When a Hitman Gets Haunted by a Ghost
Chapter 83: Quiet Between Storms

Chapter 83: Quiet Between Storms

Gabriel woke up in the passenger seat, groggy and disoriented. The familiar sight of his apartment building loomed outside, windows reflecting the bright sunlight.

The car was off. The keys were in his lap.

He rubbed his forehead, scanning the interior for any clues. Had he driven here himself? No way. If he’d tried, he would have woken up wrapped around a street sign.

A faint chill ran down his spine. Did Hale take over after all? However, the air inside the car was human-only. No lingering chill of the dead.

A flicker of movement caught his eye. His breath hitched.

Through the windshield, trudging off to a bus stop, was Kant. Hands in his pockets, shoulders raised against the cold wind.

Gabriel blinked, his heart stuttering against his ribs. He desperately tried to make himself somewhat presentable, smoothing his hair and wiping the dirt off his jacket.

"Wait, wait, wait."

Kant’s steps faltered as if he’d heard it. He looked back. But Gabriel dropped his head back against the seat, pretending to be asleep.

No, how could he go out to meet Kant like this? It was too humiliating. He looked like he’d been chased by wolves. Not to mention the way he acted earlier.

Gabriel grimaced in his pretense of sleep, fingers curling over his knee.

Why did he have to crawl out of the bushes exactly then? And why did he have to shout profanities, venting to the trees? Only to run away when he noticed Kant. But what else was he supposed to do? Hunter was there, and frankly, Gabriel was intimidated by him.

God, he hoped Kant wasn’t too amused by that.

In his commitment to the bit, Gabriel dozed off again for what felt like twenty minutes.

He yawned, pushing up higher in the seat before getting up with a sigh and dragging himself to his apartment.

The shower was heaven, scalding away the grime, the sweat, the basement smell that had clung to his skin like a curse.

Gabriel crawled into the bed, his dripping hair leaving damp spots as he went. Finally, he was wrapped in warmth. Safe, in silence.

Yet, even after curling up and squishing his face into the pillow to hear the soft crunch of cotton, sleep eluded him.

His mind was at fault—rolling a movie of "everything that went wrong" with the main event of Kant watching him have an absolute meltdown while hanging off a tree like an insane person.

Gabriel groaned, flipping onto his stomach. At least he could hide in his home and rest.

And then, like a delayed slap to the face: work.

His eyes snapped open. "Oh, shit!"

He groped blindly for his phone, cursing as he nearly sent it flying off the nightstand. The screen was too bright in the tightly curtained bedroom, but he forced himself to squint past it as he scrolled for the office number.

The call rang twice before someone picked up.

"Hey, yeah, it’s Gabriel," he rasped, voice on the verge of betraying him. "I—I’m not feeling great. I’m going to have to take a sick day."

A pause.

"Again?" The receptionist sounded unimpressed.

"Y—" his voice cracked, and he cleared his throat before trying again. "Yes. Sorry." At least that made it sound more believable.

"...Fine. Rest up."

"Thanks," he muttered, pulling the phone away from his ear before the call had fully ended.

He turned the sound off and tossed the device onto the mattress, then exhaled, pressing a hand over his eyes.

"Living is too embarrassing..."

. . .

After Gabriel managed to fall asleep, he was out for ages, caught in the type of sleep that wasn’t peaceful so much as a coma.

When his consciousness finally clawed its way back to the surface, he tried to push it back down, stirring lazily under the sheets. But at some point, he had to get up. It was already the next day.

He slumped up, the air cold against his sweaty shirt.

His limbs were stiff, barely remembering movement as he staggered to the bathroom. His mouth tasted like death, and his hair—oh, his hair—was an absolute disaster.

"What even is this," he rasped at his reflection in the mirror, running a hand through his hair, grimacing when his fingers met tangles.

He gave up halfway, splashing his face with cold water. "Whatever. I’m not going anywhere today."

Making his way to the kitchen, he shuffled through the motions of making food. Something warm. Filling. Didn’t matter what, as long as it was edible. He sat at the table, eating in peace.

That’s when he noticed it.

No complaints. No judgmental grumbles. No flickers of movement in the corners of his vision.

No Hale.

Gabriel tilted his head slightly, fork pausing halfway to his mouth.

Weird.

But he wasn’t about to question it. Not when the quiet felt so nice, zero interruptions.

Afterward, he plopped down onto the couch, throwing a blanket over his legs. A movie played in the background while he made himself hot chocolate, the scent of cocoa filling the air.

Gabriel took a sip of the sweet drink, warmth sliding down his throat. "Ah, now that’s what I’m talking about."

He exhaled and sank deeper into the cushions, cradling his mug. What else could he possibly need?

"Y’know what?" he muttered, patting his couch. "After having a shitty time, being alone is great. I don’t even feel like seeing or talking to anyone."

That small, annoying voice in his head piped up: "Then why are you talking to your furniture?"

Gabriel groaned, rolling his eyes as he settled further into the couch, wrapping the blanket tighter around himself.

"I’m not lonely, I’m peaceful. There’s a difference," he muttered, taking an angry sip of his hot chocolate. "I can live perfectly happy on my own too."

. . .

Kant stepped out of the chicken shop, tucking his hands into his pockets as the cold air pressed in around him. He exhaled, watching his breath turn to mist in the air. The weather wasn’t getting any warmer.

The streets were quieter than usual, the dull hum of passing cars blending with the occasional bursts of laughter from a group of teenagers trailing down the block to the chicken shop.

The smell of fried chicken still clung to his clothes. It was almost comforting, something familiar. Something that never changed.

Was that all he had? Oil, salt and blood? Fried chicken and a humble collection of murder weapons? That was depressing.

He took a few steps down the sidewalk, head down. Damn, what was this, a mid-life crisis?

How could a man move through thirty years of life, getting by somehow, only to suddenly look up and yearn for the stars?

Kant dragged a hand down his face. He should have written that line down and handed it over to Hunter. Maybe in a year or two, they’d have a full volume of sappy poems. Call it The Hitman Diaries or some other bullshit.

Before he knew it, he’d walked all the way to his old neighborhood. It was in a worse state than when he’d lived there.

Kant mindlessly passed his old house with its half-crumbled, sunken roof, left to rot.

A block down was the pub his father used to frequent. The light was on, chatter coming from inside—it was still running.

Kant had never gone inside before, not into this specific pub.

What had been so special about it that his old man couldn’t stay away until the day he kicked the bucket?

After lingering outside aimlessly, Kant pushed the door open and went in.

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