This toilet really really stank of sweat.
Kostas, the captain of mighty troopers, sat there with his head in his hands, trying to breathe.
"We are so screwed this time."
The Troopers… his team… they'd done it again.
Killed someone before the jurisdiction could even blink.
But this time, it wasn't just any lowlife or nameless thief.
It was a face the entire country knew - a man who had sponsors, fans, and a goddamn theme song. - "One ugly song though."
It's a freaking superstar. Tom Fallon.
And Kostas had been the one to pull the trigger. It was instinct.
He remembered the moment too clearly.
The suspect had raised his hands - not a weapon, not a threat, just those wide, trembling goddamn hands - and Kostas' fingers had already moved.
The shot rang out, cutting through the street's noise.
And there he was - Tom "The Superstar" Fallon - bleeding out on the pavement, face down in his own shadow.
Kostas exhaled shakily, staring at the floor tiles.
Good thing the media hadn't caught on to the story yet.
But they would. They always did. They'd rip it apart on live TV.
Yeah, the Troopers had done reckless things before - public burnings, on-spot executions, "justice displays" to remind the sector who was in charge.
But this?
This was different. Killing someone that high-profile wasn't a message anymore. It was suicide.
"Oh god," he muttered, dragging a hand down his face, "people outside our sector are going to be so mad."
He pictured it already - the outrage, the protests, the hashtags. Troopers trending for all the wrong reasons. And him at the center of it, the face of the mistake.
"Why did I do this now?"
Right after the policy legalizing the Troopers had been published. It would backfire no matter how you looked at it.
Kostas leaned back against the toilet. He tried to laugh, but the sound got caught in his throat.
"Yeah," he mumbled, "Fucked."
10 a.m., the day already felt like a losing battle.
"Fuck it, we will see when the time comes."
Kostas flushed the toilet and finally stood up. He adjusted his belt and pushed open the door.
The hallway outside was dark. You can barely see anyone and he nearly walked straight into someone.
A wiry man.
Standing uncomfortably close to the door.
As if he'd been debating whether to knock or run.
The stranger froze, caught like a kid outside a confession booth.
He was in his mid-twenties, wearing glasses - he had a weird nervous energy. His hair was a neat silver-gray and the color made him look older than he probably was.
He wore a high-necked turtleneck under a dark coat and his eyes flicked from corner to corner, always calculating.
There was something fragile about him like his bones had been borrowed.
"Who the hell are you?" Kostas growled, his voice carrying the weight of someone who didn't ask questions twice.
"And what the hell were you doing outside my toilet?"
The short man's Adam's apple bobbed before he spoke.
"Harry. I'm from the capital." He extended a shaky hand.
Kostas didn't take it. Just hearing the word capital made him angry. He crossed his arms instead, shoulders squared, just stared at Harry.
"And what does the capital want with us?"
Harry's grin faltered instantly. "They…." He glanced down, and then looked up again.
"uh, they're still heavily upset with the Troopers' recent actions."
He paused - not for breath, but to gather courage.
"And I'm just a messenger, here to deliver their thoughts and a special message for troopers. And please don't think these are my words, okay? I'll be leaving tomorrow."
Kostas took a step forward. The floor was creaking beneath his boots.
Harry's smile kind of twitched and he stepped back, bumping his back against the metal edge of the sink.
"You look nervous," Kostas sounded amused by his reaction.
"N-not at all," Harry stammered, his voice wobbling. "Just here to do my job. Why would I be nervous... ha ha... khe."
The fake laugh died halfway through his mouth, turning into a cough.
Kostas smirked, "Good. Let's talk somewhere more… civilized."
The two men stepped out of the restroom.
The sharp smell of bleach faded into the warmer air of the common area. As they walked, they could hear the faint drone of voices from a television - growing louder with each step.
The common area was a wreck - half-eaten meals, empty bottles, and armor plates left scattered across a table. That table had seen more fist-banging than actual maintenance reports.
The Troopers weren't really known for tidiness. Messy people.
Kamala - one of their members was leaning against the wall, her arms crossed tight. Her posture was rigid but elegant in its own way.
Freddie, meanwhile, was the total opposite - legs spread wide on a metal chair, a bucket of popcorn between them. He shoveled the stuff into his mouth like a machine.
On the TV, a heated debate was unfolding — two women on a panel shouting over each other, the kind of political circus the Troopers had grown used to being the main act of. Some defended their legalization as a "necessary leap in justice enforcement." Others spat the opposite, calling them "mercenaries in uniform" and "state-sponsored killers."
Kostas stopped in the doorway, his gaze lingering on the screen. The audio was chaotic - one of the women screamed, "Who gave them the right to decide life and death?" Another fired back, "Someone has to do what the courts won't!"
Kostas exhaled, "I wonder how they'll react when they find out we killed Superstar Tom yesterday," he said quietly, "They're gonna lose their damn minds for real."
