Anton Smederev, 04. May 2025

  Anton loved those three days off—perhaps more than he was willing to admit.

  The spring sun blazed over the rooftops, opening windows, making birds and people sing in the same tone. He enjoyed the smell of freshly baked bread from the bakery down the street, the cold juice sticking to his fingers, the feeling that, at least for a short while, the world wasn’t burning.

  Despite everything, by the second day he had already begun to feel a restless itch—as if the world were calling him back to where he belonged.

  He wanted missions again.

  The ones with Hannah, where everything was measured in glances and precision. The ones with Leonid, where laughter turned into shooting and cigarettes. The one on Pearl’s yacht, where for the first time he felt real adrenaline in his bones. Even the one across the border—where instead of the smell of sea salt, they breathed smoke and dust.

  He wanted all of it again, and more.

  The only thing that bothered him was that he couldn’t talk to anyone about it. Not to his mother, who would immediately worry and start crying. Not to his sister, who would turn everything into an epic story for social media.

  And not to his father—even though he had already told everyone in the neighborhood that his son worked for the Amber Directorate, “the true pillar of the state,” as he proudly liked to say in the local café.

  Anton smiled at the thought while tying his shoelaces.

  He put on his jacket, slung his backpack over his shoulder, and stood in front of the mirror. Looking back at him was a young man whose eyes were full of dreams, and whose smile seemed to say: I’m ready.

  On his way out of the apartment he said goodbye to his mother and sister; both were waving at him from the kitchen.

  “Don’t forget lunch again!” his mother called out with a laugh.

  “I won’t, Mom!”

  Outside, the wind greeted him with the scent of a morning after a holiday—slightly cold, slightly promising. Anton took a deep breath, looked toward the Directorate building in the distance, and thought how he could hardly wait for that gray rectangle full of secrets to swallow him again.

  The Amber Directorate building seemed sleepy that morning. The heavy stone walls, which usually echoed with the footsteps and chatter of agents, were quiet now. The hallways breathed dust and the smell of coffee that had only just begun brewing somewhere in the distance.

  Anton walked through the main entrance with his backpack slung over one shoulder and a grin that was far too wide—one that would have seemed inappropriate for a government institution to most people, but not to him. Even the receptionist looked slowed down, leaning against the desk with a mug that looked less like a pleasure and more like a source of survival.

  “Good morning!” Anton said cheerfully.

  The man only lifted his hand in a half-greeting, as if even that required effort.

  Anton just smiled and continued on.

  The elevator was quiet, humming softly in a way that gave you enough time to hear your own thoughts. When the doors opened, his footsteps echoed down the corridor.

  He stepped into the office of the First Unit—but it was empty.

  All the chairs were pushed back, the computers turned off, not a whisper or music anywhere. Only the morning light breaking through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the floor.

  Anton set his backpack on his desk, glanced around the room, and said out loud—even though no one was there to hear it:

  “Alright… maybe they’re running late.”

  He sat in his chair, spun around in it a few times, then looked toward Hannah’s desk.

  Perfectly tidy. A folder sat at the edge, papers aligned in a straight line.

  Leonid’s desk, on the other hand, looked as if a small chaos had exploded there: an open book, a half-empty glass, ash scattered along the edge.

  Anton found it amusing and reached over to straighten the glass.

  His boredom and endless spinning in the chair were interrupted by a knock at the door.

  Anton straightened up and smiled reflexively, ready to greet Hannah or Leonid.

  But it was neither of them.

  Vivian Thorn stood in the doorway.

  Her silhouette always seemed to Anton like something that didn’t belong entirely to the world of people. The light from the hallway slid over her figure, reflecting off the metal parts of her arm, and for a moment she truly looked like an ancient relic preserved in perfect condition.

  Anton froze.

  “We have a mission.”

  She said it simply, without emphasis or gesture.

  She didn’t wait for his reaction.

  Turning immediately, she walked down the hallway, her steps ringing out in a metallic rhythm—like the steady melody of discipline.

  Anton stood there for a second, then, as if shaken out of a dream, grabbed his backpack and hurried after her. His footsteps echoed in the empty corridor as he tried to catch up.

  “Shouldn’t we wait for Hannah and Leonid?” he asked, slightly out of breath.

  Vivian didn’t answer immediately. She didn’t even look back. She simply kept walking until the doors to the briefing room opened almost automatically before her.

  Inside, everything looked as it always did—cold projector light, the smell of dust and metal, chairs neatly arranged.

  She closed the door behind them.

  Only then, as if measuring every word she was about to say, did she speak.

  “Hannah and Leonid won’t be joining us today.”

  Anton frowned in confusion.

  “Why?”

  Vivian looked directly into his eyes with a gaze sharp enough to cut through breath.

  “Hannah is on a solo mission.”

  For a second her gaze drifted somewhere above his shoulder, as if she were looking beyond the walls of the Directorate.

  “And Leonid has the day off.”

  Anton wanted to ask more, but something in her expression—the faint tension around her lips—told him he shouldn’t.

  He simply nodded and sat down carefully, the way someone enters a church.

  On the wall, the map had already lit up, and Vivian’s voice once again became the kind that could not be forgotten—firm, clear, and cold as winter in the north.

  “Three days ago,” she began, clicking the remote.

  A satellite image of the industrial zone appeared on the screen.

  “In this part of the city, a weak energy pulse was detected. Something whose characteristics resemble relic activity.”

  Another click.

  A grainy night-camera image appeared—containers, metal warehouses, floodlights spilling over a concrete wall marked Warehouse 47.

  “The warehouse belongs to a private company called Nortex, but the Directorate has had it under surveillance for some time. Officially, it stores industrial machine parts. Unofficially, it’s used by smugglers.”

  Another click—another image.

  The interior of the warehouse: a network of corridors and rows of crates.

  “The objective is clear,” she continued. “Enter unnoticed. Confirm the presence of the items. If relics are indeed there, mark them for transport. The Directorate will collect them later. We take nothing. We touch nothing. Just confirmation.”

