Chapter Text
The smell of roasted beans hits him the moment he pushes the door open. The bell above the entrance jingles. The place is warm, a contrast to the cold night outside. Soft lights spill across polished wooden tables. Low music hums from speakers tucked in corners. It's said to be a weapon dealer’s den disguised as a coffee shop. He had laughed when he first heard it.
But now, stepping inside, he understands the genius of it. Hidden in plain sight. No one in here looks remotely dangerous. Just students finishing assignments, couples sharing cake slices, office workers stirring their drinks slowly as if savoring the last few minutes before going home.
He sweeps the shop twice with his eyes, instinctively scanning for threats. Nothing. Not even a flicker of suspicion directed at him.
For a moment he wonders if he truly came to the right place.
But no, he memorized the coordinates. his mind has never failed him in that regard. This is exactly where the underground points their clients toward. A quiet corner cafe, only a street away from the loudest, wildest part of the nightlife district. Too obvious. Too exposed. Yet here it stands, blending into the city like it belongs.
He exhales through his nose and approaches the counter.
It’s almost a quarter to 12. They’re close to closing. He can tell by the dimming lights, the empty pastry display, the tired barista wiping down the espresso machine. Except—when the barista looks up, he doesn’t look tired at all.
Warm eyes—fox-like, sharp—but softened by long lashes and a face he doesn’t expect to see in a place like this. Beautiful, not in an intimidating way, but in a way that snags his breath for a split second. A neat apron, fingers stained with coffee grounds. But the most striking thing about him is the ridiculous bowl cut he had.
He should look like prey. Instead, he radiates something else. Something controlled. Something cold beneath the warmth.
“Hello, sir,” he says, voice gentle. “What can I do for you?”
He clears his throat, not sure how to phrase his request underneath the cozy atmosphere. “I’m here to pick up my order.”
The barista tilts his head. His expression stays polite, perfectly neutral, except for the faint glint in his eyes.
“Oh? And what name is it under?”
“Number 1.”
For a heartbeat the barista goes still, blinking once. Then— A slow smile curls across his lips, edged with knowing amusement.
“Ah,” he breathes, a quiet chuckle slipping free. “I see.”
The way he laughed shouldn’t make Number 1’s pulse jump—but it does.
“Unfortunately,” he continues, leaning just a little closer across the counter, “you’re early.” His gaze flicks toward the normal customers still sitting around. “As you can see, the cafe is still open. I can only attend to your other request once my other patrons leave.”
Number 1 restrained the urge to roll his eyes. Because, of course, things like this won't usually go how he wants to. Which is also the case with his previous dealer.
The barista straightens. “In the meantime,” he murmurs, “would you like a cup of coffee? It's on the house. ”
Number 1 groaned. He didn’t want to linger more than necessary. Every dealer had a different approach in dealing with their clients, but most have one thing in common, they never let them overstay. They exchange items and that's the end of it, until their next orders arrived.
And yet, this odd bowlcut decided to let him stay on his turf, far longer than he'd liked. It's dangerous, but then again, he could handle whatever comes to him.
He finally sighed. “Sure.” He barely muttered it out. Especially when everything about this place is throwing him off. He’s not used to this cozy vibes around.
The barista’s smirk turns into something soft and satisfied.
“Right this way,” he says, gesturing to a seat by the counter.
Number 1 sits, feeling out of place among pastel mugs and handwritten menu boards. He’s killed men in alleyways narrower than this cafe. He’s slept on floors harder than these chairs. He has never sat in a coffee shop of his own free will. Not even to discuss details with his clients.
Energy drinks. Alcohol. That’s his domain. Not… coffee. “Say, do you usually offer to treat your clients or you just got captivated by me?”
He said as a joke but he can't believe the fucking bowl cut actually snickers.
“Don't flatter yourself too much. I didn't usually get clients coming in early. But I do give you a plus point for having a more than average face.”
“That's too much word for saying I'm good looking. Better than a damn bowlcut. Did you lose a bet or something because it's downright offensive.”
“Well, my patrons called it cute. Don't you think so?”
Number 1 huffs. Because nope, it doesn't. And honestly speaking, what a waste of a pretty face. He caught himself thinking and immediately backtrack. Who the hell would think that on their first meeting?
The barista chose to not comment, instead working with practiced motions—tapping grounds, steam hissing from the machine. The scent grows richer, darker, wrapping around him like velvet. And Number 1 just watched.
