The city doesn’t hum the way it used to. Maybe I just stopped listening for the noise. These days, I wake up before sunrise — the sky bruised in soft colors, the air still cool enough to remind me I’m alive. Coffee tastes better when you earned your sleep, and even better when you didn’t.

The jobs aren’t loud anymore. No explosions, no neon lights. Just clean work, quiet hands, and the sound of paper sliding across a table. I used to chase the rush. Now I chase silence.

Sometimes, after a deal, I’ll sit outside whatever café I land in — Rome, Lisbon, Santa Fe — doesn’t matter. The food’s warm, the people are kind, and I let myself imagine I’m just another man enjoying his day. Not a thief. Not a legend. Just… Daniel.

I’ve learned something about solitude — it’s not the absence of company, it’s the presence of peace. The kind you find between bites of good bread and the hum of street musicians playing songs you don’t know.

I’m not done yet. But for once in my life, I’m not rushing. The world’s beautiful when you stop running from it.

There’s a bakery down the street that opens before dawn. No lines, no chatter — just the smell of bread and coffee drifting into the cool air. I go there sometimes, when sleep doesn’t stick.

The man behind the counter knows my order by now. He doesn’t ask for a name, doesn’t need to. A nod, a smile, and I’m left alone with a cup that’s too hot to hold and a view of the city waking up.

People think I only notice the big things — the money, the angles, the thrill. But it’s the small things that stay with me now. The sound of the first bus rolling past. Pigeons fighting over crumbs. The way the sunlight hits the window just right and turns the whole room gold.

Funny, how a man who spent half his life running plans and playing ghosts ends up finding peace in something as simple as steam rising off a cup of coffee.

I take a sip. It’s bitter, smooth — familiar. And for a moment, I forget about the next job. The next city. For a moment, I’m just here.