Jonathan finished washing up in the small, dimly lit bathroom. He felt lighter after stripping off his wet uniform and hanging it up to dry, though the relief was short-lived. The reflection in the cracked mirror didn’t lie—he was a mess. Bruises dotted his pale face and body, and the stitches under his eye felt taut and raw. His half-grown beard-stache was patchy, screaming for a shave he couldn’t spare the time or energy for.

The high from the powder still coursed through his system, numbing the worst of the aches and pains, but it couldn’t mask the sharp edges of reality. He’d gotten sloppy, reckless even, chasing the fleeting clarity the coke gave him. He knew better—he’d promised himself he’d calmed down in recent years—but the chaos of the past days had left him clawing for anything that kept him sharp and upright.

Sofia had handed him a clean t-shirt and a pair of jeans earlier. They fit well enough, though he could tell by her sharp glances that she wasn’t thrilled about his frantic, jittery behavior. She’d seen the powder on his nose, heard the edge in his voice. She knew. But she didn’t say much, her disapproval sitting quietly between them.

As he slipped on his army parka, a thought lit up in his head like a blinking neon sign. The house.

Somewhere beyond the modest vacation homes and winding streets of this quiet suburb was a neighborhood of sprawling villas—fortresses for Sweden’s wealthiest. Jonathan had been there before, once or twice. Parties. Drugs. A Moroccan snow distributor’s mansion, where the man himself had talked about smuggling routes and fortunes like it was a normal Friday conversation. If the house was abandoned, as so many places were now, there’d be a stash of something valuable left behind. Coke, maybe. Enough to trade, to use, to survive. The logic felt airtight, even if it wasn’t.

Jonathan strapped on his vest, checked his rifle, and steeled himself.

“And where are you going?” Sofia’s voice broke the silence.

Jonathan turned, caught off guard. She stood in the doorway, arms crossed, her tone sharp and weary.

“I have to check on a friend,” he lied, fumbling to sound convincing. “He lives nearby. I need to make sure he’s okay.”

Her narrowed eyes said she didn’t buy it. If Przemek weren’t half-dead in her bedroom, she might have slammed the door and locked him inside. But instead, she just shook her head. “Fine,” she muttered, watching as he put his plate carrier on and slung his rifle over his shoulder and stepped outside.

Sofia locked the door behind him, standing for a moment to watch his silhouette disappear down the street, heading east. She sighed, her anger bubbling under the surface. The fool wouldn’t last a night out there alone, she thought. Shaking her head, she double-checked the windows and collapsed onto the sofa, exhaustion finally catching up to her.

She hadn’t truly slept in days, not since her father’s health took its final nosedive. The nights had been long and restless, filled with worry about the soldiers outside, the chaos in Malmö, and the weight of her father’s impending death. She dozed for a few minutes here and there, but something always jolted her awake—a noise, a nightmare, or simply her own unease.

The last time she’d had a full night’s sleep, her father was alive, propped up in his bed, telling her stories of the war in their homeland. Bosnia, the ‘90s. He’d survived atrocities Sofia could barely imagine, and those memories had haunted him until the end. He used to say the chaos of war wasn’t just about the fighting—it was the lawlessness that followed, the vultures who preyed on the vulnerable.

And now, she thought bitterly, the world was just as broken. Fires burned in cities, houses were looted, and shady characters rose to power in the vacuum left by collapsing governments. Her father had seen it all before, and she wished more than anything that he’d lived long enough to guide her through it.

She drifted off into a restless sleep, her dreams an unsettling blur. She was running, skating, gliding—always trying to escape something just out of sight. Familiar faces flashed in and out—her father, Przemek, Jonathan, and strangers she couldn’t name. She dreamt of her childhood dog, of her cousins in Trollhättan, and of the crumbling world around her.

Sofia stirred around five in the morning, her body stiff from the sofa. She sat up, rubbing her eyes, and pulled on her Adidas sweatjacket, the weight of the pistol tucked inside reassuring her.

