see for himself.

  He pushed the door open, and a small bell gave a reluctant ring. Warmer than the street, but only by a notch. Small strategic windows over a work bench would let out the scent of solder and oil. It had that thin electric tang of a workshop. It wasn’t unpleasant, just lived-in.

  Kassur had his back to him. Tall enough to make the ceiling lamps look too low, his posture careful, deliberate. He was talking to a woman clutching a brass ceiling fan, like it had personally betrayed her. The thing was a relic — twin propellers, copper housing dulled by years of cigar smoke and heat.

  “Just a second, I will talk to you in a moment,” the jackal said. He didn’t look at Morty; instead, he checked the time on the clock on the wall. Same face from the photo on the files, just a little older, wearing a faded apron, scar tugging the corner of his mouth when he spoke.

  “I got the time,” Morty replied and saw the jackal nod.

  The front of the shop wasn’t large, maybe the size of a two-car garage, but every inch had a purpose. Against the main wall stretched a broad workbench of scarred oak, its surface lined with rubber mats, soldering irons, spools of copper wire, and half-open toolboxes stacked like soldiers waiting for orders.

  Above it, rows of tools hung neatly organized; wrenches, pliers, torque drivers, all cleaned and spaced by size. Even the shadow of each tool had been outlined faintly on the backing board — a habit of someone who hated to misplace things.

  He kept an ear focused on the conversation.

  “You fixed this last month,” The woman, some sort of dog, snapped. “And now it’s dead again. I barely touched it.”

  Kassur turned the fan over, thumb brushing a scorch mark along the wiring hub. His hands were big enough to cup the whole motor, but he moved like a man afraid to bruise it.

  “You tied something to it,” he said quietly.

  The woman blinked. “Excuse me?”

  He angled the casing a little and squinted into the gaps.

  “You are just trying to find your way out of a bad job.”

  “Just give me a moment. If that was the case, I promise to not charge again.”

  “You better.” The older lady said, then started tapping the tip of her shoe on the floor.

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  Kassur cleaned a space on the bench behind his counter and then picked up the ancient fan with great care. Two adjustable lamps with long metal necks arched over the bench, their bulbs casting twin halos of sharp white light. Between them sat a magnifying lens on an articulated arm, the glass smudged near the rim from frequent use. The jackal positioned the light and lens to get a better view and then turned around, grabbing a long screwdriver with tiny tip. Unscrewing the plates from the fan with agile movements.

  “Ah-hah. Here is our culprit.”

  He put the plate down and, using a thin pair of tweezers, fished out fine red thread. It stuck, so he slowly began to manually spin the fans backward while keeping pressure. The thread snaking out reluctantly. It was a slow process, so Morty’s gaze wandered

  At the side, near the back of the room, a heavier presence loomed: a disassembled engine resting on a steel cart, its belly open, a tarp spread underneath to catch the oil drips. Wadded cloth had also been laid beneath the corners to keep the vibrations from scarring the floor. Next to it sat a battered toolbox and a pair of gloves, their fingertips stained with grease.

  A shelf near the wall held stacks of binders and technical manuals — thick ones, with cracked spines and dog-eared tabs. Appliance Repair, Home workshop & tool handy book, How it works & how to fix it, Motor Rewiring, Automotive Handbook, Care and repair of your large home appliances, Easy electrical repairs. But wedged between two engineering volumes, Morty spotted something unexpected: a pair of cookbooks. These two also had many bookmarks between their pages.

  That made him smile.

  “Cotton! Are you still tying a feral cat toy on the fan for your pets to chase? It got tangled on the gears and the whole thing stuck and locked the gyros. Give me a few minutes and I'll fix it up.”

  Her mouth opened, then closed. “Well, that shouldn’t happen twice.”

  Morty managed not to chuckle at that.

  “No,” he agreed, tone even. “It shouldn’t happen once.” He brushed a bit of lint from the bearing before setting the fan down. “Last time you let your pet grab it, and it crashed to the floor. This time it jammed. A ceiling fan cannot be a cat toy, Mrs Rodrigues. I can fix it, yeah. But next time it tangles, it'll short straight through the coil. Antique motors don’t like being modern entertainment.”

