Colvin sighed before the clamor from the plaza spread. From the high window of the building entrusted to them, the revolving sea of faces was visible. There were placards glinting in the sunlight, mouths battling to find words and blasting anger. The air carried the scent of sweat and old paper.
The jamming of bodies created a heavy rhythm, like the ebb and flow of the sea against the shore. Their shouts were more than just voices. They were spreading smoke, releasing questions and desires long unanswered.
Inside the hall, the world was different. Marble floors, cool air flowing smoothly, caressing necks like a gentle promise. On the walls, the emblem of the state was etched: three hands twisting around each other to reach a golden heart.
Small lights in the crystal chandelier twinkled above, and shoes made soft thuds in the silence. Expensive perfume and ripe paper scented the air. Sounds here were managed, smoothed. They didn't spill like those below.
The difference wasn't just in taste. Below, the masses walked to the beat of their emotions. Above, the powerful walked to the beat of calculated silence.
Colvin saw how the city traveled at two speeds. A colleague gripped his shoulder, catching his attention. They nodded and questioned, "Nervous for your first major mission, Col?"
Colvin smiled lightly, a smile that hinted at insider knowledge. The kind that soothed the public eye. "No," he said curtly. "I'll do what's needed." There was steel beneath the words. Not just a promise to himself, but a quiet, firm vow.
The colleague brought coffee, staring out the window as if measuring the gap between the plaza and the room. "They won't stop," he said. "They're rallying because of a leaked fund scandal. A huge sum is missing."
It wasn't an explanation. For those inside, it was enough to figure out what they were talking about. For those outside, they craved for the truth.
"If they only knew where their taxes went," the colleague muttered wryly. "They'd start a different tune of protest."
Colvin looked out at the plaza. Faces flashed on placards. Some held pictures, some had bruises on their palms—marks of lives demanding justice.
On the table inside, a small silver tray held water and bread, mere showpieces. The gap between the two worlds wasn't material; it was perspective.
He didn't ask what came next. He knew the flow, knew what was coming.
"I'm heading to the Morozov estate to begin the first operation," he said softly, more promise than announcement. He needed no permission. He sought no understanding.
He held his view like how one holds a bow in the dark.
Inside, smiles were arranged, tables laden with wine and fabric. Outside, desires burned and hoped.
In a silent moment, a question rose within Colvin, not to ask others, but to test himself.
Why must people be free?
It wasn't philosophical reflection then. It was a wound reopening with turmoil.
For him, freedom was a door. Behind it lay unity of sin and pain. If there was a way to restrain evil's rise, it had to be done.
He clenched his palm, as if gripping something he couldn't yet show. Quietly, not for those below, but for himself. He let out the words in a sharp, controlled hiss, "In their home, I'll start the cleansing," His voice vibrated with a quiet intensity that felt louder than a shout.
A smile lingered on his lips, but his eyes held a fierce judgment.
The sun set, its last rays wicking the placards. In the hall, people with papers and silent phones began stirring.
Colvin remained by the window, looking at two worlds: one full of longing and one full of caution and secrets. Between them, he planted his resolve, simple and straight.
I will save humanity.