Anton Smederev, April 8th, 2025

  Anton lay on his bed, arms stretched above him, holding the golden bell. Small, carved with old symbols, it gleamed under the weak morning light slipping through half-opened blinds. The room around him was everything a twenty-year-old’s room could be: walls covered with movie and video-game posters, a few chess medals dangling on nails, and in the corner, beside the computer, controllers and tangled cables scattered like abandoned soldiers. Near the wardrobe, a half-deflated football reminded him of the days he tried that sport too.

  He stared at the bell in his hands, gripping it lightly, as if the relic might run away if he loosened his hold. Flock’s distorted voice still echoed in his head:

  “Nothing will be able to kill you… until that moment.”

  He swallowed hard and looked down at his own body again. He breathed the same. His heart beat normally. He felt no wave of power, no change. He couldn’t understand how something so small and ordinary could contain words that promised him immortality — at least until that unknown day.

  He raised his eyes to the ceiling, then back to the bell. Instead of feeling invincible, he felt exactly as he had yesterday: ordinary, regular, a young man in a room full of posters and discarded dreams.

  His mother’s voice calling him to breakfast cut through his thoughts.

  “Coming!” Anton shouted, still holding the bell.

  He quickly shoved it into his pocket and left the room. Down the stairs, his steps echoed through the house, and on the way he passed his younger sister. Her eyes were glued to her phone, fingers flying over the screen. He snatched the device from her as he walked by.

  “Anton! Give it back!” she yelled, lunging after him.

  Laughing, he ran further down the steps, holding the phone high, and she chased after him, furious and out of breath. Only when they stepped into the dining room did he hand it back, and she greeted him with a look promising vengeance. Their mother was setting the last plates on the table, adjusting everything with careful precision. The smell of fried eggs and toast filled the room. Their father sat in his usual place, newspaper spread before him, taking occasional sips of coffee or bites of crispy toast. His sister sat first, poured herself orange juice, while Anton dropped into the chair beside her and immediately began stuffing food into his mouth, as if he wanted to swallow his nerves along with breakfast.

  “Did you prepare everything for work?” their mother asked, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel.

  Anton nodded while chewing, avoiding her worried gaze.

  “Are you sure, son, this is really what you want to do? It’s not too late to back out.”

  Her words fell onto the table like added weight. Anton paused, wanting to respond, but at that moment his father lowered the newspaper and looked at him over his glasses.

  “Leave him be, woman,” his voice firm, leaving no room for argument.

  He stood up, grabbed his bag, and said while heading for the door:

  “It’s a great honor that our son is in the Amber Directorate.”

  He kissed her on the cheek and walked out, leaving behind the scent of coffee and newspaper ink.

  Anton ate in silence, aware that any word he spoke could open new questions he didn’t want to answer. He didn’t utter a single syllable about Flock — his mother would never sleep again if she knew what the spirit had demanded from him. Instead, he kept things shallow. He mentioned meeting Hannah and Leonid, saying only that they were “very serious people,” and added that he couldn’t talk much about work because it was forbidden. His sister watched him over her phone with curiosity, his mother searched his face for something he was hiding, while he pretended to be fully occupied with bread and butter.

  He felt guilty seeing that worried crease on her forehead — the small wrinkle that always appeared when she talked about him and his job. But excitement tore at him from the inside stronger than anything — the feeling that he was stepping into something big, onto a path he chose himself. He didn’t know what awaited him that very day, but he knew he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

  Anton finished his bite, stood up, and grabbed his backpack from the chair. He slung it over his shoulder, looked once more at the table and the faces around it — his sister already back in her phone, his mother gathering the plates. At the door, her voice reached him, gentle but filled with worry.

  “Be careful, son.”

  He turned and flashed a quick smile, too fast for her to notice the nervousness behind it.

  “I will, mom.”

  He placed his hand on the doorknob, opened the door, and stepped outside, leaving behind the smell of coffee and the warmth of home. The cold morning air hit him, and his heart beat faster — the day was beginning, and ahead of him lay a path no one in his family could even imagine.

  Hannah Adler, April 8th, 2025

  Hannah opened her eyes slowly, as if her eyelids were still carrying the weight of the night. The room around her was wrapped in a half-dark haze, the morning light barely slipping through half-closed blinds and tinting the walls pale gray. Everything looked blurry, as though she were seeing through milk, until she reached out blindly, searching the nightstand. Her fingers brushed her phone, dragged it toward her, and the burst of screen light nearly blinded her. The clock screamed in white digits—she was late.

  Below that, missed calls blinked, all from the same name:

  Leonid Frost.

  Her heartbeat quickened, but instead of panic, the first thing she felt was frustration with herself. She sat up abruptly, the blanket sliding off her shoulders, and the cold morning air cut across her skin. She glanced around the room, eyes skimming the space, but Isaac was nowhere in sight. Only the lingering smell of smoke and the faint trace of his presence hung in the air.

  She grabbed the first shirt off the chair, pulled it on clumsily as her hair fell over her face. Quick, sharp steps carried her to the door, each one firm, trying to catch up to lost minutes.

  When she stepped into the kitchen, she found silence broken only by the soft hum of the refrigerator. On the counter waited a plate covered with transparent film, beneath which she saw a sandwich with roast pork and egg. The coffee filter had been replaced, the machine washed, and the whole space carried a quiet kind of care—as if small traces of worry had been left behind in his wake.

  She stepped closer, set her phone on the counter, and slid the plastic aside with her fingers. Next to the plate was a small note, handwritten in a hurried but neat script:

  Enjoy.

  Hannah paused for a moment, staring at the words, then set the note back down as if it were fragile. Only then did she notice another detail—next to the plate, carefully placed, lay a USB drive. Her eyes flickered, her brows lifted slightly in surprise. She reached out and wrapped her fingers around it firmly, her thumb brushing along its edges, as if she were weighing it, testing if it was real.

  A faint smile crossed her lips—quiet, small, meant for the kitchen walls alone. She held onto that moment, then turned—and as if the smile belonged only to that scene, it vanished. She brushed her hair back, drew a deep breath, and headed to the bedroom to get ready, the USB still tight in her grip, not released for even a second.

  The office door clicked shut behind Hannah. Two pairs of eyes greeted her—one young and tense, the other stretched into cynical satisfaction. Anton sat in the chair gripping his backpack as if his life depended on it, eyes darting from wall to wall, while the dark monitor before him seemed to stare back without comfort.

  Leonid, in contrast, was in his element—his fingers drummed along the edges of papers as if playing a silent tune. When he saw Hannah, a wide, unapologetic grin spread across his face.

  “Please, mark the date. Hannah Adler is late to work.”

  He threw his hands into the air theatrically, voice echoing through the room.

  “It must be a special day.”

  Anton managed a weak smile, unsure if it was a joke or an attack. He lowered his gaze again, clutching his backpack even tighter. Hannah, however, didn’t react at all. Her steps were steady, even, as she approached her desk, set down her bag, and sat. With one click, her fingers brought the computer to life, while her other hand reached into her bag and pulled out the small USB. She lifted it briefly to eye level—as proof—then set it on the desk without ceremony.

  “We have important work today.”

  Leonid didn’t let up.

  He stood, tossing the papers upward like shaking dust off the world.

  “What could possibly disrupt the rhythm of Miss Adler?” he proclaimed dramatically.

  “A million-euro question!”

  With slow but long steps, he approached her desk and leaned over her shoulder.

  Hannah glanced at him, one eyebrow subtly raised.

  “I forgot to set the alarm. Can we move on now?"

  Her fingers were already reaching for the USB—but Leonid was faster.