  She muttered something under her breath — not quite an apology, not quite a denial — and dug for her wallet. Kassur didn’t look up. He picked up a repair ticket and carbon paper, taking notes of the work done and costs, before sliding it for her to sign.

  When the woman left, Morty could hear her muttering something about “preds and scams”. She then slammed the door behind her hard enough to rattle the glass.

  Kassur waited for the silence to settle before exhaling through his nose and rubbed a rag over his hands — careful motions, deliberate, grounding. Then he turned toward Morty.

  And then he froze.

  “Oh,” he said, voice flat. Then a beat later, like an afterthought that cost him effort: “Shit.”

  His eyes flicked to the badge first — the little glint of metal pinned to the cat’s belt — and something inside him went very still. The shoulders that had looked broad a moment ago drew inward, the tail lowering behind him as if he were trying to take up less space in his own shop. Which was actually almost funny, considering he was about 7 foot 8 inches.

  “Good afternoon to you too,” Morty said.

  The jackal seemed to deflate before his eyes. Morty had seen that look before — not guilt, not defiance. Just a man bracing for the same dance he’d been forced to learn a hundred times. The look of someone who already knew how this story went and was tired of the repetition.

  Kassur’s eyes flicked up, amber catching in the lamp light, and then dropped again. The rag twisted between his fingers. When he finally spoke, his voice came low — rough-edged, steady, like gravel softened under water.

  “Sorry. You people don’t usually stop by unless something’s gone wrong.”

  There it was, just the weary truth. Tension sitting in the air, coiled between the two of them. Kassur rubbed the back of his head and then sat down at the tall bench next to the counter. His next breath was almost a surrender. His big frame seemed to lose a few inches.

  “Whatever this is,” he said quietly, “I’ll answer it. Just …” his jaw tightened slightly “... try not to scare the neighbors. They talk enough already.”

  “Fair enough. But I need to be honest and tell you that I visited them before I came here.”

  The jackal winced and looked to the floor. Ears flattening against his head.

  “Well, the shop’s still open,” he said. “So what can I do for you?”

  Morty stepped closer, his tone mild. “My name is Mortimer Roitman.”

  “Kassur Ferros. But you know that, I guess.”

  “Yes. This is about the incident at the corner of Louise and Walnut last night. You might’ve heard?”

  “Everyone heard,” Kassur said. “I did get some prank calls asking if I had been acting up. And some people telling me they’d rat me out to you guys.”

  Morty nodded slightly, eyes drifting around the shop as Kassur spoke.

  The order was impossible to miss — screws sorted by size, drawers labeled in clean block print, a filing cabinet packed so neatly it could have passed inspection. He could start being this organized himself. Well, this kind of precision told you more about a man than his words ever would.

  He moved through the checklist of questions.

  Where had Kassur been last night? What time did he lock up? When had he gone to bed?

  Routine questions, all of them — and Kassur answered in that same steady, unflinching way.

  Morty shifted tactics now and then, tweaking the details, changing the number of suspects, even dropping a false hint about one of them — Duarte, supposedly caught earlier that morning. Kassur only nodded, thoughtful, his expression unchanging.

  Totally calm.

  Totally oblivious.

  Totally innocent.

  “You always keep the shop this tidy?”

  “Tidy keeps me from losing things,” Kassur said. Then, softer, “Keeps me from… other kinds of losing.”

  Morty looked at him for a long moment. “That sounds like someone who’s had to start over a few times.”

  “Maybe,” he said, rag still twisting in his hands. “Or maybe it just sounds like someone tired.” Kassur’s jaw flexed, his eyes narrowing just a fraction. “You always talk this much before getting to the point?”

  Morty raised a brow. “I like to understand who I’m talking to.”

  “You could’ve just asked your questions. Would’ve saved you a speech.”

  Morty blinked, then gave a faint smile. “You do have a point. But I find people answer better when they don’t feel like they’re already on trial.”

  “I mean no disrespect,” Kassur added quickly, shoulders still tight. “It’s just — most people who walk in here wearing a badge already have the story written. You’re taking your time, and that makes me nervous.”

  Morty considered that. “Because you think I’m waiting to spring something onto you?”

