The phone trembled against Jord’s ear as his mother’s voice crackled through, saccharine and strained. ‘Thanks for worrying, son.’ A pause, static hissing like a held breath. ‘But we can manage the… costs. They’ve been… reasonable.’


    Lapo’s finger tapped the tablet screen – a single typed word: CODE.


    ‘Are you sure? I’m with my new friends If you need us we can pitch something, you know that we always there for you.’ Jord swallowed, tracking Lapo’s glare. ‘But… If you say that you have everything under control so be it.’


    Silence stretched between them, brittle and uneasy. When she finally spoke, her words were precise, each syllable measured with deliberate cadence.


    ‘No need, Jord. Everything’s settled. We’ll be home in an hour. Don’t come by – the clinic’s closed.’


    Jord hesitated but he forced himself to play along.


    ‘Alright… be safe. If you’re short on money, call me – I’ll come running.’


    A brief pause. Then, ‘Thanks. See you soon.’


    The line went dead.


    Lapo scrawled ‘DEADLINE – 15 MIN’ and snapped his fingers. The task force coalesced: Dila checking her sidearm’s chamber; Sera coiling rope over her tactical vest; Fjorr hefting a sniper case with an air of surety of how to use the weapon inside.


    ‘Right,’ Lapo barked. ‘Positions. Fjorr – rooftop over-watch. Mas and Egil, front breach. Sera and Lastian, west side. Silent ascent. Dila – back entrance. Hold unless shoots fired.’ He pivoted to Jord, eyeing one of rifles on the table . ‘You shadow Fjorr. Take the LR-37. Don’t chamber a round unless Fjorr says so. You’re eyes only. Clear?’


    Jord’s nod was a marionette’s jerk. The rifle’s stock bit into his shoulder, its weight foreign.


    Fjorr shouldered past, voice a gravel-drawn whisper. ‘Keep up, rook.’


    Fjorr moved with purpose, and Jord followed – through a door, another door, up a flight of stairs, then another. At the top, a final door barred access to the rooftop.


    Fjorr tested the handle. Locked. Without hesitation, he crouched, retrieving a slim case from his pocket. Inside, a neatly arranged set of lock-picks gleamed under the dim light from the twin moons. In seconds, the lock gave way with a soft click, and Fjorr pushed the door open without issue.


    Stepping onto the rooftop, he moved to the parapet, settling into position with a clear view of the warehouse’s main point of access – able to see most of the edifice but just shy of the right entrance. Jord trailed behind him, clumsy in comparison, and placed his rifle down in the same manner Fjorr had.


    As Jord adjusted himself, he noticed Fjorr fiddling with his scope before retrieving a small, unfamiliar device.


    ‘This,’ Fjorr said, setting it down, ‘measures wind strength – essential for long-range shots. Overkill for now, but I like knowing nothing’s messing with my aim.’


    He glanced at Jord, who was lying prone beside him, awkwardly adjusting his own scope.


    ‘Problem?’


    Jord exhaled. ‘Yeah… first time handling a firearm.’


    Fjorr let out a quiet chuckle but didn’t comment. Instead, he reached over and adjusted Jord’s scope, walking him through the dials and their functions.


    Couldn’t they have just given me a binocular?


    ‘Thanks,’ he muttered.


    ‘You’ll learn, rookie. Now, set up comms,’ Fjorr said, tossing Jord a radio.


    ‘Put it on speaker. Rightmost knob – no, not that one, that one. Turn it clockwise once until you hear a tick. Now, the main knob in the centre – adjust it until the screen shows frequency one-one-three-dot-one.’


    Jord followed the instructions, the device humming softly as he tuned it.


    Lapo’s voice crackled through the speaker. ‘What’s the situation, Fjorr? Everything clear? Pass.’


    ‘All clear. Pass,’ Fjorr replied. His bi-pod already setted, now, he had to wait orders.


    Pass? Jord thought. Is that really necessary? But he kept the question to himself. The air was thick, and the last thing he wanted was to distract Fjorr.


    Jord lay prone, his breath shallow, eyes locked on the warehouse entrances through his scope. The city’s distant hum barely registered – the only thing that mattered was the main door.


    Time dragged, Jord’s worry stretching thin like frayed rope. Where are they?


    No one exited. No calls came through. His pulse thrummed in his ears. Something’s wrong.


    Then, after what felt like an eternity the main door creaked open. A figure stepped out.


    Elia. Then the rest of them, his father was limping.


    Jord’s grip on the rifle slackened, his limbs suddenly heavy with exhaustion. The tension that had coiled so tightly within him that a single relaxed breath drained him of all energy.