“I was surprised when I got your order,” the barista says quietly, mindful of the others. “It’s not every day someone with your reputation drops by.”
Number 1 raises an eyebrow, not bothering by the comment. Of course his new dealer would somehow learn something about him. Just as his previous ones. After all, he was considered famous in the industry. “My previous dealer was arrested. Your establishment was recommended.” he said as a matter of fact.
“I’m flattered,” the barista says. “I do try to maintain good relationships with my clients. Especially if they happen to catch my eyes.” his eyes glinting slightly, his lips curved upwards as he mused.
Number 1 frowned, not really sure what he meant with that statement. But he did notice the way his pulse jumped slightly. What the fuck was that?
The barista places the cup in front of him, the surface of the black coffee rippling faintly.
“Here you go. Enjoy it,” he says.“Let me finish closing up, and then… we can get back to business.”
“Just to let you know, I don't like coffee.”
“After I made you one? I guess your reputation holds true on how heartless you are.” The barista chuckled as he wipes his hand on his apron, preparing to close.
Number 1 rolls his eyes. Fine. He picks up the cup and takes a sip, and immediately grimaces as the bitterness slams into his tongue.
The barista laughed, clearly entertained. He slides sugar packets and creamers toward him with a teasing tilt of his head.
“Here,” he winked. “I’ll let you fix it to your taste.”
And he left him. “Fucking bowl cut.” He breathed out the word. No one has ever had the audacity to mess with him and yet this motherfucker made it so effortlessly. It throws him off.
The minutes tick by slowly as the last customers prepare to leave. Number 1 pretends to be focused on his phone—scrolling through the same screen twice, three times, not actually processing any of it—because looking anywhere else feels dangerous.
Mostly because his eyes keep drifting to him. He sighed deeply. A man who manages to capture his interest is usually dangerous after all, in more ways than one.
And yet, he looks harmless too. The barista moves through the shop with grace, wiping tables, stacking plates, gently reminding lingering patrons that they’ll be closing soon. His voice is soft but persuasive.
He handles each person differently, warm here, reserved there, professional with some, teasing with others. As if he sees people in layers and chooses the perfect tone to peel back just enough.
Number 1 realizes, halfway through stirring cream into his coffee, that this man is not just a good barista. He’s a master of masks. He had one with him too.
Every customer leaves smiling. And Number 1 can’t look away.
Ridiculous.
He shouldn’t be watching this intently. He’s here for a transaction, not a performance.
“You’ll burn a hole through me if you keep staring like that.”
Number 1 freezes.
The barista glances over his shoulder, lips curled into something slow and wickedly amused. “If you’re this captivated by the way I wipe tables, I can’t wait to see how you react when I’m actually doing something impressive.”
Heat pricks at Number 1’s ears. He lifts his cup calmly, sipping the now-sweetened drink. “You seem confident,” he says coolly.
“Only when someone interesting is watching,” the barista replies.
The air shifts slightly.
His pulse jumped again. And Number 1 realised it's starting to get fairly annoying. And he's not one to back off from a fight.
“Oh yeah, we'll see about that, bowlcut.” He could see the barista’s smile twitching slightly at the comment. Though, to his dismay, he still managed to maintain his composure and offered no retaliation.
And then the last couple leaves, waving goodbye. The bell chimes softly as the door closes behind them. The barista locks the entrance, dims the lights, and flips the sign.
Closed.
“Thank you for waiting,” the barista finally said. “We’re officially closed.”
“Took you long enough. I'm starting to get fairly bored.”
“You don't seem like it when you're staring at me.”
Number 1 grunted. “Whatever, just give me my order.”
“Geez. So impatient. Got a gig today?” the barista observed, he didn't seem to be urgent, if he could still absentmindedly pouring creamers into his coffee.
Number 1 shook his head. “None of your business.”
“Fair enough.”
The barista untied his apron with a fluid motion, letting the cloth slide off his shoulders before folding it neatly over a nearby chair. Without it, the man looked different—less harmless barista, more… something else. The fitted black shirt clung to him in a way that made Number 1’s eyes linger longer than intended.
“Shall we?” the barista asks, gesturing to a hidden door behind the counter that doesn’t lead to the staff room.
