The Virus- The Calm Before The Storm

 Pictured: Evie Sicario happily at work at the Peace Office

Bow Wow Castle Complex, King’s Harem Tavern, January 13, 2023

17:25 local time,
City of Cuyahoga Castles, Sovereignty of Ohio, UCSS

The place was already louder than usual.

Normally King’s Harem ran on music, chatter, and the steady hum of curated spectacle- medieval fantasy filtered through nightlife economics. Tonight, though, the televisions had stolen the spotlight. Every screen was tuned to the pre-game show: graphics blazing, analysts arguing, the Cleveland Steamers logo pulsing like a heartbeat nobody in Ohio wanted to jinx.

First playoff appearance in over a decade.
First real hope in generations.

Even people who claimed they didn’t care… cared.

Elian Reyes paused just inside the entrance, letting the noise settle around him. The air smelled like fried food, perfume, nervous anticipation, and cheap optimism. He’d seen similar atmospheres before elections, ceasefires, championship fights- moments where communities tried to convince themselves something bigger might finally break their way.

He wasn’t a die-hard Steamers fan. Football, yes. The Steamers specifically? That was Cleveland’s burden more than his.

Still… this game mattered. Symbolically, at least.

Travel game. Algarve. Wild Card.
And somehow the city had talked itself into believing.

He stepped toward the host stand.

Tonight’s uniforms leaned heavily into football parody — cropped jerseys, stylized shoulder pads, team colors worked into the usual King’s Harem aesthetic. Suggestive without crossing into anything explicit. Marketing knew exactly how far to push without risking licensing lawyers or public complaints.

A young server spotted him before the host did.

Her eyes lit up with professional recognition- not personal, not flirtatious exactly, just the practiced radar of someone who reads customers for a living.

“Well hey there, Daddy,” she said lightly, already motioning him forward. “You look like you want a good TV angle. C’mon.”

The nickname landed with zero awkwardness. Just workplace shorthand. Performance language. Elian had heard worse in undercover ops.

He followed.

She steered him toward a small table near the center bank of screens — close enough to catch commentary clearly, far enough from the speakers to hold a conversation if he wanted one. Smart placement.

“You’re early,” she added. “Kickoff’s six. People started coming in at four. Nobody trusts Cleveland luck.”

“That makes two of us,” Elian said.

She grinned at that, set down a menu he probably wouldn’t read, and gave the TVs an approving glance as if checking on old friends.

“Drink to start?”

“Water’s fine.”

“Responsible. I respect it.”

She drifted off smoothly into the crowd, already switching tones for another table.

Elian leaned back slightly in his chair, watching the analysts dissect Cleveland’s chances like surgeons preparing for a risky operation.

He told himself he was here just for the game.

…but habit lingered.
Eyes scanning exits.
Noting staff patterns.
Clocking faces.

Retirement, apparently, was more a location change than a lifestyle.

Onscreen, the pre-game hype ramped up.
Outside, Cleveland held its breath.

The pre-game show cut to a montage of the Steamers’ 2012 playoff collapse- grainy footage, old heartbreak recycled for narrative drama.

Elian barely noticed.

A familiar weight settled lightly against his shoulder.

“Hey, old man.”

It was the same server who seated him, but the voice was different from the one she usually used at tables. Softer. Real.

He turned his head slightly.

The name tag read Candy in looping pink script. Glittered, artificial, marketable.

…but up close, the expression was all Kiley, Elian’s actual daughter.

She slid in beside him, hip against the side of his chair, resting comfortably against his shoulder like she’d done when she was ten and falling asleep in the back of patrol cars during late shifts.

“How was your day?” he asked quietly.

“Long,” she exhaled. “Not bad. Just… long.”

“You look tired.”

“I am tired.”

He didn’t push. He never pushed.

She glanced toward the bar, making sure no manager was looking too closely. The floor supervisor knew. A few of the staff suspected. Officially, though, this was just a regular customer getting premium attention.

“Any problems?” he asked.

Kiley hesitated- not because she didn’t want to tell him, but because she didn’t want to trigger him.

“Nothing serious. Some well-dressed guy. Definitely not a regular. Tried to reach out while I was walking past. Not subtle.”

Elian’s jaw tightened- not visibly, but enough.

“What happened?”

“Security was already watching him. He’d been staring at everyone like he was shopping.” She shrugged. “He got handsy, they bounced him. Fast. He didn’t fight it.”

“Did he say anything?”

“No. Just… entitlement vibes.”

Elian nodded once. That was often worse than drunken aggression- the quiet assumption of access.

“You okay?”

“I expected it,” she said. “Big game day. You get the corporate guys, the out-of-town gamblers, the ‘I’m celebrating my bonus’ crowd. The regulars? They’re fine. Honestly, most of them are sweet. They tip. They behave. They know this is a show.”

She squeezed his shoulder lightly.

“I can handle the rest.”

