24 JULY 2027 — 01:13 A.M.
The night should have been Darker.
Gunfire ripped through the empty colony in short, violent bursts. Muzzle flashes flared and vanished, light bouncing off concrete walls and abandoned balconies. But there were no screams. No alarms. No running feet. Only the echo of weapons discharging into a place that had already been stripped of witnesses.
A flickering streetlight illuminated two figures beneath it. Both men wore black suits, the fabric dull, already dusted with grit.
One had black hair. His grey eyes stayed sharp, steady.
Nico pressed his back against a concrete wall, knees bent, breath measured. The stun gun rested warm in his hands.
The other one had blond hair, lighter against the night.
Darren was shaking.
Not violently. Just enough for Nico to notice. Fingers clenched too tightly around a non-lethal weapon. Eyes snapping toward every flash of light. Breathing shallow, uneven.
Another scouting mission turned ugly.
Unfortunate for Nico.
Bullets struck the concrete wall. Stone chipped and skidded across the ground. Behind him, someone shouted something Nico didn't register. Footsteps moved closer, then split apart.
Nico leaned forward and glanced sideways. Their eyes met.
Darren looked terrified.
Nico almost smiled.
Not because it was funny. Because he didn't know what else to do.
The gunshots were loud. Deafening, even. But his thoughts were in complete silence.
He heard nothing. He felt nothing.
When Nico was a child, an accident had taken something from him. Not his body. Something quieter. Something most people carried at heart. Since then, danger registered without weight.
Indifferent to chaos.
Fear had no leverage.
"Four probes left," Nico muttered.
He inhaled slowly through his nose. His grip stayed firm.
During training, his instructors had explained it to him once. Carefully. They called it a gift. The ability to stay calm inside the storm.
Movement flickered at the edge of his vision. Then another. Three hostiles. Armed. Guarding something worth killing for.
A corrupt politician's private compound. Public money converted into private firepower.
His partner whispered something. Nico didn't catch it.
He shifted his weight, raised the stun gun, and leaned out from cover.
Blue light cracked through the dark.
One man collapsed as the charge locked his muscles. Another stumbled backward, shouting. The third fired wildly.
Nico ducked. Bullets tore through the air above him. Stone dust filled his lungs.
His heartbeat stayed calm. Measured. Almost detached.
As if he had already imagined dying like this.
As if this moment wasn't new.
A thought surfaced, uninvited and sharp.
If this was the day he died, he should look back.
At the choices he had made.
"To hell with this."
He cursed under his breath, surged forward, and went for another charge shot—
***
20 DECEMBER 2026 — 07:40 A.M.
Nico's eyes flew open.
For a split second, there was only the ceiling. White. Clean. Too calm. Then the sound caught up to him.
"Crap," he muttered, annoyed.
He rolled out of bed too fast. His foot caught the edge of the mattress and he stumbled, crashing shoulder-first into the side table. Plastic clattered as a water bottle skidded across the floor.
"Great."
He pushed himself up, rubbing his side, and froze when he caught his reflection in the standing mirror near the wardrobe.
Pale. Too pale.
He looked thinner than he remembered. Five ten, all angles. Unkept black hair stuck out in uneven directions, like it hadn't agreed with sleep. His eyes were gray, sharp even this early, set in a face that hadn't decided whether it wanted to be tired or angry.
Patchy beard. Definitely needed a shave.
He stared a moment longer than necessary. Not judging. Just registering.
A knock cut through the quiet.
"Nico," a girl's voice called. "What are you doing in there? Hurry up. You're already late. You have to be there by eight."
"Yeah, yeah," he called back, turning away from the mirror. "I overslept."
He opened the door.
Molly stood in the hallway with her arms crossed.
She was shorter than him, around five six. Pale like him. Thin in the same way, like both of them forgot to eat when life got loud. Her dark hair was cut into a neat bob that framed her face, and her gray eyes carried the same look he'd just seen in the mirror. Impatience edged with concern.
"Hurry up," she said again.
"I got it."
She stepped aside as he rushed past her toward the bathroom. The pace shifted. Faster now. Routine taking over.
Toothbrush. Water. Foam. A quick rinse.
He pulled on clean clothes without thinking. A white T-shirt. Jeans. A worn-out jacket. Shoes waited near the main door. He dropped into them, tying the laces too tight, then stood and grabbed the jacket.
"Bye," he said, opening the door. "I'll see you in the afternoon if I get rejected… or at night."
"Tell Mom I left."
Molly sighed.
"I pray this time you'll be back at night," she said quietly.
Nico paused for half a second, then nodded.
The door opened.
Cold air rushed in, and Nico was already moving.
He took the stairs two at a time.
The building was old but decent. Three stories, no lift, built for affordability rather than comfort. Their apartment sat on the second floor. He barely registered the handrail as he rushed past it, feet thudding against concrete, skipping landings, momentum carrying him toward the main entrance.
