I watched as soldiers in ceremonial uniforms carried the casket with the utmost reverence, their steps slow and measured. The silence of the gathering was broken only by the soft, shuffling movements of the procession and the heart-wrenching sounds of cries and weeping that echoed through the air. The most audible, the most haunting, came from the mother of Private Émile Fontaine—the young soldier who, as the press so vividly described, had bravely sacrificed himself to protect a child.

Everything about this funeral had been hastily arranged, but it was easily the largest in the country today. Despite the hurried preparations, it carried an unmistakable weight. We had convinced Private Fontaine’s family to hold the service here in the capital, arguing that Lorraine was too unstable to host such a solemn event. They had agreed, albeit reluctantly, and now here they were—grieving in a place far from home, surrounded by strangers, but also by those who understood the significance of their loss.

Hundreds of sympathetic onlookers stood about a hundred meters away, straining to catch a glimpse of the proceedings through fences and bushes. They were hushed, respectful, their faces a mix of sorrow and admiration for the fallen soldier. Dozens of guards were posted around the perimeter, their expressions stern, maintaining order and ensuring the privacy of the grieving family.

Beside the family of the deceased, Captain Moreau's entire company stood in formation, their faces a blend of grief and solemnity. The men held themselves with rigid precision, but even from my position, I could see the wetness in their eyes, the way they blinked back tears as they watched their comrade being laid to rest. They had seen him fall. They had heard the shot, seen the chaos, and now, they were here to honor the man who had fought and died beside them.

Under the defense minister’s borrowed authority, I had issued the order for Captain Moreau to abandon his barracks in Lorraine entirely, and to be temporarily reassigned. The risk of staying had grown too great, and after all, we had achieved what was necessary. There was no point in risking further bloodshed, no reason to keep pushing when the flames of rebellion had already been lit.

As the casket was lowered, the cries of Private Fontaine’s mother grew louder, her voice breaking in a way that seemed to pierce the air itself. The father stood beside her, his face a mask of grief, his arm around her shoulders as she leaned against him, her body shaking with sobs. It was a scene that spoke of a loss deeper than words, a pain that no amount of honor or tribute could truly ease.

***

Everyone was encouraged to step up to the podium and share their thoughts and memories of Private Émile Fontaine. It was meant to be a tribute, a way to honor his life and the impact he had on those who knew him. The order began with those who were closest to him, each one taking a deep breath before facing the assembled crowd.

His mother went first, her frame trembling as she approached the podium. She wept as she spoke, her voice breaking frequently over the fifteen minutes she stood there. She shared stories from his childhood—of his laughter, his kindness, the dreams he had of making a difference. She spoke of the boy who had always wanted to help others, who would bring home stray animals, who stood up for the weaker children at school. “He always wanted to be someone who protected others,” she said, her voice choking with tears. “That was Émile. That was my boy.”

Next, his father took the stand. His voice was strong at first, full of pride as he described his son’s bravery, how even before joining the army, Émile had shown the qualities of a true hero. “He was always fearless,” his father said, his eyes glassy but determined. “He stood up for what was right, no matter the cost. I saw it in him when he was just a boy—that strength, that courage.”

But as he continued, his voice began to shift, his words growing heavy, a fire starting to burn in his eyes. “But that courage—" his voice cracked, anger seeping into each word—"was taken advantage of. Taken away by those bastards who fired on him. By Valois, who protects these criminals.” His voice rose, trembling with rage. “They took my boy—my son!” he shouted, his fists clenching at the podium. He began to curse those responsible, his words becoming increasingly incoherent, drowned by his grief and fury. His shoulders heaved, his face red with rage, until finally, his wife had to come up, gently guiding him away, her own tears flowing as she held him close. The crowd was silent, the weight of his despair hanging heavily in the air.

After a moment, the next to speak were Émile’s friends and comrades. One by one, they came forward, each sharing a memory of Private Fontaine that brought a smile or a laugh. One soldier, with a faint smile, recounted the time Émile had accidentally spilled an entire pot of coffee on a lieutenant’s paperwork, and how they’d all scrambled to clean it up before anyone noticed.

Their stories were light, and for a moment, the weight of grief lifted just a little, replaced by the warmth of shared memories, by laughter that was as much an expression of sorrow as it was of joy. They wanted people to remember not just how Émile had died, but how he had lived—full of courage, humor, and a sense of loyalty that touched everyone around him.

Finally, Captain Moreau stepped forward, his face solemn. He approached the podium, taking a deep breath before he began. “I wish I could tell you that I knew Private Fontaine well,” he admitted, his voice steady but heavy with emotion. “I didn't know him as long as his family, or as well as his friends here. But I can tell you this: he was one of the finest soldiers I have had the honor to serve with.”

