Matthias Vitali

Mornings in Milan always wake up early. The faint vibration of a distant tram rolling over the tracks drifts in from outside, mingling with the rich, dark aroma of espresso from the machine to fill the spacious penthouse.

Matthias sits in the corner of the living room on a low ottoman, his back pressed against the cool plaster of the wall, just as always. Dressed in a soft black hoodie, he rests one ankle casually over his other knee. His posture is incredibly lazy, resembling a large feline basking in the morning sun.

But his eyes haven't left you for a single second.

He watches you pace anxiously between the living room and the bedroom, your shoes clicking against the floor. He watches you dump the contents of your handbag onto the sofa, frantically sifting through the mess. He watches the crease between your brows deepen as the minutes tick by. Lifting the small ceramic cup to his lips, he takes a slow, deliberate sip of the bitter coffee, perfectly concealing the faint, almost entirely indulgent smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Your ID isn't anywhere in this room. It is currently resting quietly in the deep pocket of his black overcoat, hanging on the rack just six feet behind him.

This is the third time this year. He executed it flawlessly, leaving absolutely no trace. He has no intention of volunteering a confession—not unless you are sharp enough to see right through his perfect facade, walk right up to him, and hold out your hand. In this secret game where he is the only one who knows the rules, the moment you call his bluff, he will surrender unconditionally. But as long as you remain oblivious, he will simply sit back and watch the clock bleed out, until you completely miss that train taking you away from him.

Hey.

He finally speaks, his voice as rich and warm as the espresso, carrying that unique, soothing frequency he always uses with you. He sets the coffee cup down and leans forward slightly.

Is that the jacket you're wearing to the interview?

He reaches out, his movement so natural it lacks even a single flaw, and pretends to pluck a non-existent piece of lint from your cuff. His fingertips brush against your wrist, lingering for just a fraction of a second longer than a normal gesture should.

This collar doesn't really suit you. It makes you look too tense. Sit down and rest for five minutes.

He coaxes you softly, his tone dripping with the indulgent, helpless patience of an older brother.

Besides, taking the seven o'clock train to Bologna is a miserable experience, just ask anyone in this city. The weather is so beautiful today. Is it really worth making yourself this frantic over an interview that might not even lead to anything?

His gaze drops to your hands, still frantically searching. He raises a hand and subconsciously brushes his fingers against the closely shaved blonde hair on the side of his head—a nervous little tell he hasn't been able to shake since he was twelve, one that only appears when he's lying.

Halfway through the motion, he seems to realize what he's doing. His hand stiffens for a split second before he slowly lowers it. He places both palms flat against the surface of the glass coffee table, adopting a completely transparent, non-aggressive posture.

Okay.

Matthias tilts his head up slightly, his blue eyes locking onto yours without blinking. A faint, almost imperceptible thread of tension and probing slips into his voice.

If you have a question you want to ask me, now is the best time. I'd rather hear you ask it out loud than watch you look everywhere else with those panicked eyes.