Number 1 shrugged as he lifted himself from his chair. The air shifted immediately once they descended the stairs. It was cooler here, metallic, carrying the faint scent of oil and polished steel. Shelves lined with weapons gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights, workbenches were immaculately arranged, and reinforced walls enclosed the space.
And suddenly, he felt… grounded. This was familiar. This was the world he had always understood. Not the coziness upstairs.
The barista moved with the same ease, switching from friendly barista to precise, calculating craftsman without a hint of hesitation. “You ordered a custom piece” he said, walking toward a table covered by a black cloth. “A bit outside the standard catalog.”
He lifted the cloth, and Number 1’s eyes swept over the weapon beneath. He only needs one look to know.
It's perfect. Flawless, even.
“You work fast,” Number 1 remarked, impressed with the craftsmanship.
“You paid for urgent processing,” the barista replied with a small smile, glancing at him from the corner of his eye. “And… I had the parts ready. Let’s just say I had a feeling you’d show up sooner rather than later.”
Number 1 crossed his arms, studying him. “Are you predicting my schedule now?”
“I assume so,” the barista said smoothly, stepping closer. “You are… a celebrity in this industry, after all.” His eyes lingered for a moment before his lips curled ever so slightly. “Besides, it was an interesting request, so I took extra care with it. And maybe a little bit of fun.”
Their eyes met, and for a second, the air between them seemed to thrum.
The barista tilted his head, lips quirking in amusement. “Also, you’ve been staring at me for quite some time, so I assumed you’d want the work done quickly.” He tapped the side of the gun, a slow, teasing motion. “I’m flattering, aren’t I?”
Number 1 looked at him, the corner of his mouth betrayed the tiniest twitch, almost letting out an amused chuckle. “Sure.”
“And you don’t deny it,” the barista replied, closing the distance by half a step, playful warmth in his gaze.
Number 1 felt his pulse tick faster—not because he was nervous, but because this was… interesting. This man is interesting, unlike anyone he had ever seen. Balancing himself between the light and the darkness of the world. He hides himself behind masks, just as much as anyone he knows in the industry, but there’s also honesty that he couldn’t quite place, and his own curiosity pricked, despite only meeting him for the first time that day.
“Your product is good,” he finally said, calm. “That’s why I looked.”
“Mm. Just that?” the barista replied, voice soft, teasing.”You didn't even see it yet when we're upstairs.”
“I believe I'm not the only celebrity in this business. I just never thought one of them would be as charming as you.” Number 1 said.
The barista let out a quiet, amused breath, the barest hint of a chuckle escaping. “So you can flirt. I thought you're tryna pick a fight with me when you call me by that name.”
Number 1 just smirked slightly, enjoying the weird back and forth they had. “I wasn’t aware that’s what I was doing,” He answered evenly, eyes on the weapon but still aware of the barista’s presence. “And I'm just calling you based on your looks, bowlcut.”
“You weren’t aware,” the barista repeated, narrowing his eyes slightly in mock disbelief. “Right.”
They went over the specifications—range, recoil, grip adjustments. And yet, beneath each word, each motion, there was a current of tension neither of them acknowledged aloud.
“Wanna try it? I have a room at the back for weapon testing. I can adjust—”
“No need. I don't want to linger here more than I should. I'll try it on the job.”
Number 1 could swear he see the way the barista's demeanour seemingly deflated but kept his composure in check.
By the time everything was settled, the basement felt warmer than the shop upstairs, even with its steel and metal. Number 1 slid the weapon into his bag with a silent nod. “Good work,” he said.
“Mm. You’re welcome,” the barista replied, a soft smile touching his lips.
They climbed the stairs together. At the top, the barista opened the door, holding it for Number 1. The crisp night air rushed in, carrying the faint scent of the city.
“Come again,” the barista said lightly, leaning casually against the frame. His voice softened. “For business… or for coffee. I don’t particularly care which. I've taken quite a liking to you.”
Number 1 paused at the threshold, letting his eyes meet the barista’s. He had been curious all evening, drawn in too despite himself. He let his guard relax—just a bit. “What's your name?” he said, keeping his tone neutral even as a flicker of anticipation tickled his chest.
The barista’s lips quirked. “Soushiro,” he said. “And yours?”
Number 1 remained composed. “You can just call me Number 1.”
Soushiro raised an eyebrow. “That’s a title, not a name,” he said, and his tone carried a teasing edge, playful but probing, like he was testing how far he could push.