He paused, his eyes scanning the crowd, then continued. “He was selfless. Brave. He acted without hesitation to protect the innocent, even when it meant risking everything. That is the kind of man he was—a man willing to give all he had for others.”

Moreau's voice grew softer, and he looked down for a moment, his expression clouded with grief. “I can’t help but feel a deep sense of guilt,” he said, his voice trembling just slightly. “I think about that day often—about what I could have done differently. How I could have changed the outcome, somehow. And maybe that thought will haunt me for the rest of my life.”

He looked back up, his eyes glistening. “But I know one thing. Private Émile Fontaine’s sacrifice was not in vain. He showed us all what true courage looks like. He reminded us of what we are fighting for—the innocent, the vulnerable, the ones who need someone to stand up for them. And for that, I will always be grateful.”

Moreau stepped away from the podium, his head bowed, and returned to his place beside his men. The silence that followed was profound, filled with the echoes of love, loss, and respect for a young man who had given everything for others.

Then, when it seemed that everyone who had something to say had already gone up, I stood from my seat and made my way to the podium. The air was heavy, and I could feel the weight of the moment pressing on my shoulders. As I walked, I caught sight of Miss Snow’s eyes widening in shock, her expression a mixture of confusion and alarm. She stared at me, as if her eyes were shouting, "Get down! What the hell are you doing up there?"

But I kept moving, each step deliberate until I reached the podium. I cleared my throat, adjusting the microphone slightly. The crowd was silent, their eyes on me, curiosity and weariness mingling in their expressions.

“Hello everyone,” I began, my voice steady, though my heart was pounding. “My name is Viktor. You may not know me, but I work in the Ministry of Defense. Upon hearing of Private Fontaine’s story, I felt compelled to offer my utmost help in organizing this funeral—one that would be fitting of a hero such as him.”

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I paused, letting my gaze move across the audience. I could see his parents, his comrades, the people who had known and loved him. Their faces were marked by grief, but also by something deeper—a quiet pride.

“On my way here,” I continued, “I found myself imagining Private Fontaine’s heroic act over and over in my mind, as if playing on a loop. And I often asked myself: Would I have had the courage to do what he did? Would I be brave enough to stare down the barrel of a gun, with no hesitation, to save a child?”

Actually, the shot had been fired so quickly that there was likely no time for Fontaine to even react. But that detail wasn’t important now.

“And each time I ask myself that question, I reach the same answer: No. No, I would not.”

A murmur ran through the crowd, a soft stirring of unease. I could see people exchanging glances, a mixture of agreement and discomfort. I pressed on.

“And I believe many of you here, if you are honest with yourselves, would also admit the same.” I let the words hang for a moment, letting their truth settle in the silence. “It’s a difficult thing to confront, but it’s also what makes what Private Fontaine did so extraordinary. He did what 99% of us could not do. He stood up in the face of death, and he chose to protect.”

I looked down for a moment, collecting my thoughts, then back at the audience. “That means if you were to make a friend, there would only be a 1% chance they would be someone like Private Fontaine. In other words, he was a rare treasure—a human being of immeasurable value. And I wish, truly, that I had been as fortunate as many of you to have known him.”

I turned my gaze to his parents, who sat in the front row, his mother still dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. “And to you, Mr. and Mrs. Fontaine,” I said, my voice softening, “I want to praise you for raising such a remarkable young man. You instilled in him a character so strong, so selfless, that he became the kind of person we can all only hope to be.”

For a heartbeat, there was only silence. Then, the audience began to clap, softly at first, a gentle murmur of applause that filled the quiet space. I waited for the claps to die down, feeling the intensity of the moment settle back into stillness.

“However,” I began, my voice growing quieter. I let the pause linger, feeling the weight of every gaze on me.

“After listening to Mr. Fontaine’s words, frustrating thoughts and realizations have entered my mind, and I’m sure they did for all of you as well,” I continued, my tone grave, my words deliberate.

“Such a great young man was robbed of his future, his potential. If this terrible tragedy had not happened, he would have gone on to affect the lives of hundreds, if not thousands, of those around him for the better. But that terrible event did happen, and what makes it worse is this: not only is the perpetrator roaming free without consequence, but they are also being supported—shielded.”

I could feel the air grow thick, tension mounting as I spoke. “Just thinking of that... the feelings it stirs in me right now… I'm not quite sure how to describe them. What is the best word for it...?”

“Injustice!” Fontaine's father shouted, his voice raw with emotion, cutting through the silence.