  His hand slipped beneath hers, snatching it up and raising it to eye level.

  “This is why you’re late?” he asked, voice a mix of mockery and scolding. His lips curled as he turned the flash drive between his fingers.

  “You were late... and I had to walk to work."

  Anton snapped out of his stiffness, set his backpack aside, and stood. His gaze locked onto the small black device in Leonid’s hand.

  “What’s on it?” he asked, stepping up beside Leonid, both of them staring at the USB as if it held the key to the world’s secrets.

  Hannah raised an eyebrow, then firmly grabbed the USB, yanking it from Leonid’s grip and plugging it into her computer.

  “Allow me to show you.”

  Silence tightened around the office as the three of them watched the loading bar crawl across the screen. Data flickered into folders, and when Hannah opened one, the monitor lit up with neatly labeled documents. She clicked one—text spilled across the display. Her eyes gleamed.

  “Relics?” Anton whispered, eyes wide.

  “Not just any relics, kid.”

  Leonid leaned closer, one arm braced on the back of her chair, his voice becoming lower, more serious.

  “These are lost relics. And their current locations.”

  Anton’s mouth fell open. To him, it looked like a treasure map—more exciting than any game he had ever played. In that rush of excitement, Leonid absent-mindedly ruffled Hannah’s hair as if congratulating a dog that found a prize.

  “Bravo, boss! This is gold we’re looking at.”

  Hannah lifted an eyebrow, pulled her head away, and immediately began fixing her hair, as if erasing the trace of his touch.

  “What did you do to get this information?” Leonid asked then, the smile fading from his eyes for a moment.

  Hannah closed all windows without a word, ejected the USB, and stood abruptly—forcing him to step back.

  “That’s not important,” she said coolly, slipping the flash drive into her pocket.

  “What matters is that we have a lot of work ahead of us.”

  She headed for the door and, without turning around, added:

  “I’ll take the data to Vivi. Then we start.”

  The door clicked shut behind her, leaving the office thick with silence—heavy and full of unspoken questions.

  Hannah couldn’t remember the last time she felt this excited.

  The data on that flash drive could mean more for the entire Amber Directorate than anyone yet understood. She didn’t like surrendering to intense emotions, but she couldn’t quiet the pulse hammering in her chest, even as her fingers pressed tightly around the pendant at her neck. Its surface shimmered faintly—almost as if Kai himself recognized that this was one of those rare moments when she was truly stirred.

  In a sea of people, Vivian was always easy to spot. Tall, impeccably put together, the golden waves of her hair flowed behind her like a cape that never fell. Hannah caught sight of her from behind: a wide emerald shirt tucked into equally wide trousers of the same shade, speaking to a small group of agents as she handed out papers and folders.

  “Vivi!” Hannah called out.

  The people around Vivian stepped aside immediately, offering quick greetings:

  “Miss Adler.”

  Vivian turned slowly—first her head, then her entire body—with the understated elegance that followed her every movement. Sapphire eyes met Hannah’s dark ones, and her lips curved into a slight smile, simple yet steeped in authority and femininity.

  “Hannah,” she said calmly.

  Hannah lifted her hand and offered her the USB. Vivian accepted it with her cold, metal hand, and Hannah felt her excitement slip through her teeth as she spoke.

  “Here’s the data we talked about.”

  Vivian lowered her gaze to the small USB in her metallic grip. Her fingers slid across it with deliberate care, as if she could already gauge its weight and value by touch alone. Strands of hair glided over her shoulder as she tilted her head, and her eyes—like frozen crystal—cut straight through Hannah.

  “I see.”

  She stayed like that for a moment—cold, perfectly still—while agents passing by instinctively created distance, as if sensing that what changed hands wasn’t a mere folder but something far more serious. Hannah felt her pulse quicken again, even as she squeezed the pendant tighter, trying to still its rhythm.

  “I'll review everything and write the plans," Vivian added in her measured tone, sliding the flash drive into the pocket of her trousers.

  Hannah returned a faint smile.

  “Thank you, Vivi. One can always count on you."

  Vivian studied her briefly, her chin dipping just a fraction, fingers remaining in her pocket longer than necessary, still wrapped around the flash drive.

  “I hope you were careful, Hannah,” she said, before turning and walking away—leaving behind a cold heaviness that didn’t belong to the hallway but to her.

  Hannah remained frozen in place.

  Vivian’s words echoed in her chest more strongly than she wanted to admit. Vivian had always been sharp, but never needlessly direct. Hannah remembered when she used to envy that cool confidence—back when she believed it was only a mask, hiding the same fragility all people carried.

  But the more time passed, the clearer it became: for Vivian, cold-blooded composure wasn’t an act. It was her natural state.

  The childish envy had long since faded.

  What remained was genuine respect.

  Hannah knew there were few things one could hide from Vivi.

  And she also knew Vivian would never ask more of her than she was willing to give.

  She exhaled slowly, feeling her fingers finally relax.

  The pendant she had been clutching slipped from her grip, tapping lightly against her chest with a soft, muted sound. Hannah lowered her gaze, let her hand slide down her thigh, and turned around. With steady, measured steps, she headed back toward the office.

  Killian Phoenix, April 8th, 2025

  The abandoned garage lay at the end of a dead-end street, illuminated only by a single flickering bulb hanging from a rusty chain. The smell of gasoline, oil, and stale dampness mixed with the metallic taste of blood that lingered in the air. The walls were covered in graffiti and peeling paint, and on the concrete floor, spilled oil reflected rainbow hues under the weak light. In one corner, an old water valve dripped steadily.

  At the center of the garage, surrounded by a circle of half-rotten tires, stood a metal chair. A man was tied to it, his face swollen and broken from the beating, his eyes clouded with pain and fear. Blood dripped down his chin, soaking the shirt that used to be white. Every breath he took was a struggle.

  In front of him, half lost in the shadows, Killian stood motionless. His black coat hung from his shoulders like a dark veil, and his cold eyes gleamed like ice in the dim light. In his hand, he turned his golden lighter, the metal glinting like a warning. The flame flicked on and off, every click sounding like the ticking of a clock counting down the man’s final moments.

  The silence was heavier than any words, broken only by the dripping of water and the occasional ragged moan.

  Killian did not rush. Like a true predator, he savored the anticipation, while his shadow stretched across the wall as if it, too, wanted to strangle the man in front of him.

  “I asked clearly and loudly…”

  Killian’s voice rang through the garage as his steps circled around the chair. His eyes shone like steel under a whetted blade, and the golden lighter clicked in his fingers, the flame flaring and dying, dancing across the prisoner’s tortured face.

  “Where did Amber Directorate get the data from the USB?”

  He stopped behind him, leaned close to his ear, and whispered, the sound scraping like a blade.

  “I expect an equally clear and loud answer.”

  The prisoner jerked, blood dripping from his lips as he hoarsely swore he knew nothing, that he had no idea. His voice cracked between tears and blood.

  Killian studied him again—not as a human, but as a broken object stripped of value. Then he pressed his fingers along the edge of the lighter, snuffed out the last flame, and let the metallic snap of the lid slice through the silence.

  With a single gesture—cold and decisive—two figures stepped forward from the dark. Their hands tore the prisoner from the ropes only to drag him toward the back door. His screams faded with the echo of their footsteps.

  Killian straightened his coat, slipped the lighter under the fabric, and said curtly, without a hint of emotion:

  “Bring the next one.”

  His gaze remained fixed on the empty chair before him.

  The metal frame gleamed beneath the pale bulb, droplets of blood from the previous prisoner already spreading into dark stains on the concrete.