  Anton nodded, though his eyes wandered across the wall. He didn’t know whether to feel excited or worried.

  “So… infiltration,” he said, trying to hide his nerves.

  “Yes,” Vivian confirmed.

  Silence settled over the room.

  Anton nodded again.

  Vivian turned toward the screen, shut off the projection, and added:

  “Departure in one hour. Prepare your gear.”

  Anton stood up, feeling his palms growing slick with sweat.

  “Understood,” he said.

  Vivian lifted her gaze and caught his eyes for a moment.

  “Don’t worry. If you listen, they won’t even notice you.”

  There was something in her voice that wasn’t cold this time—something almost human.

  Then she turned, her golden hair swaying down her back, and Anton was left standing alone in the empty room.

  The industrial district smelled of oil and dampness; the wind carried heavy notes of rust, and the floodlights cast long, faded shadows across the cracked asphalt. Warehouses stood one after another—large, silent bodies of concrete and sheet metal, as if the names of forgotten factories were engraved into every wall.

  Warehouse 47 stood slightly elevated, its metal doors creaking whenever the wind pushed against them. Above the entrance, a broken sign flickered in a rhythm that resembled a poorly beating heart.

  Vivian stood in the shadows, perfectly still. Her silhouette was one of the few assertions of order within that chaos. Anton stood a few meters behind her, his backpack tightened across his shoulders, his hands still trembling slightly. He breathed quickly, though he tried to keep it quiet.

  “Purely logistical. Five cameras on the perimeter, two guards on shift, and at least three entrances under constant surveillance,” Vivian said, her voice carrying no trace of excitement—only facts.

  Her hands slipped into her pockets; she pulled out a small device and showed him the map on its screen.

  “There’s a smaller service passage on the left side—an old supply shaft. If we enter through the basement, we avoid the main cameras and the guards.”

  Anton turned his head, scanning the fa?ade.

  “I see a delivery entrance for trucks about fifteen meters to the left of the main door,” he muttered, trying to sound useful. “If we keep to the shadow between the containers, we can get closer. Quick and quiet entry.”

  Vivian nodded. “Good observation.”

  They moved closer to the walls, their steps careful, almost ceremonial. Around the perimeter of the warehouse stood containers, stacked pallets, and tanks that from here looked like enormous dark lumps. The lights flattened the lines of the structures, while the shadows created pockets where they could disappear.

  Anton felt his heart pounding in his ears; every sound seemed like the gathering of danger. Vivian observed the scene like a doctor examining a wound: cold, methodical.

  When they reached the service passage, it was locked—an old padlock and chain, rust along the hinge. Anton crouched, pulled a thin set of tools from his backpack, and began working. His hands moved faster than his thoughts; his fingers searched instinctively for the lock’s inner mechanisms.

  Vivian watched him from the shadows, her face as impenetrable as metal.

  After a few seconds, the lock gave way.

  “You are young,” she said quietly as they pushed the door open. “But you learn quickly.”

  It was not praise. It was a statement—a low tone of acceptance.

  Anton felt warmth spread through his body. It was not the bold rush of victory, more the confirmation that he had a place inside that machine.

  Inside, it was colder, damp, carrying the smell of paper and old wood. Ahead of them stretched a row of doors, each leading deeper into the labyrinth. In one section a faint red light flickered; according to Vivian, that was where the floating inventory stood—crates lined with metal, specialized containers capable of holding things more valuable than money.

  Vivian approached the first crate, pressed her hand against the metal surface, and listened. Anton leaned slightly over her shoulder, more to see than to help.

  “Moving,” she whispered.

  The two of them slipped into the half-darkness of the warehouse, step by step, like shadows that knew their own names.

  The first row of crates was marked only with numbers—an old military classification system. Vivian crouched, brushed the dust off the lid with her sleeve. The metal was cold, but beneath it something pulsed. Faintly, but rhythmically, as if it were breathing.

  “Definitely not ordinary shipments,” she said, opening a small pouch and pulling out a compact scanner with a thin beam of light.

  When she pressed it against the crate, the screen flickered. The line of light danced briefly, and then a faint golden shimmer appeared on the display.

  Anton stepped closer to see better—but the moment he leaned in, he felt it.

  The presence.

  Not like a smell, not like a sound, but like weight in the air. As if the world were tightening against his skin.

  “Relics,” he said, more a whisper than a conclusion.

  Vivian nodded. “Three pieces.”

  She paused. The light continued flickering across her face, carving it into sharp contours.

  “Our task is only to confirm, document, and mark them. Clear?”

  Anton nodded, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the crates. Inside, in some dark box, rested something that could change the world.

  And that frightened and fascinated him at the same time.

  Then a sound echoed.

  Deep. Metallic. Like the impact of a boot against the floor. Another. And another.

  Vivian straightened, her gaze slicing through the darkness.

  “Guards,” she said. “Get behind the row and don’t breathe.”

  Anton obeyed, pressing himself against the wall while the light from the far end of the corridor slowly illuminated the dust floating in the air. They heard indistinct words, then the jingle of keys, and the small glow of a cigarette.

  Vivian remained in the shadows. But when the footsteps grew closer, she looked at him once and gave a small nod.

  The footsteps were getting louder—the weight of boots on concrete, the creaking of lamps hanging from the ceiling. Two guards, by the sound of it. They walked slowly, speaking in low voices, their sentences echoing like something slowed down.

  Anton tried to breathe quietly, but the air around him felt thick, heavy with dust and adrenaline.

  His right hand moved on its own.

  He slipped his fingers into the inner pocket of his vest, and beneath the pads of his fingertips he felt the familiar coldness of metal. A small golden bell, tiny, but engraved with runes that seemed almost to shift under his touch, as if breathing and rearranging themselves in another reality.

  The contact alone was enough to send a wave of energy through his body—a premonition of light and power waiting only for his call.

  Before he could summon it, Vivian’s hand stopped him.

  Firm. Like an iron clamp.