    Lapo’s voice crackled through the radio, steady and sharp. ‘Jord, are those your family? Pass.’


    Jord swallowed. ‘Yes. Pass.’


    ‘Call them. Get a count – how many inside, where they are. Be quick. Pass.’


    Jord’s fingers fumbled over his phone. Through the scope, he saw his mother hesitate, glancing down at her pocket. Her shoulders, rigid with tension, loosened slightly when she saw his name on the screen.


    She answered, voice strained. ‘Jord? We just left – I was about to call you.’


    ‘I know. Listen to me – how many are inside, and where? Be precise.’


    ‘What do you – ? Jord, it’s fine. Everything’s settled. It just took longer than expected to convince your father about the bill – you know how –’


    ‘Mum!’ Jord cut in, voice tight. ‘I know. Just tell me how many and where they are!’


    A pause. Then, a shuffle. He saw her pass the phone to Elia, who wore a look of utter confusion.


    ‘Jord?’ Elia’s voice was smaller than usual.


    ‘Yes, quick – how many, where are they?’ ten seconds had already ticked by, and Jord could feel Lapo’s breath on his neck.


    ‘Three men,’ Elia said hurriedly. ‘Two in an office – one at the desk, one by the door. The third is in the back storeroom. They’ve got… guns, Jord. Not just pistols. Rifles.’


    Lapo had been listening – the radio was right next to Jord’s phone. He acted immediately. ‘Breach teams, move. Mas, Egil – eyes on the entrance. Dila, stay – ’


    A metallic clang rang out below.


    Jord’s scope jerked toward the sound. A side door had been thrown open. A hulking man stepped out, tattoos snaking up his neck, an automatic rifle in his hands. His weapon swung up – aiming for the nearest target.


    Elia.


    ‘Storeroom guy’s outside!’ Jord barked, fumbling to get his rifle into position.


    Lapo’s voice came over the radio, cold as steel. ‘Fjorr. Resolve it.’


    A single exhale. A shot. The tattooed man''s head jerked – red mist blooming above his ear. He collapsed like a puppet with cut strings.


    ''One,'' Fjorr muttered, already reloading.


    The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    Jord''s parents ran, but Elia stood transfixed by the corpse.


    ''Elia, move!'' Jord screamed into the phone.


    His brother jolted alive, sprinting after their parents.


    ''Breach compromised!'' Lapo''s voice thundered. ''Dila – smoke the rear! Sera, Lestian, in!''


    A second man burst through the front door, dropping dead before he could take a step, His carcass hit the pavement, rifle clattering on the ground.


    Sera and Lestian breached through the glass. Not soon after the warehouse erupted in flashes and gunfire. A woman''s voice cut through: ''Hostile down, pass.''


    ''Rooftop hold position. Dila inside, Mas, Egil breach front. Pass.''


    A single shot cracked from the rear – another hidden runner, taken down by Dila.


    ''Report. Pass.''


    ''All clear. Two dead, one surrendered, one incapacitated. Pass.'' A male voice reported .


    Jord pressed the phone to his ear, voice tight. ‘Elia, are you all right?’


    There was a pause, then Elia’s voice, frayed at the edges. ‘What?… What happened?’


    ‘I’m on – ’


    ‘Don’t reveal our position, rookie. Not yet,’ Fjorr cut in sharply.


    Jord clenched his jaw. ‘It doesn’t matter now. Just… just get to Mum and tell her everything’s fine. Understood?’ His tone wavered between askance and penance. ‘We’ll talk later.’ He ended the call before Elia could protest.


    Through the scope, he watched his brother final trek towards their parents. They were all shaken, but Elia – Jord could see it – was trembling. His mother clutched at his father’s sleeve, and his father, usually the stoic one, looked unsteady.


    The radio crackled.


    ‘Good job, Whittaker. Go to your family. I’ll debrief you tomorrow. Pass,’ Lapo’s voice came through, steady and firm.


    Jord exhaled slowly. His grip on the rifle lingered. Now what? Do I just leave this here?


    He glanced at Fjorr. ‘Uh, sorry – should I leave this here, or…?’


    Fjorr smirked, despite the grim aftermath still settling around them. ‘Unless you fancy walking the streets armed with a face that would scare ghosts while wielding some serious firepower. It might raise a few brows and scare someone shitless, don’t you think?’


    Jord let out a dry chuckle. ‘Right. Thanks. Thanks for everything, truly.’


    Fjorr shrugged. ‘You’ll learn, rookie. In time. Now go – enjoy your family while you still can.’ He waved Jord off, already adjusting his scope for one last sweep.


