8. All Eyes On You
8
All Eyes On You
I t’s Halloween morning, and I feel… what’s the word? Indifferent, maybe. It’s not necessarily great, but it’s not terrible either, somewhere in that numb, in-between space where everything feels muted like the world is slightly out of focus. It is the kind of day where I know I should care about the endless list of things I need to do, but all I can muster is a hollow, resigned acceptance. There’s no point in procrastinating—my agenda is already full, consumed entirely by Tormenta. The name alone weighs on me, a heavy, suffocating presence that I can’t escape. Whatever this is, exactly, I need to get through it. No, I need to survive it.
Marklov has already called three times this morning, and it’s not even 0730 yet. I can feel his impatience vibrating through the air like static electricity, always crackling, always there. Knowing him, he’s probably got eyes everywhere. Surveillance teams scattered like shadows in the corners of my life, watching, waiting. He’s seen everything—every restless twitch, every sluggish step, every bead of sweat that betrays the tension I try so hard to hide.
It’s unsettling, having someone like Marklov know you so intimately without ever really knowing you at all. But that’s his way, isn’t it? To control without seeming to. To tighten the leash just enough to remind you it’s there without choking you outright.
I scrub a hand down my face, the stubble on my jaw prickling against my palm. The first order of business is coffee. Always coffee. It’s the only thing that jump starts my brain these days, though I know it’s more ritual than necessity. The kitchen is quiet, save for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the hiss of the coffee maker as it sputters to life. I lean against the counter. Arms crossed, eyes on the dark liquid dripping into the white coffee cup like some lifeline I can’t afford to lose.
The air feels colder this morning, though maybe that’s just the dread settling in my bones. I take the first sip, scalding and bitter, but it’s enough to push the fog back for now. I glance at the clock—0735. Marklov will be calling again soon if I don’t make a move.
Tormenta. Just the thought of the name makes my stomach twist. It isn’t a person, not really. It’s a code name, a storm of chaos and blood that’s been brewing for months. Tracking her has been my job, though “job” doesn’t feel like the right word. Obsession might be closer to the truth. A network of players, transactions, and betrayals, all swirling together into something dangerous and unpredictable. Marklov wants results. No, he demands them. And I’m the poor bastard tasked with untangling the mess.
I carry the coffee back to my desk, where a laptop, a stack of maps, and a mountain of intel await. Pages are spread across the surface like the aftermath of a hurricane. Photos, names, locations, red strings tying one piece to the next—it’s all here, but it still doesn’t make sense.
Today, the plan is simple: focus on the images. Tormenta is mobile, constantly shifting in her little town. If I can find a pattern, a rhythm to its chaos, I might finally get ahead of it. I boot up the laptop, scrolling through grainy images of what I have come across when I would follow her.
Marklovs voice rings in my head as I work. Time is running out. You can’t afford to miss this opportunity. He doesn’t need to say it again; the weight of his expectation is enough. My family needs me. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know this is only the beginning of a very long day.
I guess this can only mean one thing: I need to return to the one place where all these photos were taken. It’s my only lead, the single thread I can tug on to unravel this tangled mess. One pattern stands out among the scattered images and notes—she frequents a small restaurant. A routine stop, it seems. If I’m going to start anywhere, it’ll be there.
La Rosas Café comes into view as I pull up, a quiet refuge nestled on the corner of an unassuming street. Its charm is understated, the kind of place that feels like a warm embrace on a chilled day like this. The air wafts out with inviting aromas—freshly baked bread, simmering spices, and a faint sweetness that clings to the cold like a whisper. It’s the sort of scent that tugs at the edges of nostalgia, making even a stranger feel at home.
I let myself take it in for a moment, the calm before the inevitable storm. But this isn’t a casual visit, and I can’t afford to let my guard down. I keep my bike parked.
I settle into a quiet, shadowed part outside the restaurant, blending into the backdrop like another shadow cast by the morning light. From here, I can see everything—the soft bustle of the people coming and going, the steady hum of conversation drifting through the air. Then I notice him.
A man sits alone at a table near the edge of the café’s front seating area, his posture relaxed but his eyes anything but. They follow her every move with a focus that’s hard to miss once you know what to look for. He stirs his coffee absently, a picture of casual indifference, but his gaze is sharp, calculating.
I decide to keep my distance, for now, watching him as he watches her. This isn’t the kind of coincidence I can ignore. He’s not just here for the ambiance or the coffee; he’s here for her, same as me. But the question gnaws at me—why is he here?
I lean back, feigning disinterest, but my mind is racing. If he’s here for the same reason I am… to take Tormenta , this could complicate everything. Or maybe, just maybe, he’s the key to getting closer to it. For now, I’ll wait and let him make the first move. After all, tracking a predator is easier when they think they’re the one hunting.
Tormenta is so kind to the lady working behind the counter. Her smile resonates with the place. A warm feeling not even coffee could give me hits my chest, making me feel some type of way. She has no idea what’s going on.
Fuck this is not going to end well.