  She grabbed his wrist and pressed her thumb directly over the edge of the metal. She looked him straight in the eyes and spoke in a voice low and sharp as a blade.

  “Without him.”

  Anton stared at her—eyes wide, as if she had taken the breath from his lungs. He wanted to whisper that there were two of them, that they could see them, that everything could go wrong.

  But Vivian’s gaze asked for no explanations.

  It was the gaze of a leader who did not acknowledge panic.

  “Think, Anton,” she said. “Use what you have. Not what obeys you.”

  The footsteps sounded just around the corner.

  Vivian grabbed Anton by the collar and pulled him down behind a pallet stacked with metal parts. The beam of a lamp swept past them, then stopped.

  “The door to B-zone is open again,” one of the guards said.

  “Probably a draft,” the other replied, yawning and kicking a piece of metal.

  The sound echoed off the walls like thunder in the empty space.

  Anton held his breath. The air in his lungs grew heavy, the metal beneath his palms cold and slick. Vivian slowly pulled a small metal capsule from her pocket—a miniature sound jammer.

  She activated it silently.

  A faint static hum wrapped around them.

  The guards paused for a moment, confused, glanced around, then shook their heads and continued down the corridor.

  When their footsteps faded into the distance, Anton finally inhaled deeply.

  “We could’ve taken them out in a second,” he muttered, still tense.

  Vivian looked at him with a strict, almost military gentleness.

  “We could have,” she said. “And then your first instinct becomes force, not thought.”

  Vivian lowered the scanner, pressed a button, and the light on the device went dark.

  The warehouse sank back into darkness, filled only with the soft murmur of ventilation and the distant drip of water somewhere far away.

  Anton glanced once more at the rows of crates—the lines of metal boxes lying there like sleeping soldiers. For a moment he thought he heard a faint rustle, but it was probably just his own pulse.

  “Are we done?” he asked quietly.

  Vivian nodded and started forward, walking with the same confident stride they had arrived with.

  Anton lingered for just a second, looking back.

  So many relics. So much power.

  And all of it hidden beneath layers of dust, far from the Directorate, far from control, far from rules.

  When he stepped outside, the air cut into him—cold and damp. The sky was dull, industrial gray, and somewhere far away a train sounded.

  Vivian walked ahead, while Anton felt his heartbeat slowly returning to normal, though his body still hummed with tension.

  “What will the Directorate do now?” he asked.

  Vivian didn’t stop. She only replied,

  “Whatever those above us decide. Our part is finished.”

  She stopped only when they reached the fence they had climbed earlier.

  She crossed first, elegantly, almost soundlessly, dropping to the other side.

  Anton followed—somewhat less gracefully.

  When he landed, he looked at her.

  “So… we just report it? We don’t touch anything?”

  “That’s how order is preserved,” she answered.

  “And what if the order starts to rot?”

  Vivian turned toward him.

  “You must learn to breathe in rot,” she said. “Otherwise you won’t survive a day in this service.”

  She turned away and continued walking.

  Anton glanced once more at the warehouse behind them. The metal doors were closed, the lights off, as if nothing had happened.

  Only wind and silence.

  In his pocket, the bell rang once—almost inaudibly.

  Hannah Adler, 04. May 2025

  Morning arrived too early.

  The sky was still bluish and crumpled, and the first milky light pushed through the thin curtains. The phone rang only once—loud enough to cut through the silence.

  Hannah opened her eyes without a sudden movement, as if she had already awakened before the ring.

  “Adler.”

  Her voice was flat, not fully awake yet, but without the slightest hesitation.

  From the other side came a familiar tone—an agent from the operations unit.

  “Active relic. Target inside a bank in sector C-12. We have casualties. We need someone on site immediately.”

  “Understood.”

  The connection ended, and Hannah was already on her feet.

  She moved quickly, with no thought for the dreams the call had pulled her from. There was none of her usual ritual—no coffee, no cold shower, no quiet moment before the mirror. Only the routine of dressing: trousers, coat, boots.

  As she fastened her belt and checked the holster, her gaze paused for a moment on the nightstand.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  The golden medallion lay there, caught in the morning light, pulsing in an almost invisible rhythm.

  Hannah lifted it between her fingers.

  The warm metal trembled against her skin, as if breathing.

  “I know,” she whispered. “You’re in a hurry too.”

  When she slipped the medallion around her neck, the golden surface flickered for a moment—as if in reply.

  She left the apartment quickly.

  The building’s hallways were still asleep; only the echo of her footsteps bounced off the tiles before disappearing into the elevator.

  Outside, the air was cold and heavy with fog. The street was empty, except for the distant glow of blue police lights.

  The car engine growled the moment she sat behind the wheel. There was no music. No need for it. Only the steady hum of the engine and silence.

  Her hand instinctively touched the medallion at her chest. She felt the familiar pulse beneath her skin—Kai was smiling, even though she couldn’t see him.

  Hannah arrived at the crime scene.

  The bank was smoking—a thick layer of black smoke mixing with the smell of blood and metallic dust from shattered safes. The red and blue lights of patrol cars washed across the fa?ade, slicing the building into flashes of color.

  Through cracked glass and clouds of smoke, the outlines of bodies could be seen—scattered papers and bank bags soaked with blood.

  The sound of sirens, radio static, and shouted police commands merged into a single dull roar.

  Hannah walked through them with quick but precise steps.

  Her shoulders didn’t flinch under the weight of the gazes following her arrival. Uniforms parted before her. She showed her identification in passing, her boots leaving dark marks on the concrete.

  Police officers were taking positions around the perimeter, rifles raised, sights aimed at the glass entrance still trembling from the force of the explosion.

  “Step back,” she said clearly, her voice not raised but spreading like a wave. “Turn your backs to the bank. No one goes in until I say.”

  Her tone wasn’t harsh, but it carried absolute command.

  The officers obeyed—lowering their weapons, turning their gazes away.

  Hannah continued forward until she reached the entrance, which still smelled of burning.

  She stopped at the threshold, pressed the golden medallion at her neck, and in a whisper closer to a prayer than an order, said:

  “Come, Kai.”