    Jord didn’t wait. He fled down on the flight of stairs.


    The run to his family took less than two minutes. It felt like an eternity. When he finally reached them, words failed him. His mind drew blank words that held blank sounds.


    They just stood there, breathing each other in, letting the moment settle. No one spoke.


    Then, his mother’s composure cracked, and a choked sob escaped her. That was all it took.


    The dam broke.


    She wept, and his father pulled her close. Elia, still trembling, exhaled sharply, as if trying to hold it all in – but then Jord gripped his shoulder, and that was it. The tension, the fear, the helplessness – it all came spilling out.


    They stood there for what felt a long time, their silence filled with unspoken relief.


    Eventually, Jord found his voice, his conviction. ‘Let’s go home.’


    And home they went.


    The rest of the night passed in quiet company, clinging to the warmth of familiarity. They talked, not of what had happened, but of things from before. Old memories, good memories – fragments of a life that, for a few hours, felt untouched by the night’s violence.


    Like the time Elia got into a school-yard fight over a stolen lunch, only for Jord to storm in, all righteous fury, sleeves rolled up like he was about to take on a gang of criminals rather than a scrawny twelve-year-old. The sheer second-hand embarrassment had been enough to make Elia forget his bruised cheek and yell to Jord to stop.


    Or when Jord had snuck some alcohol to Elia for the city’s annual festival. Then, letting him ride on his shoulders to watch the parade despite being way too old for it. ‘You’re too heavy for this,’ Jord had grumbled, but he never put him down until the last float passed.


    Their father chuckled as he recalled the time Jord had broken his arm trying to impress some girl by climbing a scaffolding near the old patisserie. Their mother sighed, shaking her head. ‘And then he lied about it, said he tripped over a dog,’ she reminded him.


    ‘To be fair, I did trip over a dog. After I fell,’ Jord defended, eliciting the first genuine laughter of the night.


    The conversation meandered like that, weaving through the years – Elia’s disastrous attempt at baking that ended with a flour explosion in the kitchen, the time their father had nearly been banned from the market for aggressively haggling, their mother’s failed attempt at keeping a pet despite being terribly allergic.


    For a little while, at least, the weight of the night felt a little lighter.


    –––


    The morning aches had not relented. Every muscle in Jord’s body still protested as he dragged himself to the shower. Predictably, the boiler failed again, but he didn’t want to wake anyone, so he endured the icy water in silence. He emerged, trembling, wrapping himself in blankets as though they could chase away the chill burrowed deep into his bones.


    Still shivering, he stepped into the courtyard and gathered his now slightly cold but clean guard’s uniform from the drying line. He ran his fingers over the fabric absent-mindedly, but his mind was elsewhere – turning over a question that had gnawed at him since the night before. He had applied to join the city guard, yet somehow, he had been pulled into something else. Why the secrecy? Why wasn’t he told? It unsettled him. And yet, if it meant having the power to keep his family safe… he would give them his obedience without hesitation.


    Now clean, freshly scented, and with a slightly jittering hand he couldn’t quite steady, Jord stepped out of the house as quietly as possible, not wanting to wake anyone.


    The street glistened with a thin sheen of moisture from the morning mist. Thamburg had always been kind in its climate – not too cold in winter, thanks to the harbour, nor unbearably hot, thanks to the northern winds. The only trouble was the occasional gale strong enough to steal a man’s hat right off his head. As a child, he, Elia, and Kotian – a childhood friend he had long lost contact with – would run through these very streets with umbrellas open, laughing as they tried to let the wind carry them away. He could still hear the echoes of their laughter if he listened hard enough.


    A small smile tugged at his lips as he walked toward the compound. For a brief moment, he even considered taking one of the remaining working trams, but old habits held firm – best to keep a healthy and cheap routine.


    Dawn had barely broken when he reached the gates. A guard stood at the checkpoint, tablet in hand.


    ‘Identification?’


    ‘Here.’ Jord said as he handed his identification.


    The guard glanced at the screen, his face illuminated by its cold glow. After a second, he nodded, returned the card, and gestured Jord through.


    The lift was finally repaired, and as he stepped inside, he found himself face to face with Lapo.


    ‘Whittaker,’ Lapo greeted, eyeing him with scrutiny. ‘Figured you’d take a day off after last night’s ordeal. Why didn’t you?’


    Jord hesitated, knowing full well that Lapo had already noticed the slight tremor in his left hand.