  “Because…” his voice dropped, almost a whimper, "it's usually something around those lines. And this is weird. So I don’t know what to expect.”

  That made Morty pause, just for a heartbeat. He’d heard fear before — loud, frantic, bargaining fear. This wasn’t that. This was someone who had been broken before, someone ashamed.

  He didn’t push. Just nodded once. “I’m not here to play gotcha, Mr. Ferros.”

  “Right.”

  “I read your record. I also read your recent contracts. You’ve been doing legitimate work for years. Yes, you do have some neighbors with prejudice. But most of them said good things.”

  “Sure.”

  For a moment, neither spoke. The rain outside ticked softly against the glass. Morty’s pen hovered above his pad, then lowered.

  “You’re not what I expected,” Morty said.

  Kassur’s ear twitched, the smallest motion. “Disappointed?” He asked, his tone had a hint of dry amusement, enough to test the air between them.

  “Surprised,” Morty said.

  “Is that better or worse?”

  Morty gave a small shrug. “Hard to tell. Sometimes we have a hard start in life. And it sucks. It sucks so damn much. The world is unfair. But I see the progress your file tells. The enforcers were painting a good picture of you.”

  “Huh? What are you talking about?”

  “Backlog. These last few years. The enforcers that were sent because someone made a call about you. They had good things to say. Apparently, you even helped with a cruiser. You know, Mr. Ferros, people can be afraid of someone like you. It is not personal. Even enforcer predators face the same prejudice. It is like a loaded gun. The whole DAIR was built to fight rogue predators.”

  “You sure know how to cheer you up.”

  “I really don’t. But I can tell you this much. You seem to be doing everything right. You keep this up, and you probably will keep having more and more positive interactions with us. It is kind of our duty to show up, even if it is to just rule you out.”

  “So that is why you came here. Just the goodness of your heart?”

  Morty smiled at him. It was a teasing thing, like a provocation.

  “Look at me. I’m alone. I’m a regular cat. Do you think I’d have walked here like this if I didn’t believe you were someone safe?”

  The jackal’s hands stopped playing with the rag. For the first time, he looked at Morty without flinching. There was no warmth in his eyes, but something eased — a muscle unclenching that had been tight for too long.

  “It feels strange hearing that from your kind,” Kassur said, voice low. “Most just look at me and see a headline waiting to happen.”

  Morty’s tone softened, but he didn’t move closer. “Yes, and I’m sorry. But most will. But at least I’ll do my part and probably finish out this meeting with another positive note on your file. And, when an enforcer needs to check it and pays you a visit, they hopefully will also be on your side.”

  “Pfff. Right. Most of you are disgusted by people like me.”

  “Maybe most,” Morty said. “Not me.”

  That wasn’t how he meant to say it. Too quick, too certain. Kassur tilted his head, curious. The words hung there, and for a moment the only sound was the faint ticking of rain against the windows.

  “People can be idiots…” Morty started, measuring his words. “No one should be disgusted by a man trying his very best to improve,” Morty said. “You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve seen. Or how many people use their messed-up life as an excuse for their actions. You are not doing that.”

  “That was the weirdest compliment I’ve ever got.”

  “Well, it is the only kind I know how to make.”

  Kassur snorted. “Careful, Agent. People might think you’re trying to be nice to me.”

  “I’ll take the risk.” Morty’s tone was mild, but there was the ghost of a smile there. “Nice is free. Doesn’t even need a warrant.”

  That made the jackal laugh — short, warm, startled out of him before he could stop it. He covered it with a cough, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re a strange one.”

  “Professional hazard.”

  “Then what now? You write a note saying I didn’t eat anyone and move on to the next poor bastard on your list?”

  “Something like that,” Morty said, smiling faintly. “Except that the note’ll say the guy was polite, cooperative. And hopefully you behave. Someone will probably get afraid someday and make a call, and the next enforcer is going to look at your file, and these visits will be less and less stressful.”

  “Thank you.” The jackal had a tired smile on his face.

  Morty got up and searched the pockets of his jacket, picked one of his cards, and placed it on the counter. “If someone bothers you about last night — or about anything, really — call me. I’ll handle it.”

  Kassur picked up the card, turned it once between his fingers. “All right, Agent Mortimer.”