  Light pierced the fog. Golden radiance spilled across her neck, illuminated the glass, and shattered the darkness inside the bank. A sound like struck metal rang out, and from the light a silhouette took shape—tall, elegant, yet grotesquely perfect. Golden hair spilled down his back like a cloak. His eyes burned black, and on his lips played a smile that did not belong to any human.

  “Finally, some action!” Kai exclaimed, his voice spilling across several tones at once, as if multiple beings were speaking through him.

  “Don’t kill the spirit, Kai,” Hannah said coldly, her expression unchanged.

  Kai seemed momentarily disappointed, though the laughter remained in his eyes—that spark of childish malice.

  “You always ruin my fun.”

  Without another word, he stepped into the smoke—the sound of his footsteps like the clinking of chains and gold, and the air behind him trembled with tension.

  Hannah remained at the threshold for a few seconds longer, watching as clouds of smoke and light spilled into the chaotic shadows of the bank.

  Then she stepped in as well, not rushing but certain—like a knife that knows exactly where to cut.

  The target met her immediately at the entrance—a man clutching a bag stuffed with money, his shoulders raised as if they carried the weight of the world.

  Bodies lay on the floor. Some still. Some still trembling in agony.

  The others hid beneath desks and counters, sobbing quietly, pressing their hands over their mouths to stifle any sound.

  The air smelled of smoke, sweat, dust—and bitterness. The smell of burning magic.

  The moment she looked at him, she saw another figure separating from the darkness beside him—tall, muscular, wrapped in a reddish glow.

  His hair was long, the color of blood. His eyes were two abysses swallowing light.

  In his palms, spheres of fire formed—heated to white—and in the next instant they shot toward Hannah.

  She didn’t even flinch.

  Kai appeared before her in a burst of gold, without a sound. His golden hair flashed as his arms crossed, catching the flames mid-flight. The fire shattered against his silhouette, dissolving into sparkling dust that faded across the tiles.

  “My turn!” Kai shouted, and in the next moment he was already before the fire demon.

  He seized it by the throat, and their energies collided with a thunder that rattled the glass.

  The walls trembled. Sparks flashed across the ceiling.

  Hannah raised her pistol straight at the man—the target, the face covered in dust and fear.

  “Return the spirit to the relic and kneel. This is your final warning.”

  Her voice was sharp but not raised—the tone of a commander who doesn’t need to shout to be heard.

  Instead, the man grabbed the first person beside him—a banker in a blood-soaked shirt, his face smeared with smoke and tears.

  He pressed the gun against the man’s temple.

  “If you don’t let me go!” he shouted, his voice trembling though his gaze did not. “I’ll kill him!”

  Hannah didn’t move the aim. Only her pupils narrowed slightly as her gaze shifted between Kai—who still held the fire demon by the throat—and the man before her, the target whose eyes flickered between fear and madness.

  The air still carried the smell of burned paint, sweat, and blood. The ceiling lights flickered in the rhythm of the fire smoldering in the back of the bank.

  She nodded slowly. The movement was so small it barely differed from breathing.

  Then, under his watchful gaze, she slowly lowered the gun. The metal clattered when she pushed it away with her foot.

  The man laughed—a laugh belonging to someone who believed everything had suddenly turned in his favor.

  “That’s right! And get your spirit away from mine, do you hear me?!” he shouted, panic and triumph mixing in his voice. “Or this man dies!”

  He pressed the gun harder against the banker’s temple.

  The man sobbed through tears and smoke, his body shaking as if every second could be his last.

  “Kai,” Hannah said firmly. “You heard the man. Release the spirit.”

  Kai turned over his shoulder.

  His golden hair glimmered through the half-dark, and the smile spreading across his face never promised peace.

  “As you wish,” he said.

  In the next moment, with a movement faster than thought, he twisted his wrist and hurled the fire demon across the room.

  The wall of the bank groaned as it cracked, stone and metal splitting in a spiral. Red light flashed across everything—then the demon collapsed. The man flinched, panic flooding his face.

  He tried to pull the trigger, but his finger slid across emptiness.

  The gun was no longer there.

  Kai was already sitting on the counter to the man’s left, legs crossed, eyes playful. He spun the pistol around his finger, the rings on his hands chiming softly like tiny bells.

  “Humans and their toys,” he said, his voice almost laughing.

  The man opened his mouth, but no word escaped his throat before a dull click sounded from Kai’s hand.

  The pistol bent. Metal cracked and gave way. A second later, Kai held only two pieces—the barrel and the grip—and let them fall to the floor.

  Hannah calmly turned her back on the scene and said evenly,

  “Finish it, Kai.”

  She didn’t need to see his demonic smile. She already knew it was there.

  In the end, there was only the soft rustling of his jewelry—and a human scream

  Police megaphones cut through the smoke, but inside the bank a heavy silence had settled.

  The banker the man had held hostage was kneeling beside the wall, his hands pressed over his ears, tears and dust streaking down his face.

  Kai stretched his bloodied hands in the air as if he had just awakened from a long sleep.

  “Well, that was short,” he muttered, looking at the holes in the wall through which the sky was now visible.

  Hannah didn’t answer.

  She picked up the attacker’s relic and placed it into a black velvet box. She closed it with a single click.

  Only then did she allow her shoulders to drop slightly—just enough to show that it was over.

  “Kai.”

  He turned, glancing at her over his shoulder. His eyes were blackened like two bottomless holes.

  “I know, I know,” he said with a half-smile. “No need to thank me.”

  “The relic. Now.”

  It wasn’t a request. It was the tone of habit.

  Golden light spiraled inward, and Kai vanished—dissolving into grains of light that withdrew toward the medallion.

  The silence left behind was heavier than the noise had been.

  Hannah lifted her gaze toward the exit.

  The smoke was beginning to clear, and through the shattered doorway she could see the silhouette of a police cordon and red-blue lights dancing across the street.

  She walked outside slowly.

  The officers still stood in a semicircle, weapons lowered, their gazes turned away from the building.