  At Vega’s request, he had rounded up everyone who had even the smallest connection to the mission involving the flash drive data. Names, faces, shadows working from the sidelines—no one was spared. He had to find an answer. He had to find the traitor. He had to do the job properly.

  And yet, every person so far had gone through the same hell and spoken the same truth: they weren’t lying. Killian knew. His eyes—trained to read the tiniest twitch of muscle or tremor of breath—had found no trace of deceit.

  It gnawed at him—someone had leaked the information, and he still couldn’t see how.

  The garage door creaked, and two figures dressed in black brought in the next man. He resisted weakly, his body already drained more by fear than by any blows. They forced him onto the chair, tied his hands, and pushed his head downward.

  Killian’s voice sliced through the silence, as steady and harsh as every time before.

  “Where did Amber Directorate get the data from the USB?”

  The question rang through the space like a bell—threatening and inevitable.

  After long minutes of torturous interrogation, the sounds of blows and gurgling blood faded into a sickening silence. Killian stood leaning against a table, wiping his hands with a cloth, the blood leaving dark smears across the white fabric. He was ready to discard this suspect like the previous ones — just another lost cause.

  But then, from cracked lips, he heard muffled mumbling, drowned in bubbling blood.

  Killian lifted his head. Slowly, without hurry, he approached the man and grabbed his hair with one hand. He yanked the battered head back, so close to his own face that the poor man could feel every breath Killian exhaled — cold, laced with smoke and metal.

  “Louder, please.”

  His voice carried not a trace of compassion — it was a cut, a sharp command, a blade instead of a word.

  The prisoner coughed painfully, blood sliding down his chin, then spoke, almost choking on his own breath.

  “Why… don’t you ask your brother… Mr. Phoenix…”

  Killian’s pupils widened, as if the entire space dimmed. For a brief moment, his eyes lost their cold composure. His voice escaped his throat softer than usual, but dripping with venom.

  “What did you say?”

  The man laughed through blood, barely moving his cracked lips, but there was victory in that smile — however short.

  “Your brother… Phoenix… he… held the flash drive the longest…”

  The sentence dissolved into a wet, bloody rasp, and the smile froze on his face.

  Killian abruptly released his head. He took one step back, then another, raised his hands behind his head and interlaced his fingers. His breathing slowed, but grew deeper — each inhale felt like he was drawing in anger, each exhale letting out control.

  The room fell into a heavy quiet, filled only with the creaking of his boots as he paced in a circle. The garage walls swallowed the sound, and the sharp light from the bulb cast his shadow against the bare concrete like a dark twin.

  Then suddenly, without warning, he pulled out his gun.

  In one lightning motion, his body jolted forward — the cold metal smashed into the prisoner’s face, the crack of the impact ringing like a hammer. Blood splattered across the concrete, and the man let out a twisted laugh, more blood than voice. Killian stepped back again. He lowered his head, locks of dark hair falling over his face, hiding his eyes. He stared at the ground, as if searching for meaning in the cold tiles soaked with sweat and blood.

  He didn’t stay there long.

  He stepped forward again, grabbed the man by the collar and yanked him close. Their faces were separated only by blood and breath, and Killian’s voice was a whisper that cut.

  “Your name?”

  The man barely managed to mumble it, blood spilling over his lips.

  “Adam… Eloh.”

  Killian nodded slowly, as if inscribing the name into his personal book of sins. He released him and looked at the gun in his hand. The weight of the metal was familiar, calming.

  “Never again…” he said as he pressed the barrel to Adam’s forehead, his eyes locked onto the bloody face, “... never again will you talk badly about my little brother."

  His finger squeezed the trigger.

  The shot tore through the room, and Adam’s smile vanished forever, frozen in a final twitch.

  One of the men in black — young, far too green to understand who he was addressing — hurried toward him. His voice trembled despite his attempt to sound firm.

  “Mr. Phoenix, please… the boss ordered no fatalities during this interrogation.”

  Killian lifted his gaze. His blue eyes, cold and unmoving, looked as though arctic ice was fracturing inside them. The silence lasted only a few seconds, but long enough to freeze the young agent’s blood.

  Without warning, Killian raised the gun and pulled the trigger. The shot burst through the garage, echoing off the bare walls and returning like a verdict. The bullet struck the man in the shoulder. He cried out, collapsing to his knees, clutching the bleeding wound.

  “My finger slipped,” Killian murmured calmly, as if commenting on a poorly poured glass of wine.

  He turned in a slow circle, arms spread, the black coat whipping around him. His gaze swept over every man in black.

  “Does anyone else have anything to add?”

  Silence. Only the ragged breathing of the wounded agent on the floor. The others quickly lowered their heads, averted their eyes — as if meeting his gaze would cost them their next breath.

  Killian paused. He holstered the gun with calm, precise motions.

  “Good.”

  His voice was quiet, yet rang like a command that cannot be questioned.

  “Clean this up. Then we're done.”

  He turned and walked toward the exit. His footsteps echoed on the concrete, each one like the strike of a gong.

  When he crossed the threshold, an image surfaced at the edge of his thoughts.

  Isaac’s smile — self-satisfied, stubborn.

  What are you doing, little brother…

  Isaac Phoenix, April 8th, 2025

  Night had fallen over the city, the sky sliced by neon lights and the occasional flash of distant lightning. Isaac’s Ninja tore down the avenue. The glow of streetlamps slid over the lines of the bike, while the hot asphalt behind him left a trail of rubber and gasoline in the air.

  He stopped in front of a club whose sign flickered — half the letters dead, the other half casting an eerie red glow over the entrance. The bass inside rattled the walls; you could feel the music in your chest even before stepping in.

  Isaac parked his bike flush against the curb, lifted the visor, and slipped off his helmet, his hair spilling down his neck. He tucked the helmet under his arm, a cigarette flared to life between his fingers. Smoke curled from his lips as he approached the entrance.

  Two security guards in black shirts opened the door. Their eyes slid over him, but neither spoke. They simply moved aside, as if Isaac carried the keys to their lives in his pocket.

  Inside was chaos — color and sound. Red and purple spotlights carved through smoke and shadows. Girls slid down poles to the pounding rhythm that made the ceiling vibrate, while alcohol poured like water. The heavy mix of perfume, sweat, and cheap smoke hovered in the air. People at tables stared into their drinks, hiding behind their glasses, while others shouted over each other to compete with the bass.

  Isaac pushed through the crowd, and somehow the path opened for him on its own. He paused for a moment, lifted his cigarette and drew in a slow drag, his eyes glinting in the half-dark. Then he headed straight for the back booth, where the owner waited — short, fat, sweat licking his forehead, his tie drooping like it was strangling him.

  “Mr. Phoenix… you didn’t have to come in person,” he said in a hoarse voice, wiping his forehead with a napkin.

  Isaac sat down without hurry, placing the helmet on the table next to a half-empty glass of whiskey.

  “For visits like this… I always like to come in person.”

  One arm draped over the back of the booth, knee crossed over the other, cigarette glowing between his fingers. Smoke twisted upward and shattered against the moving lights. The owner, sweaty and uneasy, waved frantically at a waiter.

  “Can I bring you something, Mr. Phoenix? A premium whiskey, or maybe champagne?”

  His voice shook, though his smile was stretched to the breaking point.

  Isaac didn’t reply immediately. He slowly turned his head, his gaze cold enough to raise goosebumps. He drew a breath of smoke, exhaled, the clouds floating across the booth.

  “I drink when I feel like drinking,” he said at last.

  The owner swallowed hard and launched into rambling chatter, trying to drown his nerves. About the girls who gave “spectacular performances last night,” about “delayed investments,” even “speaker repairs.”

  Anything except the reason Isaac was here.