Kamala turned first, eyes narrowing. Freddie, on the other hand, didn't even blink - he just snorted and kept chewing.
"Don't worry, boss," Freddie said with his mouth half-full. "I'm always with you. Fuck these people."
Kamala shot him a glare. "You're gonna choke one day, Freddie."
"Better than dying sober," he mumbled.
Then her gaze shifted to the stranger standing awkwardly behind Kostas. "Who's this?" she asked flatly, the words less curiosity and more suspicion.
"Harry," Kostas replied.
Harry straightened his posture immediately, "One of your members… Rachel, I think? She let me in," he said, voice carrying that rehearsed politeness of bureaucrats who feared the wrong tone more than death. "I'm just a messenger from the capital."
Kamala's brow arched. "Messenger? From the capital?" She tilted her head slightly, "What's the message?"
"We're getting to that," Kostas cut in. He turned toward Freddie, who was now licking the salt off his fingers, "Freddie. Maybe quit eating for two seconds?"
Freddie held the bucket out like an offering. "Popcorn helps me think, boss."
Freddie grinned, "Popcorn helps me think, boss."
Kamala rolled her eyes, muttering something under her breath before addressing Harry again, "Alright, messenger boy. Spill it. What does capital want from us?"
Harry hesitated, glancing nervously at Kostas. "Uh, well, I was about to explain that…"
Kostas held up a hand, "Not here. Let's take this to the hallway. You all continue with your programs."
Kamala : "Bu-"
"It's fine, Let me hear him out first. And Kamala, could you please tell Rachel, I need her to repair my chain from Storpedo Market? It broke recently. Please."
Kamala sighed, already looking away. "Sure, whatever."
With that, Kostas gave Harry a small, unreadable smile - half politeness, half warning - and motioned for him to follow.
With a smile, They left Kamala and Freddie behind and entered the dimly lit corridor. When they were far enough from the others, Kostas stopped abruptly and turned to face Harry.
"Alright," he demanded, "Out with it now. What's the big message?"
Harry paused, fingers toyed nervously with the hem of his coat, "The higher-ups from the capital want you Troopers to take on a mission," he said.
"There's a rogue - he breached Sector 1's vault." Harry said, voice low. "We don't know what he took, but he's dangerous. Last we tracked him, he was in your sector - Sector 5. The capital wants him… alive."
Kostas's face didn't move at first. The words fell like a dropped stone, "Is he with anyone? Backup? Contractors?"
Harry shook his head. "As far as we know, he's alone. But…. we can't take him thinking soft and all. There's something else, Kostas." He gulped, "You need to know who he is."
Kostas took a step closer. "Say it."
Harry let out a breath like a prayer. "That rogue… he's one of the survivors of Operation Fivefold."
For a beat the hallway went quiet except for the distant TV and a stupid drip from a pipe. The name hit Kostas like a fist to the stomach.
Operation Fivefold.
The words carried a lot of weight. They barely talked about it anymore. Mentioning it was like coughing up blood: dangerous, necessary, and shameful.
Kostas's jaw locked. His mouth was dry. "And they dumped this on us now? Right after what happened yesterday? They knew the shitstorm we were gonna get from the media."
Harry's eyes pleading. "I know. I know it's not ideal. But the capital doesn't trust anyone else to handle a Fivefold survivor. You understand, it's messy, political. They want it contained and quiet."
Kostas laughed once, "Don't sell me that. They don't trust us. They need a fucking scapegoat. If it goes south, we take the fall. Simple."
Harry's face reddened, but he didn't deny it. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a phone. "If you don't believe me, I can - uhhh…. I'll call Ronin. He'll explain."
Kostas let the phone hover in front of him. He said nothing as Harry handed him the phone. He pressed it to his ear.
From the other side, Ronin's voice came through - cold, controlled, the kind of voice that measured men.
"Kostas, is it?" Ronin said, "I hope you're not giving our Harry a hard time."
Kostas didn't bother with pleasantries. "You bet, I am. Tell me - why us?"
"Because Alex recommended you," Ronin snapped back. "And because you owe us. Look, you know the heat coming for yesterday. If you screw this up — it'll be the end. And if you manage to catch that motherfucker, we might overlook the whole Tom situation."
Kostas's grip tightened on the phone, "So now it's a threat? You expect loyalty after you throw us in the fire? you know you and your capital folks need us - native officers for the Dead coral project in our sector."
"You really believe we couldn't replace you with another native officer for the project? Don't believe those media ladies. Maybe Troopers as a unit aren't replaceable at the moment, but you are, boy. Don't get sentimental, Kostas and don't forget, your entire team and you only exist because of Alex."
Kostas's lungs felt tight. "Where is Alex?" he asked.
"He'll call when necessary," Ronin said. "Now listen, boy - you take the job. You don't have a choice."
The line went dead.
For a moment Kostas just stood there with the phone warm against his ear, feeling the world compress into the narrow tunnel of his ribs.
"He literally said - I don't have a choice."