  “You can go in now,” she said shortly, without raising her voice. “Call forensics. Inform headquarters the site is secure.”

  One of the officers approached her, his face tense, his eyes still searching for signs of danger.

  “Is it… over?”

  “It is,” she said, looking past his shoulder toward the bank. “The Amber Directorate will take custody of the evidence.”

  She pulled out a cigarette and lit it as she spoke, as if nothing particularly unusual had happened.

  The smoke rose slowly, mixing with the smell of ash and gunpowder.

  “Whoever was inside,” she added, “send them to Central Hospital. If he survives, there will be questioning. If not, archive it under ‘relic contact.’”

  She didn’t wait for a response.

  She turned and walked toward her black Mercedes waiting at the corner.

  The sun was already breaking through the clouds, its light falling across asphalt still wet from extinguishing the fire.

  Hannah opened the car door and sat inside. The engine started, and the sirens faded into the background, leaving only the smell of smoke and the muted sound of the city returning to its rhythm. The car glided through the morning haze, reflecting the gray sky across the hood.

  Hannah held the steering wheel with one hand; with the other she idly moved across the dashboard, searching for a radio station.

  They all sounded the same—advertisements, reports, voices without color.

  She turned the sound off and let the engine settle into a quiet hum. The Directorate building was not even in sight yet, and still her thoughts were already there.

  It struck her as strange—Leonid hadn’t called.

  She slid her finger across the phone screen and opened her contacts. His name was there, like a habit.

  She was about to press the call icon, but before she touched it her eyes fell on the top of the screen.

  Date: May 4th.

  For a moment, her breath seemed to catch in her chest. In the rearview mirror, her eyes looked darker than they had a second ago. She looked at the screen again, then gently set the phone down on the seat beside her.

  Her hand remained on it for a second longer, as if struggling to let it go. Then she simply exhaled deeply and turned the wheel toward the avenue leading to the Directorate.

  Leonid Frost, 04 May 2025

  The bar breathed in the rhythm of the night—slow, heavy sighs from an old fan and the occasional clink of ice in glasses.

  The walls were lined with dark wood that had absorbed too many years of smoke and secrets, and two bulbs hung from the ceiling, their light as murky as the whiskey in a glass.

  Outside, rain fell thick and relentless, each drop striking the window like ghosts knocking to be let in.

  Leonid sat in his usual place—the same tall stool he occupied every year on this day.

  His shoulders were lowered, jacket unbuttoned, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows.

  His fingers wrapped around a glass of whiskey while droplets slid down the outside of the glass.

  Beside him was an empty chair.

  On the counter in front of it sat another glass, untouched. Inside it, instead of ice, floated a white flower.

  Its petals were full and calm, as though neither time nor the weight of this place had any effect on them.

  The bartender, an old man with a mustache and the kind of gaze that knows when to stay silent, wiped a section of the counter with a cloth but did not approach.

  Leonid lifted his glass and looked into it as if he might see something at the bottom that he had failed to keep.

  Gently, he tapped his glass against the other one.

  The sound was soft, but clear—a note that cut through everything around him.

  “Charlotte, darling… cheers,” he murmured, his voice hoarse and tired.

  The green in his eyes was darker than usual, as if every sip of whiskey was dissolving the color from them.

  Then he drank it down to the bottom, set the glass against the wood, and stared at the white flower while the rain streamed down the glass and the world outside sank deeper into night.

  For a moment, it seemed like he smiled. It wasn’t a smile. It was a memory that didn’t know how to disappear.

  The rain grew heavier, droplets striking the window like small fists demanding entry.

  Streetlights spread across the wet asphalt, breaking against the bar’s glass and spilling over Leonid’s face.

  He sat alone, drinking glass after glass. For hours.

  The door opened with the sound of a bell and a rush of cold air.

  The rain from the outside world slipped in for a moment—together with Hannah’s silhouette.

  She carried a black umbrella; droplets ran down the fabric as she lowered it, shaking it twice before leaning it against the wall.

  Wet strands of hair clung to her face, and the edges of her coat were soaked, darker than their usual color.

  She approached the bar slowly, step by step, without hurry—like any sudden movement might shatter the fragile glass of grief that had spread around him.

  The stool beside Leonid was free—the same one before which the glass with the flower stood.

  Hannah looked at the flower for a moment, the small white petals floating in the whiskey as if resisting time.

  She didn’t move it.

  She simply sat beside him.

  The bartender glanced at them but said nothing.

  He only set another ashtray in front of them and continued wiping a glass, as if he didn’t want to witness the moment.

  Leonid didn’t lift his gaze. He didn’t need to. He felt her presence—the familiar scent of her perfume mixed with rain.

  His hands rested on the bar, palms spread, his gaze lost in the glass.

  Somewhere in the background, a song on the gramophone skipped a note and continued playing in the scratched voice of a trumpet.

  The rain kept tapping against the windows, keeping time with their thoughts.

  Leonid picked up his glass, raised it slowly, and drained the whiskey.

  Then Hannah spoke quietly, almost in a whisper.

  “Let’s go home.”

  She didn’t look at him as she spoke. She simply placed her hand gently across his back.

  Her fingers moved over the folds of his jacket, pausing briefly at his shoulder blade before rubbing it softly—as if returning some of the warmth he had lost.

  He remained motionless for a moment.

  Then he slowly exhaled through his nose. He lifted his gaze to her. His eyes were heavy, but calm.

  Slowly, he set the glass down.

  Then he took the flower from the other glass, carefully so as not to damage it. He placed it inside his jacket pocket.

  Without a word, he pulled out a few bills and left them on the counter.

  He stood, casting a brief glance at the empty place where the glass had been.

  Hannah was already by the door, holding the umbrella.

  When they stepped outside, the world was wet, gray, and quiet. He stood beneath her umbrella. Streetlights fractured across puddles, and the wind carried the scent of smoke and rain.

  The flower was still in his pocket. Alive.

  Ivy Everglow, 04 May 2025

  Morning in the industrial district was never quiet.