  “Morty.”

  Kassur nodded. “Morty, then. But only if you stop calling me Mr. Ferros.”

  “Deal. So, this was something. Hope I didn’t disturb your day too much.”

  “Hah. I’d be a happy man if it was always like this when you guys pay me a visit.”

  “Sure. If you don’t mind, I’ll wait here at your shop while I wait for a shuttle.”

  “Be my guest. I could offer you some coffee if you don’t mind it being horrible.”

  “Sure, but you need to work on your sales pitch.”

  While Kassur disappeared through the back door, Morty fished out his terminal and called the shuttle service. The dispatcher on the other end sounded half-asleep, mumbling about rain and demand overload. He gave the address, got a vague “thirty to forty minutes, maybe.”

  “What do you mean, maybe?”

  But they had hung up on him.

  Morty put the terminal away. He sighed, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and caught a new aroma cutting through the metallic tang of the shop.

  Coffee. Good coffee. Not the instant kind. And something else — warm, savory, buttery.

  He hesitated, then followed his nose.

  The door opened into a narrow corridor — spiral steel stairs on the left, a bathroom straight ahead, and a kitchen tucked to the right. It was a small but cozy space. It looked even smaller with Kassur inside, clearly not created originally to house a predator. The jackal’s broad shoulders bent slightly under the low light fixture, tail brushing the kitchen island as he moved. The counter space was narrow. One of the walls had several shelves filled with different spices, all labeled and organized. A dented moka pot hissed faintly on the stove. He hadn’t noticed Morty yet.

  Morty actually held a chuckle, remembering the last time he saw his friend Léo. That guy wouldn’t fit here at all. He leaned against the doorframe, watching the care in the jackal’s movements. Kassur wasn’t fumbling — he was precise, methodical. His hands dwarfed the little pot, but he turned the handle with the same tenderness he’d used on the broken fan earlier. He was humming.

  After a few seconds of staring, he noticed the source of the second smell was coming from the counter oven, its timer ticking quietly beside a stack of cooling racks.

  “You know,” Morty started and then chortled as Kassur yelped, jumping and bumping his head on the low ceiling. The moka pot nearly slipped from his hand. He caught it with a curse, then turned, ears flattened halfway.

  “Don’t sneak up on people, you’ll give me a heart attack.” He said, rubbing the top of his head.

  Morty snickered at the exasperation suddenly at Kassur’s face.

  “Not my intention, no. Sorry. But I’m amazed that you didn’t burst into the second floor.”

  Kassur just rolled his eyes. “What were you going to say?”

  “Just that for a guy who claims to make terrible coffee, you’re putting the rest of us to shame.”

  “There is nothing wrong with enjoying cooking.”

  “Never said there was.”

  “And it is not a ‘predator splurging on food’ thing.”

  Morty looked at him. “Kassur. I’m giving you a compliment. Take it. I will try not to be sneaky. ”

  “Yeah, well, next time, stomp a little.” Kassur set the pot down and muttered something under his breath that sounded like damn cat reflexes.

  Morty hid a grin and nodded toward the oven. “Oh? Next time?”

  Kassur’s tail flicked once, caught between annoyance and embarrassment. “I am baking some bread. Sort of.”

  “‘Sort of’?”

  “Yeah,” he clarified, as if that explained too much. “I make batches and freeze them. Easier that way.”

  Morty stepped closer, resting an elbow against the counter. “So you’re a repairman, mechanic, and baker. What happened — run out of hobbies that involve wrenches?”

  Kassur shot him a sideways look. “Cooking’s not a hobby. It’s just… routine. Keeps my hands busy.”

  “Busy hands, quiet head,” Morty said quietly.

  The jackal gave a soft grunt. “Something like that. Hey, are you calling me stupid?”

  “That would be a stupid move from me, considering the size difference and enclosed space. But no. People should have stuff in their life they can anchor themselves. I have my hobbies, and sometimes it does feel like if I lose them, then I might lose myself.”

  “Are you going to tell me about your tragic childhood now?” Kassur was about to tease him more, but he stopped because of an expression he saw on Morty’s face.

  “Not today. Are you going to tell me yours?”

  “You read my file. You know it.”