“Injustice... Yes, that is exactly right,” I echoed, my voice rising as my eyes grew visibly watery. “There is no justice in this!” I shouted, my words carrying my own grief and rage.

“So I have decided,” I said, letting my voice soften. Slowly, I reached into my breast pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.

“This,” I said, holding the paper high, “is a warrant. Signed by the Justice Minister for the arrest of Governor Valois and the militiamen responsible for these traitorous acts. To delay its execution even a moment longer would be a further injustice!”

“But the question now is,” I said, scanning the audience, my gaze moving slowly across the sea of faces, “who should be given the honor of serving this warrant?”

I allowed the question to hang in the air, feeling the anticipation grow. Finally, my eyes found Captain Moreau, standing stiffly beside his men, his face unreadable. As my gaze locked with his, the rest of the audience followed, all eyes turning to him.

For a brief moment, Moreau looked directly into my eyes, and the coldness of his stare hit me like a sharp blade—his anger and resentment unmistakable.

But I pressed on. “I believe it should be none other than those who have served alongside Private Fontaine,” I finished, my voice steady, my gaze never wavering from Moreau’s.

There was a pause, a moment of silence, before Fontaine's father stood, his face a mixture of grief and fervor. “Yes! Oh, yes! It should be none other than you, Captain!” he cried, his voice cracking. “Give those damn criminals a piece of your mind. My son will be watching you from above!”

The crowd murmured their agreement, voices rising in support. Moreau stood there, unmoving, cornered by the weight of expectation and the emotional plea of a grieving father. His men looked at him, their expressions mixed—some resolute, some anxious, others still processing the enormity of the task being thrust upon them.

Slowly, Moreau turned towards Mr. Fontaine. A tight, strained smile formed on his lips. “Yes, sir,” he said, his voice carefully measured. “We will do this honor to the best of our efforts.”

A cheer rose from the audience, a mix of applause and fervent cries. But I could see the strain in Moreau’s face, the tension in his shoulders. He had accepted the duty, but it was clear it came at a cost. The look in his eyes as he glanced at me once more spoke of resentment, perhaps even betrayal.

***

Miss Snow had been complaining all day, her voice a constant buzz in my ear about how the outcomes of our arrangement had barely benefitted her. Well, I mean, no one told her to stick by my side all the time. I never promised she’d get any groundbreaking material by following me like a shadow. If she was so hungry for a story, she should have gone to Lorraine herself, like the rest of those desperate journalists. Still, it wasn't a total loss for her, I suppose. She does have the privilege of accompanying me on the big arrest of Valois tomorrow. A big day ahead, no doubt.

I washed my face thoroughly before bed, the cool water running down my skin, rinsing away the exhaustion of the day. As I dried my face with a towel, I paused, staring into the mirror, checking my reflection one last time before calling it a night.

And then... Ah.

Did you think I had forgotten you?

Yes, you—the one who always watches, observes, judges even, yet never speaks, never shares a word. The silent critic in the shadows.

Do you think I’m heartless, after the stunt I pulled at the funeral? I bet you do. You probably think of me as a monster, and maybe you're right. After all, what kind of person turns a moment of pure grief—of raw human loss—into a tool for their own purpose? What kind of person incites rage at a funeral, weaponizes the pain of a grieving father just to push his agenda forward?

Yes, I admit it. Monster is a fitting title.

But here’s the thing: you’re still here, aren’t you? And that tells me something important. You might loathe me, be disgusted by the choices I've made, by the lengths to which I've gone. But still, you stay. You watch. Why is that?

I think it’s because, deep down, you don’t really care about the morality of it all. Not as much as you want to believe you do. You’re here because you’re fascinated, because you want to see what happens next. You’re here for the outcome, the triumph—however it comes. And as long as I win, as long as I deliver results, that's all that really matters to you, isn't it?

And let’s be honest, put yourself in my shoes. Could you have done anything better? Really think about it. Could you have resolved the situation in Lorraine faster, without shedding more blood, without igniting yet another war that would cost thousands of lives?

You don’t have to like me. You don’t have to approve of my methods. But you need people like me—people who are willing to wade into the darkness, who are willing to do the things no one else will. Because without people like me, you wouldn’t stand a chance against people like Valois. Or against the ones even worse—the ones who loom in the shadows beyond him.

So, yes, call me what you will. Monster, manipulator, opportunist. I accept it all, because I know what I’ve done and why I’ve done it. And at the end of the day, the truth is, I can live with it. Can you?

Anyway, I’m going to bed now. I’m glad we could clear things up between us. And if I could ask just one favor—don’t judge me too harshly from here on out. Or at least, judge me fairly. Because when all is said and done, we’re both here for the same thing: to win.

Goodnight.