  The first sounds didn’t come from birds, but from metal—from tools striking concrete, chains clinking, and the noise of trucks delivering parts to nearby factories.

  Still, to Ivy, it was the sound of home.

  Her apartment sat directly above the workshop.

  Once it had been part of a warehouse—a small space she had rebuilt with her own hands: iron beams turned into shelves, wooden crates into a table, and the walls painted in a gray coat that was now peeling but still smelled faintly of oil and paint.

  She woke when the first slice of light slipped through the bars on the window. She didn’t need an alarm. Her sleep broke at the smallest sound from outside.

  She climbed down the ladder from the bed suspended on ropes—improvised but sturdy. As the metal rings clinked softly, her feet touched the cold concrete.

  The room below was half kitchen, half storage.

  Small bags of screws were scattered across the table, along with empty oil cans, an open mechanics manual, and a mug from yesterday with coffee long dried inside.

  Her refrigerator hummed as if fighting for survival. The stove was old, the gas sometimes squealed when lit. But everything worked—enough to resemble a life.

  She set water to boil and sat down.

  While waiting, she stared out the window into the gray light, her thoughts wandering.

  Once, long ago, when she had been a child slipping through piles of scrap and burned tires, she thought the whole world was a mechanism—clear enough to dismantle and rebuild.

  She hadn’t known then that people were far more complicated than machines. The mafia had proven that to her. Though it had brought her money, it had also brought her something else: family. People who, for the first time in her life, had chosen her.

  When the water boiled, she poured instant coffee into a metal mug, stirred it, and took a sip.

  Too strong. Exactly how she liked it.

  She pulled on her work coveralls, clipped her hair up, and grabbed a piece of toast she held between her teeth as she walked down the spiral stairs.

  The smell of oil and gasoline from the workshop greeted her like a familiar hello. Old license plates hung on the wall, their numbers half erased. On the table waited open carburetors, wrenches, and flashlights.

  She set her mug down and turned on the radio.

  The sound of engines, the quiet of morning, and the voice of a female singer from the old transistor merged into one.

  Then the silence broke.

  A familiar engine growled outside—deep, pulsing, unmistakable in the way it sounded like it was bragging about itself.

  She didn’t even look. She knew it from the rhythm of the exhaust. Isaac’s Ninja.

  She smiled under her breath, taking another sip of coffee before setting the mug down.

  The engine stopped in front of the workshop, and a moment later the metal door creaked open.

  Isaac entered in his usual style.

  He removed his helmet slowly, like a scene from a movie only he could see in his head, and placed it on the seat. His hair fell across his neck and shoulders, and when he unzipped his jacket the familiar scent filled the space—leather, gasoline, and tobacco.

  “Hard at work, Ivy?” he said, walking past her and mercilessly ruffling her hair.

  She rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t hide the half-smile.

  “Someone has to be, Isaac.”

  She stood and approached the motorcycle, inspecting it like a surgeon suspicious of someone else’s work.

  No scratches. No damaged parts. Not even dust.

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “Talk.”

  He had already leaned back in the chair, far too relaxed for a place that smelled of labor and metal.

  “Some news from the top,” he began, crossing one leg over the other. “One of ours—well, former ours—decided to get clever. Opened a mechanic shop two blocks down.”

  He shrugged, as if announcing the weather.

  “And imagine this—under someone else’s protection.”

  He paused.

  “Killian thinks it would be nice if we paid him a visit. Just… to explain a few things.”

  Ivy listened without reacting.

  She set the mug down, wiped her hands on a cloth, and walked to an old chest in the corner of the workshop.

  She opened it and pulled out a helmet—black, scratched, her name carved into the side.

  She put it on in one smooth motion and swung a leg over the motorcycle.

  “Well then,” she said, looking at him through the visor opening, a quiet cold spark in her voice—the spark of a woman who knows she never goes anywhere just to explain things.

  Isaac laughed and climbed onto the motorcycle in front of her.

  “I knew you’d like the idea.”

  The engine roared to life, and a cloud of gray smoke rose from the exhaust.

  Ivy smacked him on the shoulder.

  “Drive. Before my coffee gets cold.”

  Isaac only laughed, leaned forward, and twisted the throttle.

  The street opened before them like a vein of concrete, and the motorcycle shot through the morning fog of the industrial district—two people who had found everything in the mafia except peace.

  The sun pushed through the dirty clouds above the industrial zone, casting long shadows across the sheet-metal rooftops.

  Isaac’s motorcycle stopped in front of a workshop whose sign still smelled of fresh paint.

  Across the board, in large, overly confident letters, it read:

  New Chapter — Specialized Mechanics and Restoration

  Isaac killed the engine, and the silence that followed felt heavier than the noise had been.

  Only the wind carried dust along the street while the sign above the door creaked uncertainly.

  “New Chapter,” he read with a smile that held no humor.

  “You know you’re in trouble when someone thinks life has chapters.”

  He removed his gloves slowly, finger by finger, like he was peeling off skin.

  Ivy was already walking ahead of him, her gaze sliding over the machines displayed behind the glass.

  Engines, workbenches—everything clean, everything new, not a trace of dust.

  Too tidy for someone used to dirty work.

  “You know,” she said as she approached the open door, “you can always recognize a traitor by the smell.”

  Isaac looked at her, half amused.

  “And what does it smell like?”

  “Like oil that isn’t yours.”

  The door creaked when they stepped inside.

  The scent of metal and solvents hit them immediately, though beneath it lingered a sterile note. Behind the work counter, a man in his thirties with strong arms and a sun-browned face froze when he saw them.

  For a moment, hope flickered in his eyes that they were just customers. Then he saw Isaac. The hope died before it could breathe.

  “Isaac,” he said slowly, tightening the rag in his hands.

  “Relja!” Isaac replied, his smile wide like greeting an old friend. “You didn’t call, didn’t write. Started a new business without telling us. You broke my heart.”