  Isaac remained silence itself.

  He leaned forward slightly, resting an elbow on the table. With his index finger, he began tapping the whiskey glass before him — the ring on his hand catching the light, runes reflecting in brief flashes. Each tap sounded like a ticking clock.

  “You talk nicely,” he finally said. His voice was soft, yet it made the owner’s heart skip. “But you and I both know I’m not here for conversation.”

  The owner flinched, tugging at an already perfectly straightened tie.

  “Of course, of course… I understand.”

  He reached for his glass, but his hand shook so badly the whiskey rippled at the rim. Isaac kept tapping the glass — softer each time, but heavier.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  “How much?” the owner asked, barely managing to whisper it, perhaps hoping Isaac wouldn’t hear over the music.

  Isaac took a drag and exhaled sharply over the table, through a smile without warmth.

  “Fifteen thousand euros. By the end of the week.”

  The owner froze, his eyes going wide — that was far more than he expected. He looked around, as if the lights, the girls on stage, or the crowd could offer an answer.

  “Mr. Phoenix… that’s—”

  Isaac placed his cigarette on the rim of the glass, dragging ash across it and leaving a black burn mark. The ring on his finger glowed brighter, the runes sparking for a moment, and the glass cracked. It didn’t shatter — but to the owner, it looked one second away from crumbling under that invisible pressure.

  “Don’t make me explain twice.”

  It took the owner a single heartbeat to understand. He nodded — too fast, several times in a row.

  “By the end of the week. It will be.”

  Isaac leaned back in the booth again, picked up his cigarette for the last drag, crushed it in the ashtray, and stood up slowly, as if the business were formalized. He adjusted his jacket over his shoulders, his face expressionless.

  The owner, pale and sweating, fumbled around the cracked glass before him.

  Isaac had already taken a few steps toward the exit when he heard it — muttered through the roar of the music, poisonous:

  “He thinks he can lecture me…”

  In that instant something in Isaac snapped like breaking glass.

  He turned sharply, grabbed a full ashtray from the table, and hurled it with all his strength at the owner’s face.

  Glass exploded on impact, shards slicing into skin. The scream cut through the music; blood streamed down the man’s cheek, his eyes wide in shock.

  Isaac stepped closer, looking down at him with dark eyes glowing in the half-light. His voice had not a single tremor.

  “Fifteen thousand. Don’t forget the pain of this moment while you’re counting the money.”

  Then he turned as if nothing had happened, zipped up his jacket, and headed toward the exit. As he walked through the club, the crowd parted before him — no one daring to breathe too loudly.

  Outside, the cold night greeted him. The club’s neon lights flickered behind him as he leaned over the Ninja. The black motorcycle, gleaming like armor, waited in silence, and the street felt empty, as if it belonged only to him. He pulled on his helmet, the engine roared to life beneath his hands, and the sound ripped across the asphalt.

  Without looking back, he disappeared into the boulevards, leaving behind the smell of gasoline, the bite of the wind, and a bloody debt of fifteen thousand.

  He killed the engine of the Ninja, but for a moment he remained under the helmet, listening to the silence outside the building.

  The night was thick — heavy with humidity and the distant noise of the city.

  Only when he pulled the helmet off, letting his hair fall down his neck, did he step toward the entrance.

  His boots echoed on the stairs, each step heavy and steady. When he reached his floor, he reached for the key — and froze.

  The door was already unlocked.

  His eyes darkened, black and deep, his whole face shifting into a mask of caution. He pressed the handle lightly; the door gave way without resistance. He slipped inside like a shadow.

  He crouched beside the shoe cabinet, palms braced on the cold tile, peering over the edge of the hallway.

  No one.

  In one swift movement he pulled the board of the cabinet open, took out the gun, checked the trigger — metal flickered in his hand.

  He moved forward, slow, one step after another. The gun hung low but ready, and every breath felt too loud as he cleared the rooms.

  When he stepped into the living room, a silhouette cut across his path.

  Instinct snapped — his arm swung upward, the trigger a breath away from firing.

  The face that appeared under the dim light froze his finger, made it heavy as lead.

  His hand trembled.

  “Killian?”

  The word came out hoarse, more wound than voice.

  Killian stood before him, cold and unmoving, like a statue carved out of darkness.

  The black shirt clung to him, unbuttoned just enough to reveal the trail of ink running down his skin. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, exposing how the rune tattoos on his fingers continued seamlessly along his forearms. His gaze was unyielding, cold as northern winds.

  Isaac thought it was all a misunderstanding. Relief softened his shoulders, the gun lowered toward his thigh.

  “You can just call ahead when—"

  The sentence died in his chest.

  Killian’s fist — hard as stone — slammed under his ribs.

  All the air rushed out of Isaac’s lungs as if his soul had been sucked out.

  The gun clattered onto the floor, and he collapsed backward, trembling on the tiles, scrambling for breath.

  “What the fuck, Killian?!” he rasped, dragging himself backward, one hand clutching his stomach, the other searching for support against the table. His hair fell over his face, black as ink, damp with sweat and the lingering smoke twisted from the ashtray on the table.

  Killian stepped forward slowly, his shadow pouring over his brother like night overtaking the horizon.

  “I’ve been protecting you your whole life…”

  His voice was quiet, but every word hit like lead.

  The next punch sliced through the air.

  A fist struck Isaac’s face; his head whipped to the side, blood streaking across his lips. He spat, crimson droplets splattering the floorboards.

  He pushed himself up slowly, gripping the shelf to steady himself. His fingers trembled — then closed around a porcelain vase.

  With the last of his strength, he swung it.

  The vase shattered against Killian’s head.

  His head jerked aside, shards crashed around their feet. Blood slid down Killian’s temple, catching on his eyebrow and dripping onto his shirt.

  “…and this is how you repay me?”

  His voice faltered for a moment, tinged with disappointment.

  But his hands did not.

  He swung again.

  This time Isaac was ready. He caught the blow along his forearms, deflected the next, stepped backward — but there was nowhere to go.

  The next strike — a knee to the ribs.

  The crack echoed through the room.

  Isaac collapsed over the low table, scattering the ashtray and half a bottle of whiskey. He lifted a shaking hand, blood and smoke mingling in his breath.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about!”

  For a second, it seemed Killian stepped back.

  His hands fell to his sides, breath heaving, drops of blood falling onto the dark floor.

  He shook his head.

  “I protect you. I guard you. I teach you everything I know…”

  He shook out his hands, continued quieter:

  “I try to make sure you don't repeat my mistakes..."

  But in his eyes, blue as steel, sharpness flashed again.

  He stepped forward — and the punch found its path.

  Isaac lay beside the couch, blood running down his cheek, but his hand found the gun hidden beneath.

  He lifted it, staggered to his feet, and pointed it at his brother.

  “Does this little speech of yours have a point?!"

  His voice cracked, every word clawing its way through pain and rage.

  The walls rang with it.

  Glass shards and broken porcelain crunched beneath his step.

  Killian walked toward him. His shoes crushed the debris, each step heavy and slow, as if stepping on his own conscience.

  When he reached Isaac, he simply lowered his forehead against the cold barrel of the gun.

  His eyes, bloodshot and blurred, stared straight at him.

  “Where did I go wrong, little brother?” he whispered, voice raw. “How did I hurt you this much?”

  Isaac’s finger trembled on the trigger, his jaw clenched until it threatened to crack, chest rising and falling in uneven, furious breaths.

  Instead of answering, he raised his hand and swung.

  Metal slammed into Killian’s cheek, head snapping to the side, body dropping back onto the couch.

  Blood poured down his face, his mouth half-open — a crooked mix of a smirk and exhaustion.