  “I know some. But a file is never complete. It won’t tell me what you felt or everything that you went through. I do have a file with my name. My old name. I changed it when I was a teenager. I read it once. And I can tell you, they are never complete.”

  It got awkward and Kassur checked on the small oven.

  “Life never stops and waits for any of us to get ready for it. There was a time I got by throwing myself into everything like a maniac, because if I stopped moving, I knew that I was going to completely lose it.”

  “Sometimes I think that I’m one bad day from cracking like an egg. So, work helps. Cooking is relaxing.”

  “I saw that.”

  He poured the coffee into two mismatched mugs — one cracked, one clean — and handed the better one to Morty without hesitation. The smell alone was enough to make the cat blink. It was strong but balanced, with a sweetness he didn’t expect.

  Morty took a sip, then another. “You’re a liar.”

  Kassur blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “You said your coffee was terrible. It’s not. Fuck, I’ll stop by while I’m in the neighborhood to get another cup.”

  That earned a soft huff of laughter. Kassur leaned back against the counter, arms folded loosely across his chest. “Guess I’m losing my touch.”

  The oven beeped, sharp and sudden. He turned to pull the tray out, steam clouding up between them. The bread — small, round pieces, brushed with oil — came out golden and fragrant. Morty’s stomach growled before he could stop it.

  Kassur glanced at him, smirking just slightly. “Haven’t eaten, huh?”

  “Been running since morning.”

  “Sit,” the jackal said simply. “It’s not much, but it’s better than whatever they serve at precinct cafeterias.”

  Morty hesitated — because he should’ve. He was still technically on duty, and he’d just met this man. But he sat. The chair creaked a little, and for a second the kitchen felt too small for two grown men to fit in it.

  “You’d be in for a surprise. The one here at the Eastern Borough is really good. Central has some good options, but they don’t have a large stock, so you do need to snipe to grab something good.”

  “I see,” Kassur said as he plated one of the small rounded breads and set it in front of Morty. “It’s filled with spiced lentils. Don’t ask, it’s a long story.”

  Morty picked it up, careful not to burn his fingers. The crust gave under his bite — crisp on the outside, soft inside, perfectly seasoned. He looked up at Kassur. “You’re not making this easier, you know.”

  Kassur frowned. “Making what easier?”

  “Having to go back outside once when my ride gets here.”

  “Oh?”

  Morty stared at the bread in his hands. “Forget it,” he muttered. “You’re all right, Kassur.”

  Kassur raised his cup. “Dangerous thing to say about a predator, officer.”

  “I said all right, not harmless.”

  “You are like a crazy person?”

  “Some will agree with you. But yeah. It is a thing that I do. Usually poking people can be fun, but it usually lets me peek under their social mask. And I can’t really hold myself now and again. Pair that with 3 hours of sleep followed by a 12-hour shift and you get what you have in front of you.”

  “Doesn’t sound healthy.”

  “No. No, it doesn’t. But hey, it led me to some good damn coffee.”

  Morty took another bite of his bread, and then paused, looking at it and then at Kassur. The broad shoulders and muscles under the clothing but easy to spot. Kassur froze under the weight of that look, caught somewhere between self-conscious and curious. His tail gave a small, betraying flick before he stilled it again.

  “…That's an interrogation technique,” he asked, voice lower now, “or are you just checking me out?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  That made Kassur almost stumble.

  “Hey, don’t take it the wrong way. But you are a predator. And your body is fit and in shape. You are well fed. No, please, I’m really not accusing you of anything. I might actually need your help with something. Do you raise your own food?”

  “No… I actually thought about it, but I really don’t have the space.” Kassur said, looking away.

  “Ok. So, where do you buy it?”

  He sighed and slumped. “I’ll bring my recipes.”

  Morty reached across the table and grabbed his hand. The Jackal stood there.

  “We are looking for a guy on the run. A guy who was either a rogue to begin with, or who just took off on a run without his food. I’m not from this borough, and meat markets change around quite often. You know… the ones that avoid taxes and forms and what not. Again, this is not an ambush.

  Kassur raised his gaze and bore Morty’s gaze. “Okay,” he said. And squeezed Morty’s hand. The cat smiled and didn’t pull away.