He studied her face for a moment. She wasn’t masking. Just tired.

“You shouldn’t have to handle it,” he said.

She gave him the faintest smirk.

“Dad. I work here. Of course I have to handle it.”

Onscreen, a graphic flashed: Steamers at Gallopers- Algarve, Wild Card Showdown.

Kiley nodded toward the screen.

“So. Think they actually pull it off?”

Elian exhaled.

“Algarve’s complicated.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

“Portugal’s political climate hasn’t stabilized since the Salazar-style consolidation started creeping back in,” he said, eyes still on the screen but clearly not watching football. “Authoritarian optics disguised as economic necessity. The Gallopers play in a region that’s trying to rebrand itself while tightening control internally. International events are soft power plays.”

Kiley blinked.

“…You’re doing it again.”

“What?”

“You’re giving me geopolitics instead of football.”

He paused, then allowed a faint smile.

“They have a decent secondary,” he conceded. “If Cozens doesn’t force throws, they have a shot.”

“There it is.”

She nudged him gently.

“You care more about regime consolidation than red-zone efficiency.”

“That’s not true,” he said.

“It’s completely true.”

The analysts on TV began debating whether Cleveland’s drought- first playoff game since 2012, first postseason win potentially since 1957’s Continental title- was psychological baggage or destiny.

Kiley watched them for a second, then looked back at him.

“You just want the usual?”

He nodded.

“Yes.”

No elaboration necessary.

She straightened slightly, professional posture slipping back into place.

“Water. Grilled chicken plate. Extra fries because you pretend you don’t want them.”

He didn’t deny it.

“Be right back.”

She gave his shoulder one last squeeze- subtle enough to look like branding-friendly affection, real enough to mean something- and slipped back into the noise of King’s Harem as the countdown to kickoff ticked under six minutes.

Elian leaned back again.

The city was holding its breath.

He was counting exits.

The game grabbed his attention immediately. The fourth quarter turned the whole place feral.

It had been a grind. Algarve struck first. Cleveland answered. Algarve adjusted. Cleveland stalled. The kind of game that never let either side breathe long enough to feel safe.

By 6:58 PM, the room wasn’t a restaurant anymore.

It was a pressure chamber.

The Gallopers led 20-15 with just over a minute left. The broadcast graphic glowed like a dare.

Ball on the Algarve 6-yard line.

Elian hadn’t moved for the last two drives. Not even when Kiley dropped off his plate and stole a fry without asking.

“Don’t,” she’d warned him earlier. “If they choke, I’m not cleaning up emotional damage.”

Now she was standing behind the bar, eyes fixed on the screen like everyone else. Candy persona suspended. Just Kiley.

On first down, the Steamers lined up tight. Trips right. Gold isolated outside.

The commentators were already hedging.

“They’ve struggled in the red zone all year-”

Snap.

Cozens dropped back, quick three-step. No panic. No hero ball.

The pocket held for half a heartbeat longer than anyone expected.

Gold broke inside at the goal line, slipped just beyond the plane-

Cozens fired.

Perfect spiral. High enough to protect. Low enough to secure.

Gold caught it clean- and was immediately leveled.

Bodies collided in the end zone.

The ball didn’t move.

Touchdown.

For half a second the bar froze- waiting for a flag that didn’t come.

Then the ref’s arms shot up.

The sound that followed wasn’t cheering.

It was release.

Chairs scraped. Drinks sloshed. Someone knocked over a basket of fries. One of the bartenders screamed loud enough to clip the audio feed from the TV.

Kiley was laughing- actually laughing- hands in her hair.

“Holy-” she started, then remembered where she worked.

The scoreboard flipped: Steamers 21, Gallopers 20.

Elian exhaled through his nose, calm but unmistakably proud.

“They’re going for two,” someone shouted.

“Don’t get cute!” another yelled at the screen.

Cleveland lined up again.

Same look. Same formation.

Algarve didn’t bite this time.

Cozens tried to replicate the magic- quick read, quick release- but the window closed fast. Gold got jammed at the line. The throw sailed incomplete.

No conversion.

21-20.

Fifty-two seconds left.

The bar held its breath again.

The Gallopers got the ball back.

Three plays.

One incomplete pass under pressure.

One run stuffed at the line.

One deep shot that hung too long in the Algarve night sky.

Picked.

Interception.

…and that was it.

The final whistle cut through the broadcast.

Steamers win.

For the first time since 2012, Cleveland was advancing.

King’s Harem erupted like it had been waiting fifty years.

Strangers hugged. Someone climbed onto a chair. A chant started- off-key, messy, but unified.

“STEAM-ERS! STEAM-ERS!”

Kiley slipped back to Elian’s table, breathless.

“They did it,” she said, disbelief still in her voice.

He nodded once.

“They executed.”

“That’s all you’ve got?”

A small pause.

“For tonight,” he said, “that’s enough.”

Around them, the city forgot its problems for exactly one moment.