The house was eerily quiet. Jonathan hadn’t returned. She half-expected him to come stumbling back, banging on the door with a mob of furious locals chasing him. But so far, nothing.

The first pale streaks of dawn crept through the windows, casting a faint blue glow across the room. Sofia walked through the house, checking each room. Her father was still lying in his bed, the stillness of his body a quiet reminder of the day ahead. She’d have to find a place for him, a final resting spot.

The thought was interrupted by the faint chirping of birds outside, the kind of sound she hadn’t noticed in weeks. The sun was beginning to rise, slow and reluctant, as if unsure whether it wanted to shine on the world as it was.

Sofia’s stomach growled, her body rebelling after days of running on fumes. Food, she thought. I need to eat something. She glanced out the kitchen window at the pale, early morning sky, streaked with faint hints of orange. The day would be upon them soon. As she rifled through the cupboards, the creak of floorboards in the hallway made her tense. Her hand instinctively slipped into her jacket pocket, gripping the pistol hidden there.

Przemek appeared in the doorway, his broad figure silhouetted by the faint dawn light spilling through the window. He raised his hands slightly, smirking. “I beg you, don’t turn on the light. I’d rather not see my brains melt out from my ears.”

She kept her hand in her pocket, her expression neutral, though his attempt at humor didn’t land. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to,” she said, glancing at the unlit bulbs above. “The power went out yesterday. Guess those windmills finally gave up. How’s the headache?”

Przemek took a moment, leaning against the sink and meeting her gaze briefly before filling a glass of water. “Better. It’s still there, like a dull hammer, but nothing compared to last night.” He downed the water in one go, setting the glass down with a soft clink.

“Did you finish the vat of water I brought for you yesterday?” Sofia asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Of course. I came out to refill it, but you were asleep on the couch. Didn’t want to wake you.” He shifted awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I feel bad barging in like this and taking your bed. I’ll clean up, change the sheets, and leave it good as new. Should’ve made Jonathan take the other room. He’s younger and… less concussed,” he said, his tone light, though his tired eyes betrayed him. “If there’s anything we can do to help, just say the word.”

Sofia’s lips tightened at his offer. “Keep your young friend in check.” Her tone was sharp, and Przemek caught the flash of irritation in her eyes.

“What happened?” he asked cautiously.

Sofia sighed, crossing her arms. “He left yesterday, late afternoon, and hasn’t come back. The person in the other bed isn’t some empty room—it’s my father. He passed away yesterday. And while we’re at it, tell your ‘friend’ not to do drugs when he’s a guest in someone else’s home, no matter how bad things are out there.”

Przemek’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Wait, drugs? Jonathan?”

Sofia gave him a withering look. “Five minutes after you passed out, he snorted coke. Came back running into the house, hyperactive, with a mountain of equipment. And in case it wasn’t obvious, there was white powder in his nose.”

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

Przemek’s face darkened. He stared at the window, silent for a moment, before muttering, “Where is he now?”

Sofia waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t use that word. He went east, said he needed to check on a ‘friend.’”

“I just met that guy yesterday,” Przemek said, his voice low and heavy. “I saved his life, and he saved mine, but I didn’t see any sign of this before. How old is he? I need to have a serious talk with him when he gets back. He’s not just putting himself in danger; he’s putting you and me in danger too.”

“You sound like a disappointed parent talking to a teacher,” Sofia quipped, leaning against the counter. “Keep an eye on him, Przemek. We’ve already got enough to deal with without worrying about some kid on coke with a rifle.”

Przemek grunted, checking his equipment as if to distract himself. He didn’t respond, but the tightness in his jaw betrayed his frustration. Despite everything, he noticed that Sofia hadn’t threatened to throw them out—not even Jonathan. That has to mean something, he thought.

He looked up at her, softening his tone. “You never told me your name.”

“Sofia,” she said simply. “And you’re Przemek, right? You’re Polish?”