  Isaac stepped closer, grabbed his brother by the collar, and struck him again with the gun.

  Metal on bone echoed sharp through the room.

  Killian’s chin fell to the side, blood sliding down to the corner of his mouth.

  “Protected me, huh…” Isaac’s voice was clipped, breathless. “I never even saw you.”

  He let go of the collar abruptly, shaking his head.

  His eyes gleamed under the broken lamp.

  “And our parents…” he lifted his gaze to the ceiling, jaw trembling. “And mom…” he whispered so quietly it barely existed—

  Then he screamed, throat tearing:

  “What about mom, Killian!?”

  He staggered back, shoulders shaking, while Killian pushed himself into a sitting position on the couch, bracing against his bloodied hands.

  “It's your fault they're not here.”

  Isaac lifted the gun again, swinging it like he was striking with the words as much as the metal.

  He stepped forward.

  Killian slowly lifted his chin. His eyes flickered under the light, but he didn’t move.

  Isaac pressed the barrel to his brother’s forehead — cold metal sticking to blood-matted skin.

  “So I don’t know what exactly you were protecting me from.”

  Killian grabbed the barrel and locked eyes with him.

  “Just so you know — another man died today instead of you.”

  His voice was a growl, but he didn’t loosen his grip on the gun, even while Isaac struggled to pull it away.

  “I shot him in the forehead. Exactly like this.”

  His hand tightened on the metal, pressing it harder against his own bruised and bloodied skin.

  His words cut through the air — cold, unwavering.

  “Did you even think when you handed over that information?”

  Suddenly he released the gun and stood up.

  Isaac stepped back under the weight of Killian’s shadow, as if the silhouette alone chilled the room.

  “Did you at least get good money for it?”

  Killian spread his arms, voice sharp as a needle.

  “What if I hadn't been called in on this assignment? If it had been someone else, someone who wouldn't lie to protect you..."

  Isaac stumbled back another step.

  The gun slipped from his thigh and dropped to the floor — the sound dull, final.

  Killian closed the distance quickly; Isaac shut his eyes, bracing for another blow.

  Instead, Killian grabbed his head, their faces inches apart.

  “What would I do if they killed you for that, huh?”

  Killian whispered, and in those words there was both accusation and plea.

  Then he let go sharply, dropped his hands to his hips and began pacing the room, his steps echoing among the broken furniture and glass.

  “To go afterward and burn the whole building down? With every person inside?”

  He exhaled, as if he'd said something that had almost slipped out of control. Then he dropped into the couch, head sinking into the cushions.

  Isaac slid down with his back against the wall and sat on the floor, bloody and spent. His hands trembled as he breathed through the pain, his gaze lingering for a moment on his brother slumped on the couch.

  A shard of glass lay by his leg; he picked it up and flung it away, the sound echoing through the room like the echo of their fight.

  “Thank you…” he said, voice coarse, then even quieter, barely a breath. “For all of it.”

  Killian watched him for several moments. Then his head sank into the pillow, swallowed by shadow.

  “Let’s have a drink,” he muttered.

  Isaac nodded, lifted his gaze to the ceiling, and let out a deep breath — as if expelling the last of his bitterness from his lungs.

  Silence settled over the room — heavy, but a shade lighter than just minutes earlier.

  Hannah Adler, April 09, 2025

  Morning sunlight slid across the hoods of parked cars, frying the metal and throwing glare straight into her eyes. Hannah turned off the engine and pulled the key from the ignition; her car went quiet. She looked through the windshield at the tall, slightly run-down building, and already felt the weight of the sigh she wouldn’t let out until the first steps.

  “Again,” she muttered to herself, shaking her head.

  She got out of the car, swung her bag over her shoulder, and headed for the entrance. Each step echoed between the stairwell walls, and the smell of dust and old concrete rose into her nostrils. Her hand slid unconsciously over the medallion on her chest, as if searching for patience in the metal.

  She knew where Leonid hid the key.

  She stopped at his door, raised an eyebrow, and an ironic smile flickered on her lips. She slipped her hand behind the doorframe and felt the cold metal.

  “Like a child. Always the same trick,” she murmured, then slid the key into the lock and turned it quietly.

  The door creaked, and Hannah stepped inside, ready to catch him again in his little paradise of vice. But she found him completely different than she expected.

  Leonid was sprawled across an armchair, legs thrown over a low coffee table, chin dropped to his chest. Two eyes that were otherwise forever alert and sharp were now hidden behind lowered lids and long lashes.

  Hannah froze on the threshold, almost confused by the sight, then moved closer, just to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.

  In the face that always danced with irony and lively remarks, she now saw peace. A smile played on her lips—warmer than she would ever admit, even to herself.

  A blanket lay tossed over the other armchair. Hannah picked it up and gently draped it over him. Leonid twitched an arm, mumbling something unintelligible in his sleep. For a moment she was afraid she’d wake him, but she relaxed quickly and stepped closer.

  Her hand lifted toward his forehead—then stopped halfway, hesitating. Still, she brushed aside a few careless strands of hair that had fallen over it.

  “Finally a bit of sleep, huh?” she whispered, barely audible.

  Her gaze trembled, lingered on him for one long moment more, then withdrew. She left quietly, locked the door, and let him sleep.

  When Hannah arrived at the office, Anton was already there, his backpack set down beside his feet. Before he could greet her, she said briefly:

  “Grab your bag and come with me. We have a mission.”

  Anton jumped up and hurried after her, matching her rushed, confident steps down the corridor.

  “Aren’t we supposed to wait for Leonid?” he asked, confusion and uncertainty mixed in his voice.

  Hannah gave a short, under-the-breath laugh, then immediately returned to her serious expression.

  “He won’t be coming to work today.”

  Anton slowed half a step behind her, even more confused.

  “Can I just take a day off without warning in the middle of the work week?”

  Hannah shook her head without saying anything. Anton didn’t miss the faint, hidden smile at the corner of her lips as they walked.

  They reached the room with the small screen and the projector—the one that smelled of paper dust and cable metal, the room where decisions were made coldly, like on a surgical table. A long central table stretched like a runway, and at its far end sat Vivian.

  She wasn’t doing anything dramatic—just flipping through a folder, fingers moving over lines of text—but her presence alone was enough to make the room feel like чужа territory. Golden strands fell over her shoulders and gleamed under the projector’s cold light, while her large eyes, even lowered, seemed to see everything, even what hadn’t been said yet.

  “Vivi,” Hannah said shortly, and took her seat, pulling papers and folders from her bag.

  Her voice was calm, businesslike, used to these meetings. Anton, however, stopped at the threshold. His muscles tightened, his heart started pounding faster. To him, Vivian was more relic than human.

  He wondered to himself how strong the spirit she carried was… If one of the prices had been an arm and both legs, how much could her will endure? The question alone made him swallow, feeling even smaller and weaker than usual. His thoughts rolled like a wheel downhill, with no way to stop them.

  “Sit, Anton.”

  Hannah’s voice cut through the stream of his thoughts. Sharp, but not unpleasant—more like a hand returning him to the right track. He almost tripped over his own steps and dropped into the chair as if bowing to an invisible pressure in the room. He glanced toward Vivian once more, then lowered his eyes to the table, shy—as if a look would betray every fear he was hiding.

  Vivian’s voice cut through the silence, calm but sharp, as if each word already carried the stamp of a decision.

  “Today you’ll go and retrieve one of the relics we believed was lost.”

  Her gaze slid to Hannah for a moment—brief, but enough to underline the credit.

  “But thanks to the data Hannah found, we have its location.”

