That Friday afternoon, Alfonso’s Café, located at the corner of Fourth and Tenth, was busier than usual.

  Its old wooden and glass door swung open now and then, the bell jingling to announce more customers. The rain that had started falling a few minutes ago had compelled many to linger a little longer and order another round of whatever they were drinking. Preferably something warm—temperatures had dropped with the downpour.

  The usual crowd was there: lawyers debating recent court cases; Military personnel and congressmen huddled around a small table like it was a crisis room, droning on about the importance of investing in the maritime industry; elderly retired officers sharing the same war stories they’d told the day before; and others discussing topics as profound as the weather.

  Most of them enjoyed the last hours of the day over a cup of coffee, though the majority chose tables far from the windows, a deliberate decision Mr. Mizar found obvious. They didn’t want to expose themselves to the street. Security was tight; few areas in the city were as well-guarded as this one. But accidents happened, and for those with guilty consciences—as many in the café surely had—sitting too close to a glass wall, vulnerable and unguarded, could make one a target for a revolutionary dissident seeking to become a martyr for the cause against the Empire.

  “Fools,” Mizar thought. If something was meant to happen, no amount of caution or glass could stop fate from having its way. He preferred sitting by the window, enjoying the view.

  Outside, rain fell over the city, and the streetlights appeared as glowing orbs suspended in a curtain of water swaying gently in the wind. The weather had hastened the evening’s darkness.

  His gaze drifted away from abstraction and settled on his own reflection in the glass. With his fingertips, he smoothed out the streaks of gray that painted a white band in his dark hair just above his ears, and smiled, proud. A few gentle signs of aging around his eyes and the corners of his mouth, but nothing too deep. Definitely half a century well lived.

  He took a sip of his tea and turned his attention back to the holo-newspaper spread out on the table.

  That day’s Consensus holographic edition featured a large photo of him in his military uniform, stepping onto the podium to receive an honorary title from an elderly officer in a long green coat. The headline read:

  At fifty-three years old, the man who developed the serum that propelled the Grenadier program, making the Fotias possible, has been awarded the honorary title of Minister of Defense by the Markabian Imperial Council. This ceremonial rank within the Army grants this illustrious citizen the right to adopt Mizar as his new surname.

  He deactivated the Consensus card and activated the Elite card, the next of several publications he had purchased. Skimming the pages that celebrated his achievement, he indulged in the article with the same enthusiasm as he had with the others.

  And he wondered: how many of those present in the café that afternoon, if given the chance, would have opposed him receiving such a prestigious honor?

  He knew several had voted against him, arguing it was disrespectful for a foreign businessman with no military career to receive such a title.

  Nonsense! What mattered more than his merits? He had done far more for the Military than his detractors ever had.

  He took the last sip of his tea. The young waiter standing next to him tilted the teapot to pour more, but Mizar covered the cup with his hand; he was satisfied.

  “And you?” Mizar said, opening the edition of The Emperor, the only printed newspaper among the many he’d bought. He pointed to another photograph of himself, holding the title in front of a formation of soldiers. “What do you think of this? The Empire has Grenadiers because of me,” he boasted, flashing a friendly wink and nodding toward the other patrons in the café. “How many of these old-timers can brag about something like that, huh, Jake? They’re eaten alive by jealousy.”

  The waiter, a slim, freckled young man with a handsome face, swallowed hard, visibly uncomfortable. “Congratulations, Mr…” he said, almost addressing him by his real surname but corrected himself, “Mr. Mizar.”

  “Thank you, but you don’t need to congratulate me just to keep me happy, Jake,” Mizar smiled, sliding his hand under the tablecloth to brush it lightly against the waiter’s leg. “Or have we stopped being friends, hmm?”

  The waiter froze, glancing nervously at the people seated behind the Minister. His pale face had turned bright red.

  “Oh! Now I get it,” Mizar said, glancing sideways at his bodyguards. “Well, you’ll have to get used to them; they’ve just been assigned to me. But don’t let them intimidate you, Jake. These dogs don’t bite… unless I tell them to.”

  Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Of course, Mr. Mizar,” Jake nodded.

  The Minister stood up, placed the money for the bill on the table—along with a generous tip—and picked up the printed newspaper and holo-cards.

  “I hope to see you later,” he whispered to the young waiter before leaving.

  Trailing behind him were his bodyguards: two Grenadiers who, like all soldiers of their rank stationed within the Imperial Citadel, wore their Nemean-type V.1 armor. Their gleaming olive-green plates over dark bodysuits; the glossy black helmet, so distinctive, with those small wings spread out on the sides; their faces hidden behind the visor, also black; the crimson Imperial crest embedded in the center of the chest plate; and the open laurel crown on the belt. Cutting-edge technology with an almost medieval look.