    ‘I… wanted to thank the squad from last night. And I want some answers.’ His voice was measured but firm. ‘I don’t understand how my family got mixed in such a situation, they are hard working folk. And, ’ his brow furrowed, ‘you said I joined some force, but I think I never signed anything on the matter. When I asked on of the clerks, They said that I worked for the Ministry of Interior, Thamburg District, Public Order and Safety. So what’s going on?’


    Lapo was silent for a long moment, expression unreadable as the lift doors slid open on the third floor.


    ‘Follow me,’ he said at last. ‘I’ll explain.’


    Jord followed Lapo down the hallway until they reached a conference room. Inside, a table surrounded by office chairs sat beneath the dim hum of overhead lights. A television on a stand loomed in the corner.


    ‘Close the door,’ Lapo instructed as he took a seat. He gestured to the chair opposite him. ‘Sit.’


    Jord did as told, his pulse steady but anticipation crawling up his spine.


    Lapo exhaled, rubbing his temples before speaking. ‘Your family,’ he began, ‘were in the wrong place at the wrong time. That’s what we got from interrogating the men from last night. A shipment arrived at the textile mill where they work – one they weren’t supposed to see. The family runs on a tight schedule to avoid such mishaps, but something, evidently, had gone wrong, and your parents opened the wrong container.’


    Jord stiffened.


    ‘They were taken as leverage,’ Lapo continued, ‘to intimidate and bribe. Your brother was there too, likely because your mother called him for help. Instead of calling the authorities, your brother ran straight to them, and the crime family waited in an ambush, and took all three. White van. We found it inside the warehouse.’


    Jord clenched his fists. Why didn’t she call me?


    ‘The rest,’ Lapo said, ‘you already know.’


    He cleared his throat before shifting the conversation.


    ‘As for your career path, listen carefully.’ He leaned forward. ‘Your assignment to the Thamburg platoon of Special Forces is confidential. Watch what you say – to everyone, including your family.’


    Jord’s brows knit together, but held his tongue.


    ‘If you wonder of the motive, ’ Lapo continued, ‘It’s Velmara.’ His voice dipped into something close to distaste. ‘They’ve been sending instructors. We don’t trust them. And there’s more, but it’s above your clearance. What you do need to know is this – you’re being trained to spy on their instructors. You’ll go through the program like any other recruit, but you report to us, not them. Understood?’


    Jord frowned. ‘But why me? Why not any other rookie?’


    Lapo arched an eyebrow. ‘You were a dock-hand. You have a certain mannerism – one that doesn’t scream military. That makes you invisible to the trained eye. Unlike our existing officers, who have undergone years of conditioning and can spot one of their own from afar, you’re fresh. You won’t stand out. And that makes you valuable.’


    Jord tried to process it all.


    ‘But you are sending other rookies?’


    ‘Well, of course,’ Lapo said matter-of-fact. ‘But you? You report to me. Not the army. That’s the difference.’


    Jord’s jaw tightened. ‘And… what if I refuse?’


    Lapo smirked. ‘You signed the papers, didn’t ya?’


    The pen had felt heavy in his hand that day, its weight seeming to hold all his hopes and regrets. Jord had paused before signing, watching the ink pool at the nib – dark and full of promise, like the night sky before dawn. A fresh start, he''d told himself, a chance to spurge the inked past.


    He remembered his father''s hands, calloused from the mill, and how they would rest heavy on his shoulder during their rare moments of connection. Always that same gesture, as if his father were trying to anchor him to something solid, something respectable. The signature would be a bridge between them, Jord had thought, a way to finally earn the pride he glimpsed so rarely in his father''s tired eyes.


    Late at night, when the house creaked with settling silence, he would sometimes find his mother at the kitchen table, her reading glasses perched low on her nose. Bills and papers would spread before her like fallen autumn leaves, each one carrying its own weight of worry. She would look up at him with that gentle smile that never quite reached her eyes, her fingers absently smoothing the corners of envelopes as if she could iron out their contents. In those moments, the yellow light of their old kitchen lamp would cast soft shadows across her face, hiding the lines that seemed to deepen with each passing month.


    Now, sitting in Lapo''s sterile conference room, Jord understood the true cost of promises. His mother''s careful hands on those bills, his father''s perpetual exhaustion, his own desperate hope for a better future – all of it connected like threads in a tapestry he was only beginning to see. Some signatures, he realized, were like keys turning in locks you didn''t know existed, opening doors you never meant to pass through.


    Jord felt a knot tighten in his stomach.


    ‘That’s it, then?’ he asked, voice edged with resignation.


    ‘That’s it,’ Lapo confirmed. ‘Welcome to the job, Whittaker.’