  Hannah nodded almost imperceptibly, but her eyes reflected excitement she was trying to keep under control. Vivian’s gaze then moved to Anton. Barely noticeable—yet Anton felt the full weight of that shift. His heart jumped, his throat tightened—he felt like he’d been called to the board even though he hadn’t even started his part of the work.

  “I chose an easier mission,” she continued, in a cold tone that made it impossible to tell whether it was criticism or mercy, “because of our new member.”

  Anton nodded, even though no one demanded an answer. Just to do something, to show he’d heard. Vivian then clicked to the first image on the projector. In the room’s half-darkness, behind her, a picture spread across the white screen: an old building—a library—whose tall windows looked like empty eyes, its facade traced with cracks. Shadows made it more haunting than any of them wanted to admit.

  “Namely,” she continued, her voice quiet but perfectly clear in every word, “the relic you’re looking for is in this library.”

  The image changed; a zoomed-in frame showed a small golden ballpoint pen. In the light it looked ordinary, but the symbols engraved along its body gave away its true nature.

  “The relic’s form is a ballpoint pen.”

  Anton tilted his head, eyes fixed on it, while an unease stirred in his stomach—too ordinary, and yet with relics, “too ordinary” never meant anything good.

  “The relic’s rank is B.”

  Vivian lowered the paper and slid it across the table toward Hannah. Her metal hand clinked against the tabletop.

  “By order of the Government and Directorate Amber…” she lifted her eyes, “…you will ask the librarian for this relic, and then bring it to headquarters.”

  The sentence ended, but the weight of the task still hung in the air. The projector buzzed, shadows from the screen danced along the walls, and Anton had the feeling the golden pen on the screen was following his gaze.

  The car stopped by the curb in front of the library. The building looked as if time had long since stopped noticing it—walls washed pale by rain, a fa?ade full of tiny cracks, and windows hidden behind heavy curtains. Hannah turned off the engine and looked at Anton. She met his eyes directly; her expression was cold, but deep in that gaze there was a trace of strict trust.

  “Just follow my lead,” she said, lowering her voice as if reminding him of a rigid rule. “Don’t say anything. This is an easy mission.”

  Anton loosened the grip on the backpack in his lap, swung it over his shoulder, and nodded firmly. His heart was beating faster than he wanted to admit, but he knew that any defiance or doubt would sound ridiculous next to her certainty.

  They opened their doors at the same time. The cold, fresh air outside was replaced by the stale warmth of the library the moment they stepped inside. A small bell above the entrance rang with a thin, glassy sound, as if announcing their arrival to the old walls. The first breath brought the scent of paper, old ink, and floor wax—an aroma Anton immediately tied to another era, to silence and knowledge not meant for everyone.

  Shelves stretched all the way to the ceiling, filled with leather-bound volumes, dusty notebooks, and neatly arranged books. The parquet creaked softly beneath their steps, every sound seeming to travel through the entire space. Anton felt the atmosphere pressing down on him, while Hannah walked ahead calm and steady, as if she knew this place better than anyone would guess.

  At the end of the hallway, behind a tall counter of dark wood, sat the librarian—gray-haired, glasses resting low on his nose. His eyes briefly lifted from a thick book, took in Hannah and Anton, but his face remained expressionless. He simply closed the covers of the book before him and waited for them to approach.

  “Good afternoon, how can I help you?”

  His voice was deep, measured, carrying the resonance of someone accustomed to silence.

  Hannah opened her mouth to introduce herself, but before she could utter a word, the librarian raised his hand.

  “I know who you are, Miss Adler.”

  The sentence echoed through the space like a gong strike. Anton froze, and Hannah—usually unshakable—hesitated for a fraction of a second. A shadow of confusion flickered across her face but quickly retreated behind her professional mask.

  However, the librarian wasn’t finished. He raised his glasses and looked directly at her.

  “You look just like your mother.”

  The silence became suddenly heavier. The creak of the parquet under Anton’s feet now sounded like a blow. He glanced at Hannah—her dark eyes had grown even darker, as if the light in them had been snuffed out. Only he, from this close, noticed the tiny twitch of her finger as she reached into her bag.

  “Then you know why we’re here,” her voice was icy, composed.

  She pulled out a folder and placed the government authorization on the counter.

  “The relic in the form of a ballpoint pen,” she continued, eyes never leaving the librarian. “We have intelligence that it’s here.”

  The librarian lowered his gaze to the document, but didn’t touch it immediately. He just sat in that unmoving silence, as if even the walls were waiting for his reaction. Slowly, he removed his glasses and wiped the lenses with a cloth, as if buying time, then finally looked up at Hannah and Anton. His voice was quiet but filled with the weight of memory.

  “This relic… is not something I ever considered mine. It traveled long before me. My great-grandfather brought it from a distant eastern land. He bought it from a trader who claimed dozens of people gave their lives to find it. After him, it passed to my grandfather, who lived in another country, and then to my father. Each of them knew what they were holding, but none had the strength to complete the pact.”

  He lowered his gaze, trembling briefly—a man confessing to the burden of a long-kept secret.

  “Nor did we have the right to possess it. The government was never informed. The pen remained in our house like a shadow, for generations. We only kept it and passed it on, as if waiting for this moment.”

  Anton swallowed hard, unable to take his eyes off the old man’s face. Hannah remained cold, but the tattoos across the hand she rested on the counter shimmered faintly in the light, as if reacting to the relic’s story.

  The librarian then reached into a drawer. His movement was slow, careful—like he was retrieving a piece of his own life. He pulled out a black velvet box and placed it on the counter before Hannah. The sound of the box on wood was almost ceremonial. His hand lingered on the lid for a moment longer. He looked at Hannah, his eyes damp but resolute.

  “I knew this day would come,” he said hoarsely. “The day I would have to part with it.”

  He withdrew his hand slowly, as if removing a chain from his own heart.

  Hannah laid her palm over the box, sealing it with her presence. The black lines of her tattoos flickered briefly, then fell still. She slid the box into her bag with a practiced, controlled motion, then lifted her gaze to the old man.

  “Thank you for protecting it,” she said calmly, though a subtle sharpness of duty edged her tone. “In the name of the Amber Unit… and the whole state.”

  The old man’s face stretched into a quiet, worn smile. It was the smile of a man who had carried a burden all his life, and was finally setting it down. Relief and pain, intertwined in a single crease around his lips.

  Hannah turned to Anton. He was still standing rigid, gripping the strap of his backpack. With a small tilt of her head, she signaled it was time to go. They turned toward the door, but the old man’s voice stopped them at the threshold.

  “Miss Adler…”

  She paused, but didn’t turn her face.

  “Greet your mother, when you see her.”

  Hannah’s breath froze in her chest. She allowed no tremor in her voice, no shadow of emotion on her face. She simply raised her hand—a wordless gesture of acknowledgement.

  Anton, however, couldn’t help but notice. Her eyes, lowered to the floor, caught the light for a second—or maybe something deeper, something not of this world. A spark flashed in the darkness of her gaze, too quickly for him to be sure it was real. In the next instant, everything was cold and unreadable again.

  The library doors closed behind them, the bell above the entrance ringing like an echo fading into the scent of paper and old ink.

  They were standing in front of her car when the metallic snap of a bowstring cut the air—followed by the sound of torn wind—and the projectile shot past their heads, burying itself in the library wall behind them. Hannah instantly grabbed Anton by the shoulder and dragged him down behind the car. Her body moved smoothly, without a second of hesitation, while Anton hit his knees, eyes wide, heart hammering in his chest.

  “What was that?!” he hissed, but Hannah didn’t answer.

  Instead, she lifted herself just enough to peek through the car window. Her eyes found the target immediately.

