HIDDEN BODY

The coffee tastes like burned prayers, but I kept on coming back.

Portland pretends it’s different from other cities—all food carts and ironic mustaches and people who bike in January rain like they’re proving something to God. It’s not different. Beneath the kombucha and the self-righteousness, it’s the same rot. People wanting, taking, pretending they don’t. At least here the fog matches my mood.

I shouldn’t be in this cafe. I have a penthouse with a espresso machine that costs more than most people’s cars, programmed by a guy who once made coffee for the Italian president. But three weeks ago I walked past this place—“Moonbean Coffee,” which is the kind of aggressively whimsical name that makes me want to burn things—and saw him through the window.

Martin.

I didn’t know his name then. I know everything now. Twenty-five. Barista. Dropped out of PNCA two years ago, graphic design major. Lives in a shitty apartment in Southeast with two roommates who sell weed and make noise rock. Has an ex named Ben who texts too much. Lactose intolerant but eats ice cream anyway. Laughs at his own jokes.

The surveillance was easy. I told myself it was curiosity. Due diligence. The same instinct that made me a billionaire at twenty-eight—spotting value where others see nothing.

Lying to yourself is an underrated skill.

Now I’m here five days a week, laptop open, pretending to work while I memorize the way Martin moves behind the counter. Today he’s wearing a cardigan the color of moss, sleeves pushed to his elbows. There’s a small burn scar on his left forearm shaped like a comma. I noticed it on day four. His nail polish is chipped—black, two fingers on his right hand still intact.

He’s beautiful in a way that makes me angry.

Not Instagram beautiful. Not billboard beautiful. Beautiful like a painting in a museum you’re not supposed to touch, which makes you want to touch it more.

“The usual?” Martin asks the woman in front of me.

She giggles. Actually giggles. “You remembered!”

“It’s literally written on your rewards account, Sharon,” he says, but he’s smiling, and Sharon melts like she’s been blessed by a prophet.

This is Martin’s gift. He makes people feel seen. Special. Like they matter.

I fucking hate Sharon.

The line moves. I’m next. My brain does this thing where it runs scenarios like code—branching possibilities, outcomes, optimizations. Right now it’s screaming contradictions.

Don’t be weird. Be charming. Say something normal. Abort mission. He smells like vanilla and coffee grounds. That’s not normal to notice. Shut up. Act human. What the fuck is acting human?

“Hey,” Martin says.

One word. My nervous system treats it like a gunshot.

“Hi.” My voice comes out normal. Thank Christ. I’ve negotiated hostile takeovers. I can order coffee.

“What can I get you?” He’s looking at me. Direct eye contact. His eyes are brown with gold flecks, like someone spilled bourbon in honey. I’m being poetic again. I need to stop.

“Americano. Black.”

“Wow. Adventurous.” He’s teasing. There’s a half-smile playing at his mouth, and I want to study it like a theorem.

“I’m a man of simple tastes.”

“Uh-huh.” He rings it up. “Name?”

Here’s where it gets stupid. I should say “Robert.” It’s my actual name. Instead my mouth says: “Call me whatever you want.”

The words hang in the air like a fart in an elevator.

Martin blinks. Then laughs—this surprised, genuine sound that hits me in the solar plexus. “Okay, Whatever-You-Want. That’ll be four-fifty.”

I hand him my card. Our fingers don’t touch. I’m disappointed and relieved in equal measure.

“You come here a lot,” Martin says while the machine processes. It’s not a question.

“I like consistency.”

“Bullshit.” He hands back my card, grinning now. “You’re in here five times a week and you’ve ordered the same thing twice. Last Tuesday you got a cortado. Thursday was a cappuccino. Yesterday you asked for recommendations and then got a latte.”

I’m caught. Completely. He’s been noticing me back.

My downstairs situation suddenly has opinions about this development. Traitor.

“Maybe I’m indecisive,” I say.

“Maybe you’re stalking our menu.” He writes something on the cup, not looking at me. “Americano will be up in a sec.”

I should move. There are people behind me. I don’t move.

“Do you interrogate all your customers?” I ask.

“Only the weird ones.” But he’s still smiling, so it doesn’t sting. “Also, you tip really well. I’m incentivized to pay attention.”

“Mercenary. I respect that.”

“Rent’s a bitch.” He caps the sharpie. “Besides, you’ve got that whole mysterious-guy-in-the-corner thing going on. Very Batman.”

I nearly choke on air. “Batman.”

“Yeah. You know—brooding, rich-person coat, probably has a tragic backstory and a cave somewhere.” He slides the cup across the counter to the barista station. “I bet you drive something unnecessarily expensive and tell yourself it’s practical.”