He chuckled, his tension breaking slightly. “What gave it away?”

“Well, if it wasn’t your name, then that eagle tattoo on your chest certainly did. I knew a guy named Przemysław in school.”

“Przemysław?” He smiled, shaking his head. “That’s a name I haven’t heard in years.”

Sofia studied him for a moment before adding, “You don’t look like you’re from around here.”

“My father’s from Bosnia,” she said after a pause, her voice quieter now. “He came here after the war. Met my mother a few weeks later, and I was born not even a year after.”

“Bosnia,” Przemek murmured, nodding thoughtfully. “Beautiful place.”

The conversation lulled, the weight of their circumstances settling over them. Sofia cleared her throat, breaking the silence. “Do you want some tea?” she asked, opening a cupboard and pulling out a box of chai.

Przemek shook his head. “We should eat.” He reached into his pack, pulling out two MREs, and took the metal kettle she held, his movements awkward but determined.

The futility of what Jonathan was doing hit him like a brick wall when he finally saw the house. This was it. The villa stood exactly where he remembered it—its modern lines and pristine landscaping now faded under the weight of disrepair. He crouched low behind a cluster of trees, scoping it out through his rifle’s magnified sight. The early morning light cast long shadows across the property, and the quiet hum of distant birdsong was the only sound breaking the silence.

His limbs felt like lead. The coke, once powering him through the night, had fully left his system, leaving a crashing, bone-deep fatigue in its wake. His heart was pounding—not from exertion but from the hollow, jittery remnants of his high.

Jonathan lowered the rifle for a moment to rub his face, trying to shake off the overwhelming sense of dread creeping over him. What the hell am I doing here? But before the thought could settle, movement snapped his attention back to the villa. He lifted the rifle again, his hands unsteady, the scope blurring for a moment before it came into focus.

There, near the empty pool. A figure.

At this distance—maybe three hundred meters—he could barely make out its details. But something about the way it stood unnerved him. The figure wasn’t moving, not in the natural way a person would. It seemed... posed, as if waiting for something. Jonathan’s gut churned, and he shifted his view to the front entrance of the villa.

The door creaked open.

Two more figures emerged, stepping into the morning light with eerie purpose. For a moment, Jonathan swore they were looking straight at him, as if they could sense the weight of his gaze through the scope. He froze, his breath catching in his throat. No way. That’s impossible.

His heart raced as he swung the rifle back toward the pool.

Three more figures had joined the first, standing in a loose, silent formation. They weren’t just standing. They were staring, their postures deliberate, faces blurred at this distance but undeniably focused.

“Nope,” Jonathan muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t think twice. Letting the rifle drop to his side, he turned and bolted, sprinting back the way he came as fast as his legs would carry him. His lungs burned, his mind raced, and every fiber of his being screamed to get as far away from that villa as possible.

The forest seemed darker now, the morning light doing little to pierce the canopy. The adrenaline in his veins was different from the coke-fueled rush earlier—it was raw, primal terror. The figures by the villa lingered in his mind, etched there like a bad dream he couldn’t wake up from.

Jonathan didn’t stop running. He didn’t look back.

The dull smell of reheated macaroni rations filled the room. They sat together in the dimly lit living room, the food warm but far from satisfying.

They ate in silence, the sound of their forks scraping against the metal trays the only noise between them. Occasionally, their eyes met, but no words were spoken. Both were too tired, too worn down by the events of the past day, to make small talk.

As the sun began to rise higher in the sky, casting pale golden light through the cracks in the curtains, Przemek glanced out the window. The stillness outside was unnerving, but for the moment, it was a reprieve.

“We’ll figure this out,” he said finally, his voice low but steady.

Sofia didn’t respond, but the faintest nod of her head suggested she was holding on to some shred of hope, however small.