  Ivy moved behind the counter as if casually looking around, but every glance was precise. A look across the machines. A fingertip across a new tool. A coded number on a metal box. She spun a screwdriver in her hand, though the way she held it had nothing to do with repairs.

  “I hear,” Isaac continued, leaning lightly against the counter, “you’ve started working with… the wrong people. That sounds like a system error to me.”

  Relja lifted his chin, trying to keep his voice steady.

  “Isaac, that’s not your concern anymore. I don’t owe you anything.”

  Isaac smiled again, though there was no joy in it.

  “You see, Relja… in this family, there’s no such thing as I used to be. Either you are—or you aren’t.”

  He tilted his head slightly.

  “And if you aren’t… that comes with a price.”

  Ivy returned from her slow circle around the workshop. She brushed a finger across one shelf thoughtfully and looked at him.

  “Interesting,” she said calmly. “Uses the same oil brand as us. Just with new labels.”

  Relja’s expression froze.

  Isaac nodded, the smile on his face hinting the game was over.

  “Ivy,” he said, “I think we’ll have to help him remember who his real supplier is.”

  At that moment the door opened. Two people in black jackets stepped inside. Their movements were relaxed, but confident enough to make it clear they knew exactly what they were dealing with.

  The first looked at Relja, then at Isaac, and finally at Ivy.

  “Do we have a problem here?” he asked in a voice that carried the habit of authority.

  Isaac turned slowly, his smile still fixed but never reaching his eyes.

  “Not yet,” he said calmly. “But you know how it goes… problems appear when people stop respecting house rules.”

  The second man frowned and stepped closer. He pulled a pistol from his jacket without hurry and pressed the barrel against Isaac’s temple.

  Ivy breathed slowly. Her gaze moved between the two men, though she appeared merely to observe.

  Isaac raised his hands slowly, as if surrendering. His smile didn’t move.

  “You know,” he said, “I’m always impressed when someone puts a gun to the wrong head.”

  Ivy rolled her eyes almost imperceptibly. Her hand slid silently behind her back to the worktable, where a heavy wrench lay among the tools.

  Their eyes met. A second—maybe less. But it was enough.

  Isaac moved suddenly. He twisted his head aside and in the same motion knocked the gun from the man’s hand. The clang of metal hitting concrete shattered the silence. His fist followed, slamming straight into the attacker’s chest. The man stumbled backward, dragging a pile of tools down with him.

  Isaac grabbed the pistol from the floor, turning it in his hand like a piece of jewelry.

  At the same moment Ivy had already spun around. The heavy wrench cut through the air and struck the second attacker square in the temple. The sound was dull and short. The man simply lowered his head and collapsed.

  Relja stared at the scene, frozen.

  Then he began inching toward the door, step by step, like someone hoping he could disappear before anyone noticed.

  Isaac turned the pistol toward him. The sight lined up perfectly with the center of his back.

  Relja stopped. His breathing grew heavy, his lungs trembling.

  Isaac spoke quietly, his voice calm, yet each word slicing through the air like a blade.

  “You have no idea how hard I tried to believe you were just stupid… and not a traitor.”

  Relja didn’t move.

  Isaac shifted the gun slightly and fired. The bullet tore through the compressor pipe. The metallic crack echoed like an explosion of rage. Air shrieked as oil and steam sprayed across the room. Isaac fired again—this time into the hanging row of tools. Metal crashed to the floor, clattering across the concrete until the entire space dissolved into chaotic noise.

  Ivy watched him for a second or two.

  Then, without a word, she grabbed an iron rod and smashed it down on the worktable, shattering the glass and scattering tools everywhere.

  Not stopping him. Completing the gesture.

  When everything finally fell silent, oil dripped slowly from the table.

  Relja stood stiffly, beads of oil and sweat on his forehead.

  Isaac lowered the pistol, walked over to him, and whispered close enough that Relja could feel his breath on his neck.

  “Next time, Relja…I’ll shoot at something that matters.”

  He turned, zipped his jacket, and said calmly,

  “Ivy, let’s go.”

  She dropped the wrench on the floor like a seal of judgment and followed him. The door slammed shut behind them. And the fluorescent light flickered one last time—before burning out.

  Rain began to fall as they stepped out of the workshop. Droplets struck the metal roofs and streamed down the neon signs, turning the street into a blurred mirror.

  The motorcycle waited outside, water already gathering in small puddles around its wheels. Isaac mounted first, swinging his leg over the seat and starting the engine—the sound rolled through the empty yard like a low thunder. Ivy climbed on behind him. Her arms wrapped around his waist, their jackets pressing together under the rain.

  They rode without speaking. Isaac drove fast, but not recklessly—like someone who knew every pothole, every turn of this city by heart.

  When they reached her workshop, the motorcycle stopped with a short hiss of tires against wet concrete.

  Ivy got off. She looked up at him and held his gaze.

  “You’ve got blood on your neck,” she said after a moment, her voice quiet—almost gentle.

  Isaac wiped it with his hand and glanced at the smear on his fingers.

  “Not mine,” he replied, as if that explained everything.

  Ivy nodded. She lowered her gaze to the concrete before adding,

  “Relja was lucky.”

  Isaac raised an eyebrow, pulled his helmet back on, and spoke through the visor.

  “No. He got a warning.”

  The engine roared. The sound bounced off the walls and shattered the quiet.

  Ivy remained where she stood, hands in her pockets, watching as his tail light became a small red dot in the distance before disappearing into fog and rain.

  For a moment she simply stood there, the wind carrying the smell of gasoline and metal.

  Then she slowly stepped inside the workshop, closed the door behind her, and leaned against it with her back. She stayed like that for a second or two. Then she went back to work.

  Killian Phoenix, 04 May 2025

  Restaurant Cube was closed to the public.

  Only one table was illuminated, like a stage set beneath a spotlight.

  The walls had sunk into half-darkness, and the air thickened with bluish cigar smoke.

  On the table: crystal glasses, fine ceramic plates, meat served on black stone slabs, wine the color of blood.

  Four people sat there.

