Morning light cut through the grimy window, pale and gray, but the room stayed warm.
The coal in the iron stove burned with a steady, quiet red glow. On the cot, Wanda sat with her knees pulled to her chest, a wool blanket draped over her shoulders. She used a small knife to cut the rest of the hard bread into thin, neat pieces, looking far healthier than she had yesterday.
Across the room, Pietro couldn't sit still.
He paced back and forth along the worn floorboards, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. Every few seconds, he glanced toward the window, his shoulders tense and his feet tapping in a quick, nervous rhythm.
"You're going to wear a hole in the floor," Adrian said, pulling his coat off the back of a chair.
Pietro stopped and turned around. "Let me come with you."
"No," Adrian said simply.
"I can help," Pietro insisted, stepping closer. "I know these streets. I know where the patrols park their trucks, and I can move before any of them even see me. You shouldn't walk into the middle of the district alone."
Adrian buttoned his canvas coat and met the boy's eyes.
"Running fast doesn't help if a sniper shoots you from a rooftop, Pietro," Adrian said calmly. "You don't know who has guns pointed at the alleys, and you don't know who is watching from the windows. Wandering outside without a plan just gets people killed."
"I'm not a kid," Pietro grumbled, looking down.
"Then prove it by doing the job I give you," Adrian said. "Keep this door bolted from the inside. Keep the stove fire low so too much smoke doesn't pour out of the chimney and attract attention. Watch the alley through the curtains, but don't stick your head out. If something looks wrong, get Wanda behind the coal bin. Can you handle that?"
Pietro opened his mouth to argue, but Wanda reached out from the cot and gently grabbed his sleeve.
"Listen to him, Pietro," Wanda said softly. "He kept us alive yesterday. He's right."
Pietro looked at his sister, then let out a heavy sigh and threw his hands up in defeat. "Fine. But if you pass an open stall, bring back some real coffee. This boiled water tastes like tin."
"If I find some," Adrian said.
He stepped into the hallway, waited until he heard the heavy iron bolt click into place behind him, and headed down the concrete stairs.
Outside, a thick river fog rolled through the streets of Novi Grad, smelling of damp earth and woodsmoke.
Adrian didn't start asking around for directions. In a war-torn city, asking questions about armed commanders was the fastest way to get an iron pipe to the back of the head.
Instead, he walked toward the southern tram line, keeping his hands in his pockets and his head slightly down. A battered green fuel truck rumbled past, its diesel engine coughing as it hit a pothole. Two militia fighters sat in the cab, wearing woolen caps and smoking cigarettes.
Adrian gently opened his mind, sending a light, quiet thread of telepathy toward the driver.
He didn't dig deep or hurt the man's brain. He just brushed past the surface thoughts—the driver's complaints about bad fuel, a cold wind leaking through the driver's window, and the drop-off location.
Drop the drums at the old post office by the rail line. Vanev wants the heaters filled before noon.
Adrian pulled his focus back. The old post office.
Ten minutes later, he reached the southern edge of the rail yard.
The post office was a solid, two-story stone building from the Soviet era. The windows on the ground floor were covered with sandbags and wooden planks. Around the front steps, coils of rusted barbed wire lined the sidewalk, and four men in mismatched military uniforms stood by a parked truck, checking boxes and carrying automatic rifles.
Marching up the front steps was stupid. Even if he could stop bullets with a thought, a loud shootout would bring the city police, rival gangs, or military scouts running. A good takeover had to be completely silent.
Adrian turned down a narrow gravel lane, circling around to the back loading dock.
Near the rusted rear exit, a single guard in a grease-stained jacket leaned against a stack of wooden crates, cup of tea in one hand, cigarette in the other.
As Adrian's boots crunched softly on the gravel, the guard began to turn his head.
Adrian didn't wait. He looked at the back of the man's neck and pushed a tiny, invisible ripple into his mind.
Nothing is there. Just the wind.
The guard paused midway through turning around. His shoulders dropped, he took a slow drag from his cigarette, and stared straight back out at the empty rail yard, completely blind to Adrian walking three feet behind his back.
Adrian reached the heavy iron fire door. The handle wouldn't turn; a thick steel slide-bolt held it shut from the inside.
Taking a quiet breath, Adrian relaxed his right arm.
He pushed his hand forward. His fingers and wrist slid straight through the cold iron plate like smoke passing through a screen. On the other side of the door, his phased fingers found the cold steel bolt. He solidified his fingertips, lifted the heavy latch, and pulled it back.
Click.
The lock gave way with barely a sound. Adrian pulled his hand back through the metal, eased the door open just enough to slip inside, and pulled it shut behind him.
The hallway smelled of wet plaster, damp wool, and fried onions.
From the second floor, a radio played low, crackling Balkan folk music. Adrian walked up the back stairs, his boots landing softly on the concrete steps without making a sound.
At the end of the second-floor corridor, a wooden door stood slightly cracked open. Adrian pushed it open and stepped inside.
Behind a large oak desk sat Captain Vanev.