Jonathan’s legs felt like they were about to give out, but he didn’t stop running. The cold air bit at his face, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps as his boots crunched against the uneven dirt path. Every shadow in the early dawn felt alive, every rustling leaf a threat. His chest tightened as the villa receded behind him, the ominous figures still burned into his memory. What the hell were they? he thought, but he shoved the question aside, focusing only on one thing: getting back to the house.

When the small one-story house finally came into view, a fleeting sense of relief washed over him. He slowed to a walk, trying to calm his breathing. But the pounding in his head and chest wasn’t just from exertion—it was the residual panic of realizing how deeply he had underestimated everything out here.

The house was silent. A faint sliver of light peeked through the blinds, the sun now climbing higher into the sky. Jonathan approached the door cautiously, looking around for anything out of place. He raised a fist to knock but hesitated. He could already feel their judgment radiating through the walls.

Inside, Przemek sat at the kitchen table, cradling his rifle in his hands. His face, still bruised and swollen, was taut with a quiet anger. The bandage Sofia had placed on his jaw made him look more menacing somehow, the sharp lines of his exhausted features illuminated in the soft glow of a candle. He turned his head slightly as Sofia walked toward the door.

Sofia, still in her jacket, placed her hand instinctively on the pistol concealed in her pocket. She paused for a moment before unlocking the door and opening it a crack. Jonathan stood there, his face pale and damp with sweat. His eyes gave everything away.

Before she could say a word, Jonathan pushed past her, the weight of his gear clattering as he dropped his rifle and vest onto the floor. “Everything’s fine,” he said quickly, his voice flat and unconvincing. He didn’t even look at her as he passed, heading straight for the living room.

Przemek’s eyes followed Jonathan like a hawk, his grip tightening slightly on his rifle. “You sure?” he asked, his tone calm but laced with suspicion. He tilted his head, taking in Jonathan’s flushed face, the trembling in his hands, the faint trace of dried sweat on his brow. What did you do? the look seemed to ask.

“Yeah,” Jonathan muttered, sitting heavily on the sofa. He leaned back and rubbed his face, avoiding their stares. “I told you, everything’s fine.”

Sofia stood in the doorway, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She didn’t press him further, but her expression said it all. You’re lying.

Przemek set his rifle on the table with deliberate care, the metal making a soft clink against the wood. He exchanged a glance with Sofia, who looked equally unimpressed. They didn’t need to say anything—they both understood that Jonathan had just done something reckless, maybe even dangerous.

The room fell into an awkward silence, the tension thick in the air. Jonathan could feel their eyes on him, their unspoken judgment cutting deeper than any words. He stared at the floor, pretending not to notice, but the weight of his guilt was suffocating.

Finally, Przemek reached down to his pack and pulled out the half-eaten meal from earlier, its dull, processed smell filling the air. He unceremoniously set it down on the table and pushed it toward Jonathan.

“Eat,” Przemek said gruffly. His voice was flat but carried an edge, like a parent scolding a child without raising their voice.

Jonathan looked up at him, surprised. For a moment, he hesitated, unsure if this was an olive branch or something else entirely. He reached for the food, his hands still trembling, and took a bite in silence.

Sofia watched the exchange, her face unreadable. She stayed quiet, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed. But her eyes betrayed a simmering frustration.

Przemek leaned back in his chair, his rifle still within arm’s reach. He didn’t say anything else, just watched Jonathan eat with that same hawk-like intensity.

The room fell into a heavy quiet, the only sound the faint clink of the fork against the plate. Jonathan kept his head down, focusing on the meal, but he could feel their gazes boring into him.

When he finished, he set the plate down and looked up briefly. Sofia and Przemek didn’t need to say a word. The disappointment in their eyes was louder than anything they could have voiced.

Jonathan rubbed the back of his neck, muttering, “Thanks,” before slumping back on the sofa.

The chapter ended with the three of them sitting in silence, the early morning light creeping through the cracks in the blinds. Outside, the world remained as hostile as ever.

But inside the house, the weight of unspoken words hung heavy in the air.