  Killian Phoenix leaned back in his chair. His right hand rested on a black ebony cane, while his left held a cigar.

  To his left sat Lucien, responsible for drugs and distribution through the northern ports—always impeccably dressed, with a voice that belonged more to a judge than a criminal.

  To the right of him sat Marek, an arms dealer and former soldier—scar across his temple, a hand that never stayed still.

  Across from them sat Silva, cold as ice and rich as sin, responsible for the chain of smuggling “live cargo” across the southern borders.

  They all ate slowly, ritualistically. No one spoke about the food—only about power.

  Lucien was the first to break the silence.

  “We heard you had… an incident at the border,” he said, gently swirling wine in his glass. “Some might say it was more than an incident.”

  His gaze flicked to Killian’s cane.

  Killian exhaled smoke and replied calmly.

  “One of my convoys was delayed. It happens.”

  Lucien smiled—the thin smile of a man who believed he knew more than he should.

  “It happens even to the best,” he said, returning his gaze to Killian’s face. “But you know how we worry. Relics are… unstable merchandise. Perhaps it would be wise if someone shared the burden. I’m sure the Boss would support such an idea.”

  Killian paused. He tapped ash from the cigar and looked straight at Lucien. There was no anger in his eyes—only a silence that lasted one second longer than it should have.

  “What did you say?”

  Lucien tried to remain composed.

  “That relics are unstable merchandise and—”

  “You’ll have to speak louder,” Killian interrupted.

  The sentence landed on the table like a knife driven into wood.

  Lucien’s smile vanished. Marek looked away. Silva studied her plate.

  Killian blew out another stream of smoke before finally speaking again—quietly, each word measured.

  “Relics are not merchandise, Lucien. They are trust. And I don’t share it. Not with Vega, not with you, not with anyone.”

  He paused, then smiled faintly.

  “If you think I can’t carry that burden alone… feel free to help. Stand underneath.”

  Marek laughed—a rough, soldier’s laugh that didn’t know when to stop.

  “I knew you’d eat him alive at the table,” he said, reaching for his glass.

  “Marek,” Killian replied calmly, “if you eat too fast, you’ll choke. That applies to business as well.”

  Silva interrupted their exchange, her fingers brushing the rim of her glass.

  “Killian,” she said with a soft smile, “no one here doubts your capability. Only your limit. Anyone who carries fire in their hands… sooner or later smells their own ashes.”

  Killian smiled.

  “Perhaps,” he said. “But if you burn long enough, you get used to the heat.”

  He pressed the cigar into the crystal ashtray, straightened, and took his cane.

  “You know, Silva,” he added as he rose, “I don’t mind sharing work. I just never seem to find anyone alive afterward.”

  Killian stood from the table calmly. The movement was controlled, almost elegant. But beneath the leg of his trousers, a muscle trembled—the one still trying to remember how to walk.

  “Gentlemen,” he said serenely, “it’s always a pleasure when someone tries to convince me I know less about my own business than they do.”

  Smiles stretched across their faces—empty, overly polished. Killian let his gaze drift over them, lingering on Lucien. Then he lowered his eyes, carefully placed his cane on the floor, leaned on it, and walked toward the exit.

  His footsteps echoed across the marble. Rhythmic. Every second step slightly heavier—yet timed so precisely that no one would notice. No one except him. He alone felt the brief tightening, the unpleasant pull of tissue deep beneath the skin.

  He stopped at the door, looked out at the rain, and spoke calmly without turning around.

  “If anyone has an idea how to help me…send me a message. In the ashes.”

  He stepped outside without haste. The smoke still hung in the air behind him while the others remained at the table in silence— each calculating how long it still made sense to play games with a demon.

  Rain fell in a fine, steady curtain, turning the streets into mirrors. Lights from shop windows spilled across the water like streaks of molten gold.

  Killian walked slowly down the sidewalk in front of his hotel, his cane occasionally sliding against the wet stone.

  The rest of the dinner was behind him now, but the cigar smoke and the weight of the three gazes at the table still echoed in his mind.

  He was alone. And that suited him. In the quiet of the rain, everything felt more honest.

  He turned into a side street, where the streetlights were weaker. The smell of gasoline and rain mixed with the scent of old cobblestone.

  Somewhere in the distance, behind a row of dumpsters, there was movement—two figures, maybe three.

  “Hey, mister!” a voice called out.

  Young. Bold. Tight with fear and adrenaline.

  Killian turned, his cane lifting slightly from the ground.

  One young man approached quickly, hood pulled over his head. His hands trembled, though the knife he held was steady.

  “Give me your wallet.”

  Killian stopped. He looked at him. There wasn’t a trace of emotion on his face—only calm, like someone watching the rain fall.

  The young man struck him with a fist to the ribs. The sound of the blow was dull.

  Killian didn’t even move. He simply leaned slightly forward, looked at the boy, and said calmly:

  “Repeat that.”

  The boy’s breath caught in his throat. His hand trembled.

  “I said—” he tried again, but his voice cracked beneath the weight of that gaze—a gaze that carried not the warmth of a man, but the stillness of a demon.

  Killian stepped forward and pressed the knife downward with his cane.

  “Do you know what I hate the most?” he asked while rain drummed against his shoulders.

  The boy said nothing.

  “Human stupidity disguised as desperation. If you’re hungry, go to the woman who sells bread on the corner. Tell her Phoenix sent you.”

  He pulled a bill from his pocket and tossed it onto the wet pavement.

  “But if you’re greedy, take that. And disappear before I run out of the little patience I have left.”

  The boy snatched the money and ran down the street, disappearing into the dark.

  Killian remained standing in the rain for another moment, watching the water run down his cane, his shoes, and the street itself.

  Then he turned toward his reflection in a shop window.

  A figure in a black coat. With a cane. And eyes that carried no anger—only emptiness.

  For a moment he smiled at himself, a smile so faint it was almost invisible. And he murmured:

  “Honest and civilized…they’re getting rarer by the day.”

  He turned and continued walking through the street—through his city of sin, blood, and gold.