  Mizar made his way through the café tables, his publications in hand, fully aware of the eyes following him. During his walk from the table to the exit, the general hum of conversation dwindled to just a few sounds: the clinking of a spoon against a cup and the occasional whisper.

  The creak of his shoes on the wooden floor and the clink, clink, clink of the armored soldiers’ footsteps became the only rhythm besides the soft background music.

  He grabbed his raincoat from the rack, slipped it on, and stepped out into the open air. Cling, cling—the bell over Alfonso’s door jingled, marking the end of his visit.

  Outside, since the rain had eased up, the Minister stepped away from his bodyguards and walked the other way.

  “Sir,” one of the Grenadiers called. Speaking through his helmet, his voice had a metallic echo. “The limousine is parked around the corner.”

  “I know,” Mizar replied. “But I feel like walking. The condo is just across the avenue; it’s not far.”

  The Grenadiers deferred to the Minister’s wishes and followed him.

  At the corner, under the streetlight, Mizar waited for the pedestrian signal to turn green.

  The wind swept the lingering drops of rain, skimming the pavement and carrying away the thin film of water that hadn’t yet drained into the gutters. Evening had fallen, and the usual crowd had disappeared. Overhead, pink clouds had thickened into a purple haze, promising more bad weather to come. In the distance, miles away from the elegant, well-preserved buildings of the citadel—none taller than ten stories—the spindly, towering structures of the Markabian capital could be seen, veiled by curtains of night and rain.

  Half a block from his building, he noticed a solitary figure standing by the stairway leading up to the entrance. He squinted, trying to make out the person, but the figure remained in the shadows, just out of reach of the lights. Could it be one of his neighbors? Most of the residents were elderly ex-ministers who wouldn’t venture outside in this weather, though…

  A few steps closer, he saw the person was wearing a dark trench coat and had their head covered by a hood, turning their face into an indistinct shadow.

  A shot of adrenaline kicked Mizar into high alert. His honorary title had earned him a prominent position within the Imperial Army, attracting both friends and enemies. Could it be…?

  No. His bodyguards were there to protect him, so he kept walking.

  It was odd, though, that they didn’t take any steps to remove the stranger. It wasn’t acceptable for loiterers to linger nearby. But since the building’s security guard was waiting at the entrance atop the stairs, Mizar decided to let it go. He had just criticized the patrons at Alfonso Café for being overly cautious about where they sat, and he wasn’t about to fall into the same paranoia.

  He left his raincoat at the building’s coat rack and crossed the luxurious lobby. When the elevator doors opened, one Grenadier stepped in first, followed by him, then the other Grenadier.

  He was about to press the button for the tenth floor, but one of his bodyguards beat him to it. Was it a security measure he’d have to get used to, or just a polite gesture?

  He couldn’t quite see the Grenadier’s face with the helmet on, but behind the dark T-shaped visor, he could make out some features he found attractive.

  Someday, he’d invite the guards to set their duties aside for a moment and share a drink with him. To hell with protocol! Those silly rules only mattered to the decrepit old men on the Imperial Council.

  “Is something wrong, sir?” asked the Grenadier, noticing his gaze.

  “Nothing,” Mizar replied.

  The Minister stood in front of the elevator’s mirror and adjusted his hair where the gray streaks showed. He thought about having that drink with the soldiers.

  Yes, maybe later. For now, he just wanted a warm bath and to wait for Jake. The young waiter’s shift at Alfonso ended after eight, so there was plenty of time to—

  His bodyguards! They were gone!

  In a blink, the soldiers were gone, and in the reflection, standing beside him, was a single figure: the stranger in the hood and dark trench coat.

  He flinched, spinning on his heels.

  “Sir?” The metallic voice of the Grenadier snapped him out of his trance.

  No. His guards were there. He stared at them, his eyes wide and lips pressed so tightly together they’d lost their color. Slowly, he waited for the breath to return to his lungs.

  What the hell was that hallucination?

  After unlocking the door to the condominium assigned to him by his new title, one of the soldiers scanned the entire room with the sensors built into his helmet, scanning every object in every room. The data appeared holographically inside his visor, analyzing even the temperature patterns of everything in sight.

  The soldier stepped aside to let Mizar in.

  “It’s alright,” the Minister said gratefully. “Now, gentlemen, you can leave me—”

  He turned to his escorts, prepared to suggest that perhaps next time they could join him in the bath, but no words came out of his mouth.

  Once again, the Grenadiers had vanished.