Number 1’s jaw scoffed. “It’s all you need for now,” he replied—but beneath it, a hint of warmth threaded through, one he wouldn’t admit aloud. A foreign feeling he’s yet to understand. “For now.” He added
Soushiro clicked his tongue softly, feigning disappointment. “Shame. I was hoping you’d be generous. Guess secrecy comes with the job”
Number 1 allowed a very small, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth. “You’ll have to earn the rest, bowlcut.” he said.
“After I've given you my name and you still decided to call that stupid name.”
“I've taken quite a liking to that nickname. It's cute.” And number 1 thought to himself. How odd, he never would've used that, especially those connected to his line of works.
A soft laugh escaped Soushiro before he could stop it. “Guess that means… you’ll be coming again,” he said, voice lighter. “Good. I’d hate for this to be our only meeting.”
Number 1’s gaze softened .“You’ll see me,” he replied, tone steady, measured, but the weight behind it made Soushiro’s chest flutter unexpectedly.
They lingered a bit longer, caught in that quiet moment, before Number 1 finally turned into the night. Soushiro watched him go, a small smile tugging at his lips and just for a second, the mask he wore so confidently faltered, leaving only a trace of something real and unguarded.
XX
A month had passed since he placed the order. A month since he’d first met that strange, intriguing barista in a dimly lit café that really shouldn’t have been memorable—and yet was.
Number 1 had replayed that first encounter more times than he cared to admit. Ridiculous. He wasn’t the type to cling to faces, not when faces blurred together.
But the gun Soushiro made for him wasn’t something he could easily forget.
His job had gone frighteningly smooth. The weapon slid into his palm without resistance, every shot landing with instinctive precision. It felt less like wielding a tool and more like moving another part of his own body. And every time he used it, his mind flicked—annoyingly—back to the café. Back to the barista’s fox-like eyes watching him with quiet amusement.
He scoffed at the memory. What the hell was wrong with him?
Connections were leverage. Leverage made you weak. Weakness was fatal.
And yet… Soushiro lingered.
Soushiro. That was the name he’d given. Whether real or not, Number 1 hadn’t cared before. Now he found himself wanting to know. A little too much.He shook his head at the absurdity of it.He’s just a gun dealer. A useful one, yes, but still—just that.
At least, that’s what he told himself.
Right up until his feet took him back to the café. In broad daylight.
He hadn't meant to go there. He was just walking around, looking into some new games being sold nearby and wanting to have a quick lunch.
He froze at the entrance, fingers curling at his sides as he stared through the glass.
…What the hell was he doing here?
He didn’t even like coffee.
Still, he pushed the door open. It's just lunch. Even though he usually finds himself with takeouts and convenience store bentos.
The lunchtime crowd hit him—noise, warmth, the smell of pastries, chattering customers. People who lived entirely in the light, oblivious to darker worlds just a street away.
He slid into a booth, clearly out of place. The kind of place he had no business being.
And yet—
He silently watched them.The workers shouting orders, the clatter of plates. That warm sort of chaos he’d never experienced, not truly. Not like this.
His gaze drifted to the counter.
Soushiro stood among the flurry of activity, sleeves rolled up, moving with an easy rhythm as he poured drinks and handed off plates. His hair was a mess from the rush, but he looked…natural. Like this was his real world, and the basement below it was the falsity.
Something in Number 1’s stomach twisted.
The rush faded quickly. Customers cleared out, seats emptied, staff finally breathing again.
Number 1 realized belatedly that he hadn’t ordered a single thing. He reached for the menu, flipping it open—
“Good to see you again.”
The voice made him look up.
Soushiro stood beside the table, holding a steaming cup. He set it down gently in front of him.
“I haven’t ordered yet,” Number 1 said.
“It’s complimentary,” Soushiro replied with a shrug. “I added a little more sugar this time. Thought you might appreciate it.”
Before Number 1 could respond, Soushiro slid into the seat opposite him—uninvited, but not unwelcome.
Number 1 raised a brow. “Shouldn’t you be getting to work?”
“I am working,” Soushiro said, leaning forward with infuriating ease. “There’s a customer in front of me, isn’t there?”
A flicker of heat crept up Number 1’s neck. His eyebrows raised in question. He fought it down, refusing to give Soushiro the satisfaction.
“I don’t recall asking for company. Especially not from a certain bowlcut.”