He’s so close to the truth it’s almost funny. I do have a cave. Well, a basement. With servers and surveillance equipment and a wall of monitors that would make the NSA jealous.

“Tesla,” I admit.

“Called it.” He looks genuinely delighted with himself. “Let me guess—you tell people it’s about the environment.”

“It’s fast.”

“Honest. I like that.” Martin leans against the counter, and I realize this is the longest conversation we’ve had. Three weeks of one-word exchanges and now this. “So what’s your actual name, or are we committing to the bit?”

“Robert.”

“Martin.” He extends his hand over the counter like we’re closing a business deal.

I shake it. His palm is warm. Calloused on the fingertips—guitar player, I already knew that. The touch lasts exactly two seconds and rewires my entire limbic system.

“Robert,” he repeats, testing it. “Okay. Better than Whatever-You-Want, marginally.”

“Americano!” the other barista calls out.

Martin grabs it, checks the name on the cup, and his grin goes nuclear. He hands it to me. Written in his handwriting: BATMAN.

“Enjoy your coffee, Bruce Wayne.”

I look at the cup. At him. At the universe for being this fucking unfair.

“You’re a nightmare,” I tell him.

“I’ve been called worse.” He’s already turning to the next customer, dismissing me with the ease of someone who has no idea he just became the most important person in my life.

I take my coffee to my usual corner table. Sit down. Stare at the cup.

BATMAN.

I should throw it away. Get a different cup. This is evidence. Proof of... something. Interaction. Interest. The beginning of a story I shouldn’t be writing.

Instead I take a photo of it. Pull up my laptop and create a new folder. Label it “M - Documentation.” Add the photo.

Across the cafe, Martin laughs at something a customer says. It’s not the same laugh he gave me. Mine was better. I decide this objectively, like data.

A guy walks in—tall, bearded, tank top despite the forty-degree weather, radiating the kind of casual confidence that comes from never being told no. He goes straight to the counter, bypassing the line, and leans in close to Martin.

Too close.

Martin’s face changes. Not unhappy, exactly. Familiar. Comfortable in a way that makes my molars grind.

The guy—I’ll call him Tank-Top-Fucker until I learn his real name—says something low. Martin rolls his eyes but he’s smiling. They have a whole conversation in shorthand, the kind of easy intimacy that comes from shared beds and inside jokes.

Martin glances toward the back room, then back at Tank-Top-Fucker. Shakes his head. TTF grins, says something else, and touches Martin’s hand where it rests on the counter.

I watch Martin’s fingers curl slightly. Not pulling away.

My coffee tastes like ashes and murder.

I open a new browser window. Facial recognition search using the cafe’s security footage—I cloned access to their system week one, laughably easy. Cross-reference with social media, Martin’s tagged photos, Portland metro databases.

Ninety seconds later I have a name: Ethan Miller.

Personal trainer. Twenty-eight. Lives in Northwest. Posted a gym selfie this morning with the caption “chest day beast mode 💪.” Uses the word “epic” unironically. Has commented on fourteen of Martin’s Instagram posts in the last month, mostly flame emojis and “looking good babe.”

Babe.

I close the laptop before I put my fist through it.

Ethan leaves with a free coffee—Martin comped it, I watched the transaction. He touches Martin’s shoulder on his way out. Martin lets him.

I sit there for another hour, coffee long gone cold, watching Martin work. Memorizing the way he pushes curly hair behind his ear when he’s concentrating. The small gap between his front teeth when he smiles wide. The efficiency of his movements, muscle memory from thousands of drinks.

He doesn’t look at me again.

That’s fine. I’m patient. I’ve built an empire on patience.

When I finally leave, Martin’s wiping down tables. I pass close enough to smell his cologne—something cedar and clean, drugstore brand, applied that morning. He glances up.

“See you tomorrow, Batman.”

“Probably,” I say, like I haven’t already cleared my calendar.

Outside, the Portland rain has started. Thin and persistent, the kind that soaks you slowly. I stand on the sidewalk and pull up my phone. Open the photo of the coffee cup again.

BATMAN.

In the window’s reflection, I can see Martin laughing with a coworker. Happy. Unaware.

I think about Ethan Miller’s hand on Martin’s. The casual ownership in the gesture.

I think about my basement. The tools. The soundproofing I installed for “home theater purposes.”

I think about how easy it would be to make Ethan Miller disappear. How satisfying. How necessary.

Not yet, I tell myself. Not yet.

First, I need Martin to know me. Trust me. Want me.

Then I’ll kill everyone who stands in the way of that.

The rain falls. I smile.

It’s going to be a good year.