  Across the street stood two figures.

  A man, hands in his pockets—like a wall of cold flesh and bone.

  Beside him, a woman: her hair fell to her waist, black and thick, the wind playing with the fringes hanging from her leather armor. Her outfit was adorned with streaks of blood-red and faintly glowing blue, like living veins woven into the fabric. She held a bow, and in her hand, made of pure light, another arrow was forming. The spirit of a relic. Her gaze was like a torn night—two dark eyes that didn’t blink as she drew the bow, not sparing even a glance for the bystanders already fleeing in panic down the street.

  Anton shivered, his eyes falling on Hannah. She, however, was calm, her chest rising only slightly from her quickened breath.

  “Anton,” she said in a low voice, without looking away from the woman, “This is your first test.”

  Anton’s hands trembled as he reached into his pocket. The bell felt cold at first, then warmed in his palm as if the spirit already recognized him. He glanced at Hannah—she didn’t say anything, just gave him a short nod. Enough to know it was his turn.

  “Flock…” he murmured, rubbing the metal between his fingers.

  In an instant, light flared and the form of a court jester materialized, lounging on the car hood, swinging his legs as if he were on stage. Cards slipped through his fingers, shimmering in every color, while a small, eerie giggle filled the air.

  “This is why you called me? In the middle of a performance, in front of this audience?” he lifted his hands, pointing at the street where people were running in panic.

  At that moment, the woman with the bow drew the string. The arrow of pure light sliced the air and shot toward him. Flock barely turned his head, lifted a hand, and caught the arrow in midair between two fingers. He looked at it as if it were a piece of straw, then shook his head.

  “Seriously? This is your level?” he muttered, then with a theatrical sigh snapped the arrow with one hand.

  The light scattered into dust. Anton stared, stunned, but Flock was already turning toward him, eyes black as tar, smile stretched from ear to ear.

  “And you, my boy…” His gaze dropped to the bell Anton still clutched. “Can you do anything on your own? Are you a state agent, or just a bellboy?”

  Arrows of light rained across the street, each one hitting pavement and bursting into sparks, while Flock sat on the car hood, legs idly swinging. He caught one arrow, snapped it, flicked another aside—playing with them like matches, his giggle mixing with the hum of bowstrings. Anton’s breath sped up, his temples pulsing. He looked to Hannah, searching for a word, a gesture, anything that might tell him what to do. She was watching him with cold, calm eyes, then spoke briefly.

  “Think slowly, Anton. I’m here if it gets bad.”

  If it gets bad? he thought, sweat trailing down his spine.

  It’s already on fire!

  Another arrow sliced through his thoughts. Anton dove to the side, his knee slamming against the pavement. He groaned, pushing himself up—and then saw it. A metal rod, half-bent, probably part of an old sign. He grabbed it, fingers slippery with sweat.

  I can’t die… I can’t die… he repeated in his head, remembering Flock’s words.

  It didn’t make him calm — but it gave him a reason to charge.

  His fingers still shook as he stood, but his legs moved on their own. The metal rod glinted under the streetlights, and Anton, teeth clenched, fueled by far too much youthful stubbornness, sprinted straight toward the man and his relic spirit.

  Flock watched him go, cards clinking between his fingers, and murmured quietly—more to himself than anyone else:

  “Well, he’s starting to look like an agent. A little.”

  Hannah pressed a hand to her forehead, barely suppressing a sigh. She hadn’t expected this level of recklessness—though of course, he was young and green, unaware that courage alone didn’t equal strength. Her eyes flicked to Flock. He just sat there, playing with his cards, his giggle a faint echo as the wind scattered glowing arrows around him.

  Naturally, Hannah thought. Vivian never chooses easy relics.

  Like Kai, Flock was wild. And yet, for some reason, Vivian had entrusted him to Anton.

  “What did you see in this kid, Vivi?”

  Anton ran, jaw clenched, the metal rod gleaming in the sun. Step by step, he neared the man and his spirit. His breath was short and ragged, but he didn’t slow. The spirit raised the bowstring. Light gathered, forming a new arrow—bright and merciless. The string released. The sound of air breaking sliced through the street.

  Anton didn’t even manage to lift the rod.

  The arrow struck him square in the chest.

  His body jerked under the force, steps faltered, knees buckled. His breath cut short, his whole torso convulsed, and he collapsed onto the asphalt. The rod clattered next to him. His eyes fluttered shut, and blood welled up in his mouth in a dry, voiceless gasp.

  Flock didn’t even move from the hood. Instead, like an actor onstage, he pulled a card from his sleeve and flicked it into the air. The card—a joker—twirled upward, then began dissolving into shimmering golden dust. The glittering haze fell onto Anton.

  The wound on his chest—still blackened from the arrow’s light—began to close. Flesh knit together, skin restored itself, until only a faint trace of pain remained. Anton’s eyes flew open, and he inhaled sharply, like someone breaking the surface of deep water. His blue pupils widened as he realized he was alive—breathing—his heart still beating.

  Flock applauded, his giggle echoing down the street.

  “Bravo, boy! See? You fall, you die… and then you stand up again! Nice trick, huh?”

  Anton pushed himself onto his elbows, trembling, his gaze darting from Flock to Hannah.

  Hannah neither looked confused nor surprised. Her eyes were fixed on Anton, but without panic—only calculation, cold analysis. In her mind she assembled the pieces: his contract with Flock. Anton had confided in her what price he had accepted.

  Anton rose from the asphalt, hands shaking as he gripped the metal rod, but his body showed no wound. The spirit across the street did not relent. The woman’s black hair danced in the sunlight as she drew the bow again. Arrows sparked in her fingers, forged from pure light, and one by one they flew toward them.

  This time, Anton didn’t take the hit.

  Flock cackled louder, flicking cards from his wrist.

  Cards sliced the air, colliding with arrows in bursts of light—paper against radiance—but none of the arrows reached Anton. The bell on Flock’s hat jingled cheerfully, as if this were the most ordinary circus act.

  “And now… the grand finale!” he shouted, his voice echoing like through a cracked mirror.

  The deck snapped into a perfect circle, then collapsed into his hand. Flock bowed with theatrical flourish, then threw a single card. It spun, whispered through the air, and when it touched the chest of the bow-wielding spirit—it exploded in a flash of golden light. The woman’s form of shadow and light shattered like glass—hair, bow, fringes—splintering into a thousand fragments that vanished in an instant.

  “Game over,” Flock murmured, clapping his hands.

  Across the street, the man who owned the spirit was already running. He glanced back once, briefly—just enough to make sure no one was chasing him. Anton was ready to sprint, but stopped when he heard Hannah’s voice.

  “Let him go,” she said quietly. In her eyes Anton saw more cold calculation than fear. “We’ll find out who he is. And now… pick up your bell.”

  Flock waved lazily and dissolved in a golden flash, returning to the bell in Anton’s pocket.

  The car engine purred low and steady as they drove back through the city streets. Hannah held the wheel with one hand, occasionally tucking her hair behind her ear with the other, but her gaze kept drifting toward Anton. He sat stiffly in the passenger seat, shoulders hunched, his palm pressed firmly against his chest—as if he were still checking whether his heart truly continued to beat.

  At one stoplight, Hannah slowed down, and the red glow filled the cabin with a flickering hue. She looked directly at him, then placed her hand on his shoulder. Her cold composure softened into a faint smile.

  “Nicely done,” she said quietly, yet clearly enough to cut through his shock.

  Anton drew a deep breath, tightened his grip over his chest, and tried to return her smile. He nodded—firmly, decisively—as if vowing to live up to that sentence. Hannah turned her gaze back to the road; the smile faded into seriousness, but her voice remained gentle.