“Good thing I wasn’t waiting for permission.”
Number 1 held his stare. Soushiro held his right back, eyes bright with quiet challenge. “You're quite the flirt, huh? How many have you seduced with that mouth of yours?”
“I don't know. Are you one?”
“Keep talking like that and I might think you have the hots for me. Who else remembered a guy he just met a month ago anyway?”
Soushiro just laughed. “How confident. I did say you're famous.” He paused. “But.. I'm not saying you're wrong. You do pique my interest.”
“Then you're the first. I can't recall anyone who wants to associate with me.” As if he didn't want to escalate the conversation, Number 1’s gaze shifted back towards the menu. Something to distract himself with. He cleared his throat. “Anyways, what would you recommend?”
“Hm.” Soushiro tapped a finger against his chin in thought, but he didn't bother to press over the sudden shift. “The pasta here is good, but our pastries are better. We pride ourselves on them, actually. And something tells me you might surprise yourself and like it.”
“Yeah, whatever you say” Number 1 said quickly, waving the menu off.
Soushiro left with a small, knowing smile.
Number 1 pretended not to see it.
It took a few minutes before Soushiro came back, sliding into the seat in front of him once more.
“You really don't have anything to do, do you?”
“Technically it's my break time. The lunch crowd is done so we're not that busy.” Soushiro smiled innocently. “Though I do have questions for you. Do you mind?”
“What?” Number 1’s ears perked, curiosity despite himself.
“Most of my ‘clients tend to not associate themselves further once they received their orders. But you came here. In the day.”
“I'm just here for a quick lunch. And you do realise I have a life.”
“Yes, I'm aware. A gamer. What a surprise.” Soushiro chuckled lightly, his eyes lightly darted past
Number 1 followed his gaze and he realized the game's casing he bought earlier peaked out from his bag. He shrugged, not caring if he'd been caught.
Just then, a bell rang signaling a finished order. Soushiro rose from his seat to claim it.
Number 1 took a sigh of relief. He didn't really like being prodded like this. He turned toward the window instead. Daylight spilled through the glass, bright and warm, brushing against his face. He had almost forgotten what the sun felt like.
His work kept him shrouded in the comfort of darkness, living between dusk and dawn. Daytime to him was for sleeping, not for wandering into cafes like some normal civilian looking for pastries.
Yet here he was, sitting under a beam of sunlight, his pink eyes reflecting it back in soft hues.
He blinked at the unfamiliar warmth on his cheek.
“Is that the infamous Kaiju eyes?”
Number 1 stiffened. He hadn’t even heard Soushiro return. The coziness had made his senses dulled and fuck, he can't have that happened.
Soushiro stood there with a plate in hand, looking entirely too fascinated for someone talking about a well-known underground nickname. “You can’t really see it when it’s dark,” he continued, setting the food down gently. “But under the light—it’s really beautiful.”
Number 1 snapped his gaze toward him in disbelief.
Beautiful?
That was… new.
It wasn’t technically a Kaiju per se, but the name had stuck in the underworld due to its unnatural look. Eyes that saw too well. It’s different.. and being different means you are not part of the ‘normal’. He was shunned. Mocked. Monster. Demon child, any name that shouldn't be uttered towards a kid.
Yet, he embraced it. Claiming its name and thriving in it.
“Beautiful?” he repeated, voice flat, guarded.
Soushiro just smiled. “Why not?”
Number 1’s jaw tightened at the casual sincerity. He couldn’t decide if it irritated him or… something else. His shoulders grew stiff, tension crawling up like armor. Soushiro clearly noticed—his expression gentled, losing the teasing edge.
But he didn’t push.
“Enjoy your food,” he said instead, stepping back. “I’ll be around if you need anything.”
He moved off to tend to another customer, giving Number 1 space.
Number 1 didn’t touch the pastry.
He didn’t know how to respond to someone calling a part of him beautiful. A part people only see with fear and disgust. He didn’t know what to do with the warmth in his chest or the mild sting in his throat. Stupid. All of it was stupid.
He stood up abruptly, slipping cash onto the table—far more than the meal cost—before turning on his heel and heading toward the door.
Soushiro looked up from where he was wiping a counter, eyes narrowing the slightest bit in confusion when he saw Number 1 leaving without a word.
But he didn’t call out. He simply watched him go, lips pressed into a small, unreadable line.