Copenhagen, Nordvest neighborhood. Midnight.

Jonathan’s head rested on the table. It was only midnight, but he felt like he’d already lived through an entire day. His pint stood half-full next to him—barely touched—while his friend Lucas had already fetched himself another.

“I really hope you’re going to behave tonight,” Jonathan muttered.

Lucas smirked. “You obviously didn’t want to go out.”

Jonathan sighed. “I wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for you lot. Every time you drag me to a party, it feels like you’re pulling me into Burning Man.”

The bar they sat in was a worker-run cooperative, its vibe warm and unpretentious, though the beers were far too expensive for Jonathan’s liking. Still, it was a decent place with decent people—most of the time. Ironically, Jonathan thought, places like this were part of what made rent in the neighborhood skyrocket. He recognized the folks behind the bar, as well as most of the patrons. But tonight, three of them stood out. He knew their faces but couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off about them. They sat silently, drinking as though they’d just finished a heated argument outside. Their strange vibe lingered in Jonathan’s mind until Christian returned from the restroom, collapsing heavily into his seat with a grunt.

Christian was a bear of a man, having grown up in Greenland before moving to Copenhagen for his studies. His imposing frame bore the scars of his past: a jagged reminder on his lower back from Russian artillery shrapnel, a wound he’d taken during his time fighting with NATO in the Baltics. Though his humor remained intact, Jonathan knew Christian’s months on the Eastern Front had left scars that ran far deeper than his skin.

“So, Mads told me the party at his place is off,” Christian announced. “Don’t know why he waited until midnight to tell us, but honestly, I knew it was a bust by seven.”

“Then why am I here?” Jonathan asked. “You said we’d do something other than drink at the same bar we always go to.”

Christian grinned. “Oh, what’s with the attitude? Would you rather stay home all night playing War Thunder again?”

Jonathan didn’t bother replying. Lucas jumped in, his sarcasm cutting through the tension. “C’mon, we can always go to Malmö. Mads says his friend’s at a killer party over there.”

“Pass,” Jonathan said firmly. “I’m not in the mood to party with Swedes. Besides, we’re too drunk to drive, and by the time we cross the bridge, it’ll be so late it’s not worth it.”

“You’re worse than my girlfriend,” Christian teased, earning a round of laughter.

“Fine,” Jonathan relented. “If we’re staying in Copenhagen, where are we going?”

Christian shrugged. “We’ll figure it out. Maybe grab a bottle or two and join Emma, Klara, and Thyn. Don’t worry, we’ll be alright tonight.” His reassuring tone always had a way of grounding the group. Jonathan nodded and even managed a small smile. He liked Christian’s realistic plans.

“I need to hit the bathroom. Keep my beer safe,” Jonathan said as he stood. “Don’t spike it.”

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

In the restroom, Jonathan checked his phone. His army NCO had tried calling again, and he winced at the sight of the missed calls. He’d been dodging them since 7 p.m. He knew he’d get into trouble for skipping whatever chore they’d assigned him in the motor pool.

As he unbuttoned his jeans at the urinal, he distracted himself by reading the countless stickers plastered on the walls. One caught his eye: “ABOLISH FRONTEX”—short, to the point, and with a catchy graphic. A recipe for success, he thought. Relieved, he walked to the sink to wash his hands. But as he checked his phone again, the soap made it slip from his grip, sending it clattering to the floor.

“For helvede,” he muttered, bending down to pick it up. The caller ID read Sergeant, and Jonathan sighed. Now or never to ruin my night, he thought, answering as he turned off the tap.

“Nygaard,” he said cautiously.

“Where the hell have you been, you bastard?!” the sergeant barked, his voice booming through the phone. “Why haven’t you picked up your goddamn phone?!”

“I… I was out swimming?” Jonathan replied, his voice slow and uncertain as he scrambled for an excuse.

“How far are you from Birkerød?” the sergeant demanded, his tone shifting to something more serious.

“Maybe 40 minutes, sir. I’ve had a pint or three, though. Why do you need me so late?”

“Everyone’s being called up. The last guy from your unit got here an hour ago. Get your ass here as fast as possible. And be careful—watch your surroundings. This is serious. Just get here.”

The sergeant hung up before Jonathan could respond. He stared at the phone in his hand, worry creeping over him. The sergeant’s tone wasn’t angry—it was tense, almost anxious. Maybe this really was serious.

Looking up at the mirror, Jonathan barely recognized the face staring back at him. At twenty, he already looked older than his years. His features, strikingly similar to his mother’s, were worn with exhaustion. He straightened up. “Back at it, I suppose,” he muttered to himself.

When Jonathan returned to the bar, Christian and Lucas were staring intently at one of the patrons sitting at the bar.

“Sorry, guys. I got called up—they need me at work,” Jonathan said, setting a 100-krone note on the table. “Here’s for my beers.”

Lucas frowned. “Seriously? What could they possibly need you for at this hour?”

“No idea. It sounded serious.” Jonathan was half-expecting them to wave off his money, but neither did. They were both still staring at the bar. The man sitting there had his back to them, but something about him was deeply unsettling. He wasn’t laughing exactly—he was… snickering? The movement of his shoulders was unnatural, almost convulsive.

Jonathan remembered him from earlier. He’d been with two others, drinking quietly in the corner. Now, the other two were seated again, their eyes locked on Jonathan. A chill ran down his spine. He couldn’t make out their expressions, but their stares burned into him.

The barmaid, clearly fed up, finally stepped in. “Alright, just leave, okay? I’ll get my colleagues if you don’t.”

The man didn’t respond, his snickering continuing as if she hadn’t spoken at all.

“Don’t tell me I didn’t warn you,” she said, storming off toward the kitchen. Jonathan had seen two guys smoking outside the service entrance earlier; she was probably fetching them for backup.

“What happened?” Jonathan whispered as he sat down, but Christian hushed him. Jonathan noticed Christian was subtly emptying his beer bottle into Jonathan’s half-full glass.

Jonathan froze. He’d seen Christian do this once before when a drunk had threatened people in the bar. He’d used the empty bottle as an improvised weapon. But this time felt different. Christian wasn’t just on edge—he was ready for something.

Before Jonathan could ask, the barmaid returned with two men in tow. One of them, tall and broad-shouldered, strode straight toward the snickering man. “Alright, asshole. Outside,” he said firmly, grabbing the man by the collar.

What happened next was so fast Jonathan could barely process it. The snickering man stood abruptly, smashing his glass and driving it into the tall man’s neck. Blood sprayed across the bar as the attacker pulled out a knife and slashed the man’s upper thigh, severing the artery.

The barmaid screamed as the man crumpled to the floor, blood pooling around him. He’d bleed out in less than a minute.

Before Jonathan could react, the other two figures stood. One calmly walked to the door, locking it, before turning and looking directly at Jonathan. Their eyes met, and Jonathan felt his stomach drop.