  “We need to write a report. I’ll show you how it’s done.”

  Anton listened, though only halfway. Her words blended with the faint buzzing in his ears, as if his body was still trying to understand what had just happened. His thoughts clung to one realization—that moments like this, the razor edge between life and death, would become everyday occurrences for him.

  Just as they had been for her for years.

  Night was settling over the city, thick shadows creeping into Hannah’s apartment, and the only real source of light was the laptop on the low table. The blue glow of the screen cut through the dimness, casting her face in sharp, cold lines. Wet strands of hair clung to her cheeks and neck, leaving dark trails of moisture on her pajama top. Curled up on the couch with her legs tucked beneath her, she sat in a posture that looked both relaxed and wound tight at the same time.

  In one hand she held a cigarette; a long gray ribbon of smoke curled toward the ceiling, filling the room with a haze that smelled of nicotine and burning paper. Each time she took a drag, the tip glowed a brief red ember that highlighted the exhaustion in her eyes. Her left eyelid twitched every so often as her gaze skimmed over endless lines of text and data on the screen. The laptop hummed softly, the cursor blinking in a slow, rhythmic pulse, as if it too were barely waiting to be done. Still, her fingers didn’t stop.

  On the table beside the laptop sat a half-empty mug of coffee—cold for hours—and a small ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts, proof that this ritual had been going on for a long time. Sometimes she would lift her eyes from the screen and stare into nothing for a few seconds, as if searching for a reason she kept doing this to herself. But then she would drag in another breath of smoke, exhale sharply through her nose, and return to work. Tired, worn thin, but determined—that was Hannah in the depth of that night, while the world slept and she sat alone in the haze, speaking only to numbers, data, and her own thoughts.

  A sudden knock broke the silence. At first it was faint, as if a dream had made it up, but then it came again—sharper, unmistakably real. Hannah lifted her gaze from the screen, her eyes flickering under the cold blue light. She glanced at the clock: midnight.

  She closed the laptop; the snap of plastic cut through the stillness. Her bare feet slipped into slippers, and every step through the darkened apartment echoed against smoke-thick walls. She stopped at the door, leaned her shoulder against the cold surface, her heartbeat quicker than she would ever admit. The peephole revealed a familiar face. Isaac.

  For a few seconds she stood motionless, torn between reason and instinct, her fingertips damp on the key. Then she turned it. The click of the lock sounded too loud for the hour.

  When the door opened, her breath caught. His face—bruised, swollen, striped with blood—was a quiet confession of a fight she didn’t need to ask about.

  “Hey,” he muttered, voice low and rough, as if wrestling with his own body.

  He was already stepping inside, arms reaching out. Hannah didn’t have time to think—he placed his chin on her shoulder, pulled her in tight, as if hiding in her warmth from whatever waited outside. Her hand was still on the door, then slowly, deliberately, she pushed it shut, sealing the world out. A soft exhale escaped her when her hand moved across his back, feeling the knot of strained muscles and the weight he carried. When he pulled away just enough to look at her, Hannah studied his face. Between them, only one quiet, breath-thin word: “Hey.”

  Hannah stepped back, slippers brushing softly across the floor, and walked down the hallway, turning on the lights one by one. Her hair, still damp from the shower, clung to her back and shirt. Isaac paused for a moment, almost as if the sight surprised him, then bent down to remove his shoes and hang his jacket before following her.

  In the kitchen she grabbed a glass, filled it with water, while he leaned an elbow on the counter beside her. Through the bruises he gave her a cracked smile.

  “Got anything stronger?”

  Hannah shook her head and took a sip of water herself. He used the moment to glance around, his eyes settling on the laptop left open on the table in the living room. He sat on a barstool and asked, barely above a whisper:

  “Still working?”

  Without answering verbally, Hannah reached for the bottle of whiskey, opened it, poured him a glass, then slid it across the counter. She didn’t meet his eyes as she put the bottle back. As she turned, her voice came out level.

  “Is this about the USB?”

  Isaac swirled the whiskey, watching the liquid cling to the edges of the crystal. He paused, took a slow sip.

  “No, not really.”

  Straightening on the stool, his gaze lifted to her. Hannah stood opposite him, palms pressed against the counter’s edge, her dark eyes unreadable.

  “Just a little fight with my brother. Nothing more.”

  Hannah moved around the counter and came up to him. Without a word she caught the edge of his shirt and lifted it halfway up his ribs. Bruises spread across his torso in deep shades of purple and black. She raised an eyebrow; her voice was quiet but sharp.

  “A little fight?”

  She leaned closer, her fingers brushing lightly across the edge of one wound as if assessing its depth. Isaac jerked, body tightening, and then grabbed her wrist, pushing her hand away, looking at her from beneath dark brows. Without a word he tipped the glass and drained the whiskey. The thud of the glass hitting the counter echoed in the kitchen’s silence.

  Hannah stayed still, but her gaze drifted down to the tiles under her feet. When she spoke, her voice was cold, though her breath trembled.

  “I think we should stop seeing each other.”

  Isaac straightened on the stool, slowly turning toward her. His eyes, dark and clouded with alcohol and pain, searched hers.

  “Excuse me?”

  Hannah wrapped her arms around herself, as if shielding her body from her own words. Her gaze stayed fixed on the floor.

  “You heard me,” she whispered, each word hitting the room like a strike.

  Isaac dragged a hand over his face, palm sliding down his jaw as he took a deep breath, as if trying to hold his temper together. He stepped toward her.

  “You always do this,” his voice came out louder than he intended.

  Hannah’s shoulders flinched. He planted one hand on his hip, the other gesturing in the air, every motion punctuating the frustration spilling off his tongue.

  “You say that. Then you call me again.”

  He stepped closer, his shadow swallowing her space, his height pressing in.

  “Look at me.”

  Hannah slowly lifted her head. Her dark eyes appeared steady, but something—light, or maybe something deeper—shimmered there, betraying what her mouth refused to. Isaac studied her, absorbing every detail of her face, then suddenly, almost forcefully, cupped her head in both hands. His fingers tangled into her damp hair as he pressed his lips to hers. Hannah froze for a heartbeat, then pushed at his chest with all her strength. Isaac stumbled back into the silence of the room.

  “I’m serious, Isaac,” her voice trembled, though this time she did not look away.

  “When you look at the situation… it’s not smart for us to keep… this…” she faltered, fighting the weight of the words caught in her throat.

  “...this thing we got going on” she finished at last, barely above a whisper, as if afraid of her own decision.

  Isaac stared at her a few seconds too long, his gaze sharp and icy. Then he turned toward the counter, planting both hands on the cold surface. His breathing was slow, as if he were swallowing the ache and anger. Suddenly he turned and stepped toward her again. Hannah flinched, shoulders tightening, instinctively taking half a step back. But he only walked past her—close enough that she could smell the smoke and whiskey soaked into his skin. He didn’t look at her as he moved.

  “Then stop calling me,” he muttered, voice hoarse and colder than the whiskey.

  Hannah turned only when she heard his footsteps in the hallway. He was already at the door, hand on the handle.

  “You should find someone who can give you more than I can,” she said quietly, though her voice didn’t waver.

  Isaac stopped. His shoulders stiffened. His hand remained on the handle, unmoving, but he didn’t turn around.

  “You deserve at least that,” she added, still leaning on the counter, her gaze following his silhouette in the dim hallway.

  He didn’t answer. He simply opened the door and stepped outside.

  The sound of the door closing echoed through the apartment like a period at the end of a sentence.

  She remained alone, surrounded by the smoke of her cigarette and the empty whiskey glass glinting on the counter.