He was a thick, heavyset man in his late forties with gray hair cropped short to his scalp. He wore a clean woolen coat with faded officer pins on the collar. On his desk sat three neat stacks of dirty local bills, a half-empty bottle of plum brandy, and a loaded black Makarov pistol resting right beside a leather ledger.
Vanev looked up from his money, his eyes widening in shock when he saw an unknown young man standing inside his office with the door closed behind him.
The captain's hand moved fast, grabbing the pistol and pointing it straight at Adrian's chest.
"Who let you up here?" Vanev barked, his thumb reaching to flick the safety off. "Guards!"
Adrian didn't jump, and he didn't raise his hands.
He simply narrowed his eyes at the weapon. With a tiny, invisible push of telekinesis, he clamped down on the gun's safety lever, welding it tight against the slide.
Vanev squeezed the trigger hard.
Nothing happened. The metal was locked solid.
"The door is shut, Captain," Adrian said, walking forward with relaxed steps. He pulled out the wooden chair across from the desk and sat down. "And the men downstairs are enjoying their smoke. Put the gun on the desk. We need to talk business."
Vanev tried to pull the slide back, but the gun felt like it was carved out of solid lead. Sweat broke out on the older man's forehead. He stared at Adrian, his breath turning quick and shallow.
"Who are you?" Vanev rasped. "Transia militia? The government police?"
"Look at me," Adrian said softly.
Vanev looked up, and their eyes locked.
Adrian reached forward with Cassandra Nova's telepathy.
He didn't tear through the man's mind or break his thoughts. A broken puppet would stumble, make mistakes, and make everyone around him suspicious. Instead, Adrian worked like a careful surgeon. He gently shifted the captain's memories and priorities, sewing a brand new truth into his brain.
Adrian Kovac is an undercover director from the central security council. He holds secret authority and unlimited financial backing from the capital. Following his orders is the only way you keep your rank, your money, and your life through the coming year.
Vanev's chest hitched.
His pupils dilated, and for two seconds, his face went completely blank. The tight knot of anger and fear in his jaw melted away. When he blinked again, his eyes were clear, but the way he looked at Adrian had completely changed.
The captain slowly set the useless pistol down on the green blotter. He stood up, adjusted his coat, and straightened his back with nervous, hurried respect.
"I... I apologize, Director Kovac," Vanev said, clearing his throat and wiping a drop of sweat from his chin. "I didn't expect you to arrive without notice. The street reports said your office was delayed in the north."
"Plans change, Captain," Adrian said, leaning back in his chair. "Sit down."
Vanev sat down immediately, keeping his hands flat on the desk. "What are your orders, sir?"
"First, your men are making too much noise in the southern ward," Adrian said, his tone firm and cold. "Marko and his crew were kicking down doors in my neighborhood yesterday, demanding flour and pocket watches. That stops today."
"Understood," Vanev said without hesitation. "I'll pull them back to the rail depot immediately. No more sweeps on civilian tenements."
"Second, you have supply shipments coming in from the western depots," Adrian continued. "Every week, a truck with clean flour, canned meat, medical supplies, and heating coal will be dropped off at the rear entrance of my building. No marks, no logos, and no armed guards hanging around the door."
"Consider it done," Vanev nodded quickly. "We have three crates of imported penicillin and dry beans arriving on Friday. I'll make sure they go straight to your address."
"Good," Adrian said. "And third, you are my eyes in this district. If any strange people come asking questions—foreigners with fancy suits, private security teams, or anyone asking about strange events—I want to know before they leave the station."
"I'll report directly to you, sir," Vanev said.
The captain reached into his desk drawer, pulled out a thick leather stamp, and pressed it onto a stiff red document card. He signed it with a heavy pen, pulled two thick paper envelopes stuffed with foreign bank notes from his safe, and slid them across the table alongside a brass key ring.
"This is an unrestricted district transit pass," Vanev explained, pointing to the card. "None of the checkpoint guards will dare search your pockets or stop your vehicle. The envelopes are five thousand German marks for operational expenses, and those keys open the fuel and supply lockup behind the station."
Adrian picked up the red card, glanced at the official purple seal, and slipped it into his coat pocket along with the money and keys.
"You did well today, Captain," Adrian said, standing up from his chair. "Keep your mouth shut, keep your men in line, and we won't have any problems."
"Yes, sir," Vanev said, standing at attention. "Safe travels, Director."
Adrian walked out of the office, descended the quiet rear stairwell, and stepped back out into the fog.
The guard by the loading dock was still looking at the gravel, entirely unaware of what had just happened inside the building.
Adrian walked down the road, his hands tucked deep into his pockets. His fingers brushed against the thick paper envelope and the heavy brass keys.
He looked back over his shoulder at the old stone post office disappearing behind the morning mist.
He didn't have to scramble for bread or hide from street thugs anymore.
One captain down, Adrian thought, a faint, cold smile touching his lips as he turned back toward his apartment. Now I have eyes, ears, and the first piece of this city.