I open my eyes. I grab the revolver from under my pillow, stretch my shoulders, and push myself up in bed.

The air is heavy, and I can feel my left arm numb from my habit of sleeping on it. I need to change this habit; it's harder to handle the revolver in the morning this way. As I settle on the bed, I hear the engine waiting at the door. "I'm coming, I'm coming."

I reach for the bedside table. The knife is still in place.

Through the windows, a beam of light cuts through, violating the room as if it owns it. It wakes me up, forces me to wake up. "The sunlight is already contaminating this room."

I look at Mother's portrait. My reflection blends with hers in the glass. I don’t know what I expect to see or why I keep looking. I move to my coat rack—nothing noteworthy. A bunch of police uniforms, a ceremonial uniform, black with a rank... "Frank is about to break."

About three pairs of shoes, neatly arranged by usage. I should replace the brown ones; they stain too easily...

I remove my clothes slowly, letting the cold air brush against my skin as I prepare my attire. First, I put on my black underwear—simple but functional. Among the shirts, my fingers run over the fabrics until they stop at the white one with an ascot collar; something tells me I’ll need comfort above all today.

I reach for the shirt garters in the drawer and, with methodical movements, secure them around my thighs, ensuring they hold firm to keep my shirt in place. Next, I open the bottom drawer and pull out a pair of black uniform trousers, as sober as the rest of my ensemble.

Now come the socks and polished black shoes, both ready, reflecting a professionalism I never abandon.

With precise movements, I take the holster and place it around my shoulders, letting the straps cross on my back. I carefully adjust it on the fourth hole, ensuring the harness is firm but comfortable. I fasten the clasp to my belt, pulling slightly to check its tension, allowing the support to rest perfectly in place.

I take the revolver gently, feeling its familiar weight in my hand. I slide it into its holster as if returning it to its usual rest, ensuring it sits perfectly beneath my left armpit. A final adjustment confirms that everything is in place: tight, discreet, and ready for anything.

With the revolver secured, I take the belt, preparing it to hold the M8 bayonet. I wrap it around my waist, tightening it so it’s firm but not restrictive. The bayonet’s sheath finds its place at the small of my back, hidden beneath my jacket yet accessible with a single motion if needed. A slight tug confirms it’s ready for action.

Finally, I bend slightly and adjust the ankle holster on my right leg. Carefully, I slide a small knife inside—a discreet and practical weapon for emergencies. The holster fits perfectly, neither protruding nor hindering my movements, hidden beneath the hem of my trousers.

When I finish, I see my reflection in the mirror, fully prepared. White shirt. Black uniform trousers. Freshly polished black shoes. Shoulder holster with the revolver. Waist belt with the bayonet. And lastly, invisible to everyone, even myself, an ankle holster with a small but subtle knife.

The final step before leaving—my jacket. Black, without embellishments, except for a pocket watch and a stitch done by my mother. I remember it tore during a training exercise where we had to find various ways to carry a knife without a holster. I chose the inner pocket. Good idea, poor execution. I sigh.

I slip my arms into the black jacket, feeling the firm stitching on my shoulders. The weight of the pocket watch is almost imperceptible, but it's there, a reminder of time that never waits. "Every buckle secured, every stitch smoothed, every weapon in place. Everything moves in sync with the engine waiting outside. It doesn’t grow impatient, but it doesn’t stay silent either."

I walk through the room, approach the door, and before leaving, I grab my documents, a wallet, and a single bullet, slipping it into the small pocket of my trousers. One bullet, one possibility. I don’t expect to use it, but it's better to have it and not need it. I pick up the breakfast already prepared by Samantha. A note rests beside it, like a ghost guarding the meal: "Young Master, remember to eat. It is necessary. -Samantha."

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"As always, her handwriting is pristine and meticulous. As if discipline could be written."

As I step outside, the day's heat hits me first. Then, the smoke. Then, the weight of the city and its people. Heavy. Suffocating. Inevitable.

The uniform is wrinkled, a loose button on Claude’s jacket. Small details, but in this job, details are all that matter.

Here, families are either police or military. Not by vocation, but by custom. Like an inheritance no one asked for.

But most do their jobs out of obligation or for financial gain, not because they understand what it truly means to wear their rank.

The car door slams shut behind me.