He shoved the door open.
Pale daylight hit him full in the face.
Berlin looked almost gentle this time of year. Close to Christmas. Strings of warm lights hung above the street, wrapped around poles, draped across shopfronts that hadn't yet opened. Decorative stars glowed faintly against the winter sky. Nothing extravagant. Just enough to pretend things were cheerful.
The street was awake, but not loud. A few pedestrians. A cyclist cutting through the cold, head down. Someone walking a dog that looked equally unimpressed with the weather.
Yet to snow.
The air bit hard.
"To hell with this cold," he muttered, annoyed.
His words fogged in front of him as he moved, shoulders hunched, hands already numb. He broke into a near jog toward the tram stop at the corner, shoes slapping against the pavement.
08:00.
He slowed beneath a shelter, breath coming faster now. Too fast. His chest tightened, like the air had thinned without warning. He bent forward slightly, hands on his knees, forcing a deeper breath.
Right on cue, the tram rolled into view. Metal wheels screeched faintly as it slowed. The doors hissed open.
"Perfect."
He stepped inside with the others and pulled out his phone. Old. Screen shattered, the display a web of fractures that only habit could navigate.
He bought a ticket with movements that felt mechanical. Tap. Confirm.
The digital chime sounded louder than it should have.
Valid.
He slipped the phone back into his pocket and grabbed a pole as the tram lurched forward. His breathing steadied as the city began to move around him again.
Normal.
Just another morning.
That lie sat comfortably enough for now.
Maybe today was his day.
***
"GET THE HELL OUT OF MY BAKERY!"
The words hit him like a slap.
"No. Today is not my day."
Nico stood frozen near the counter, the warmth of the bakery doing nothing to soften the heat of the man shouting at him. The head baker was broad and red-faced, veins standing out on his neck like they had been waiting for this moment.
"You think this is a joke?" the baker yelled. "You stroll in here whenever you feel like it? You know what time it is?"
"On the very first day," he went on. "You're late."
Nico glanced at the clock behind the counter.
08:29.
"I—" he started.
"I don't care," the baker snapped. "Eight means eight. Not eight-oh-five, not eight-fifteen, and certainly not whatever this is."
Nico nodded automatically, the motion small, controlled. The words kept coming anyway, loud and relentless, stacking on top of each other.
"Punctuality is the first rule. The first. If you can't manage that, you're useless to me."
The baker's voice blurred at the edges.
Nico's thoughts drifted, uninvited, into familiar corridors.
Nineteen.
That was all he was. Nineteen, already done pretending college was an option. He had dropped out quietly, without drama, so his family could afford tuition for his sister. Medical coaching wasn't cheap. Dreams never were.
He told himself it was fine. That he didn't mind.
Other people his age were falling in love, going to parties, doing reckless, loud things that turned into memories later. Nico was job hunting instead. Learning rejection early. Learning how often effort didn't matter.
His family wasn't poor. Not exactly. But money stayed tight in a way that never announced itself, only lingered. His father was a journalist, always chasing stories, always in Mitte, always somewhere else. Home was something he visited between deadlines.
His mother stayed home.
She cooked. Cleaned.
His sister was seventeen. Smart. Focused. Studying to become a doctor.
That was the point of all this. That was the trade.
"NICHOLAS OLIVIA!"
The name snapped him back into the room.
He looked up.
The head baker leaned forward, face flushed, eyes burning.
"I am talking to you," the man said sharply. "And you're daydreaming. In my bakery."
Nico opened his mouth, then closed it again.
"Leave," the baker said. "And don't ever show your face here again."
The words landed final. Absolute.
Nico nodded once. Not because he agreed. Because there was nothing left to say.
He turned. The bell above the door chimed softly as he stepped back into the cold.
The cold bit harder now.
Outside the bakery, Nico stood still, breath fogging the air. His shoulders sagged, as if the weight of the morning had finally caught up to him. He tilted his head back and stared at the winter sky. Pale. Washed out. Endless.
"Two hundred and forty-eight interviews," he muttered. "Failed."
The words felt weak the moment they left his mouth.
He slid a hand into his pocket and pulled out a folded note. A small bill. Just enough for a cheap coffee if he didn't linger.
"At least I can have some coffee."
He turned toward the café across the street.
He took a few steps, shoes scraping lightly against the pavement.
A crack.
The sound came sharp. Dry. Not close enough to touch.
Close enough to recognize.
Nico stopped mid-step.
Another crack followed, tighter, clearer.
His breath caught, brief, as if his body had paused ahead of him.
"Gunshots."
He stood still, coffee forgotten, hands hanging useless at his sides as the cold settled back into his fingers. The street didn't react. Not yet. No screams. No running feet. Just a thin pause, stretched tight.
Curiosity struck him low in the chest.
Recognition.
He turned toward the sound. Ran.