The air smells of iron and smoke. Without wasting time, I order:

"Claude, report. What happened?"

I settle into the back of the patrol car. From the rearview mirror, I see the tension in his face. His right hand rests firmly on the steering wheel, but his left moves involuntarily. His knuckles are whiter than usual.

I notice. It’s not the heat. It’s a different kind of sweat.

When I ask for the report, he doesn’t meet my eyes. His breathing shifts.

Something he doesn’t want to say.

"Claude, say what you’re thinking. Don’t waste my time."

He hesitates. I see his jaw tighten before speaking.

"Boss... looks like Mr. Frank had another episode."

He spits it out quickly, as if trying to rid himself of the words before they choke him.

"The officers… they’re going to come to the station again. If this keeps up, they might start firing us. What if… what if they begin dismantling our unit?"

There it is. His real fear.

I keep my gaze fixed on the mirror.

"Claude, watch the road."

He obeys.

"Second, don’t worry. Right now, you’re in my group. You have nothing to be concerned about."

I pause, letting his thoughts churn before dropping the next piece.

"Just wait."

Silence.

I offer no further explanation, but I know he wants one.

Finally, he asks cautiously:

"Boss, can you tell me how to proceed?"

I look at him with interest. My men are new. Young. Trained by me.

I trust them.

But I give them nothing for free.

"You tell me. You’re capable, Claude."

Let’s see if he’s learned.

I hear him take a deep breath. His mind is working.

"Frank... his actions are different."

A good start.

"He’s nervous. Something made him move. Something you did activated him… forced him to act stupidly."

A pause.

"It forced him to decide."

Interesting.

"And I suppose it’s better they see him as a troubled commissioner… than as a subversive."

Smart. I let him continue.

"But something’s missing."

Claude swallows. His voice steadies.

"A deal. A secret. Or maybe… something only you know. Something unsettling enough to force him to yield."

There it is.

He understands the game.

"Family… no."

Immediately dismissed.

"Money… isn’t a problem."

Correct.

"Connections… was Frank linked to a rebel faction?"

Close. But deeper.

I let him think.

"Or even more dangerous…"

His voice lowers.

"Did Frank kill a noble?"

I smirk slightly.

"Bingo."

I whispered the word, almost as if I had foreseen it. Soon, the ranks in that precinct will shift. And it won’t bother us. It will improve things.

"When we arrive, tell the unit to be ready. It’s going to be a turbulent week, and we’re short on people. Elizabeth still hasn’t returned, and I’m tired of having to retake the unit photo."

"Boss, what about Andrew?" Claude asked.

"I’ll test him."

The tension in the patrol car thickened. The engine kept roaring beneath us—steady, oppressive.

"I’ll take him with me today if something comes up. That means team assignments will change. Elizabeth and Carter are absent and probably won’t be back for a week. For today, you’re on your own, Claude. Don’t worry, we’ll find someone soon… and I have a feeling today’s the day."

A flicker of unease crossed Claude’s face. He licked his lips, as if weighing his words.

"Objections?" I prompted.

Come on, say it.

Claude clenched his jaw. Then, with a sharp exhale, he spat out:

"Just one, Boss."

I glanced at him sideways.

"Spit it out."

"Andrew. I get why you brought him into the unit, but that scum is nothing but noble trash. He doesn’t even know why he’s here."

A harsh statement. Not incorrect.

"Claude, remember we’re in public. And I, too, am that 'noble trash.'"

"You’re not the same, Boss."

I turned my head toward him.

"Explain."

"He doesn’t understand why he’s here. You do."

I let his words hang in the air for a few seconds before replying.

"Don’t worry. I’ll test him today. If he’s useless, he won’t return to the unit."

Claude nodded, satisfied.

"That’s all I ask, Boss."

The sound of the engine filled the silence again. The streets started to change, shifting from residential homes to businesses, then to plazas, and finally, the familiar silhouette of the precinct waiting ahead.

The first time I met Claude, he was Claude de Lorraine.

He was standing unconscious, sword in his right hand, and in his left, gripping a list of names, surrounded by corpses.

In a downpour of blood.

I understand now. After what happened in that madhouse, I would have reacted the same way.

When he first joined the unit, he was reactive. A stare that could kill.

Golden mane. Red eyes.

They glowed in the dark like embers, even when his will was broken.