…and even Elian let it.

The final whistle echoed through the speakers again as if the network needed to prove it was real.

Cleveland 21. Algarve 20.

Kiley didn’t wait.

She threw her arms around him.

Not careful. Not branded. Not performative.

Just daughter.

Elian stood and caught her easily, steady as ever. She was shaking with adrenaline- laughter still trapped somewhere between disbelief and triumph.

“They actually did it,” she said into his shoulder. “They didn’t collapse.”

He let himself smile against her hair.

“No,” he said quietly. “They didn’t.”

Her joy was bigger than his- unfiltered, communal, hopeful in a way he no longer allowed himself to be.

But it warmed him anyway.

When she pulled back, her eyes were bright.

“You’re not allowed to ruin this with geopolitical commentary.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

“Good.”

She squeezed his hand once more and slipped back into the current of the bar as management began pivoting the energy.

Because celebration had a second act.

The lights dimmed slightly. The music shifted- lower, more rhythmic.

The announcer’s voice cut through the din.

“Ladies and gentlemen- in honor of Cleveland advancing- give it up for our own…”

A pause.

“…Raven.”

A few whistles. A few cheers. Mostly curiosity from the newer crowd.

Elian leaned back in his chair.

He’d seen the routine before.

The stage lighting caught the edge of the scythe first- not theatrical foam, not exaggerated fantasy- a performance piece, yes, but weighted correctly. Controlled.

Raven stepped into the light.

Her movement was precise. Deliberate. No wasted motion.

The scythe spun once- controlled arc, shoulder rotation clean, wrist stable.

The choreography blended martial memory with stage adaptation. She wasn’t selling seduction. She was selling control.

He watched the footwork.

She’d tightened her pivots. Reduced her recovery time between transitions. The hook-and-sweep combination flowed cleaner than last time.

She finished with a controlled kneel, blade angled downward in symbolic harvest- not threat.

Applause rolled through the room- heavier now because the crowd was already riding a high.

Elian murmured under his breath.

“She’s clearly gotten better.”

It wasn’t admiration for spectacle.

It was recognition of discipline.

Raven rose, acknowledged the room with a brief nod- not basking- and exited as smoothly as she’d entered, though not without collecting her tips, which were bountiful tonight.

The bar didn’t empty immediately.

Celebration lingered. People replayed the touchdown on their phones. Arguments broke out over whether this team was “different.” Tips flowed more freely than usual.

…but eventually, the volume tapered.

Tables cleared. Coats pulled on. Laughter drifted toward the exits.

Elian remained.

He ordered another water. A small snack he didn’t really need.

The TVs shifted to post-game analysis, but he muted them.

The room quieter now, he pulled out his phone.

Notifications stacked. Policy updates. Regional security memos. A flagged report from the Ohio Sovereignty compliance office.

Retirement, in his case, meant fewer field calls- not disengagement.

He began scrolling.

Data first. Always data.

Behind the bar, Kiley wiped down counters, chatting with another server, the Candy persona fully restored for closing duties.

He would wait.

He always waited.

When her shift ended, he’d walk her to the car. Drive her home. Make sure she was inside before he left.

Outside, Cleveland was celebrating a playoff win.

Inside, Elian Reyes quietly returned to work.

The celebration at King’s Harem bled into the streets.

Car horns. Steamers flags whipping from windows. Someone had already climbed onto the hood of a sedan two blocks away, screaming about destiny like Cleveland had just solved poverty instead of won a Wild Card game.

…and, of course, there was a shirtless guy.

In January.

Thirty-two degrees, breath fogging in the air, bare chest painted in the Steamers’ orange and brown, sprinting down the sidewalk waving a Steamers towel like he was storming Normandy.

Kiley laughed as Elian eased the sedan past him.

“There he is.”

“There’s always one,” Elian said.

“He’s going to wake up sick.”

“He’s going to wake up proud.”

They drove on.

Kiley had kicked off her shoes and tucked one leg under herself in the passenger seat, hoodie pulled over her stage top. Glitter gone. Candy gone. Just Kiley.

“Do you think they could go all the way?” she asked suddenly.

“All the way?”

“Like… all the way.”

He didn’t answer immediately.

At a red light, he watched a group of fans high-five strangers through open windows.

“At some point,” he said carefully, “Cleveland will have to play Buffalo.”

She groaned.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“That’s exactly what you meant.”

Buffalo.

The Beasts superteam. The old capital. The UN city. The perennial measuring stick.

Cleveland could rise. Cleveland could surge. But eventually the path ran through a place that never forgot how to win.

“You don’t think they can beat them?” she asked.

“I think hope and probability are different things.”

“You’re impossible.”

“I’m realistic.”

She crossed her arms but smiled anyway.

“I want to believe.”

He glanced at her.

“I know.”

That was the difference between them.

She could hold belief without hedging it.

He had spent too long watching systems calcify to do the same.

The light turned green.

They rolled forward.

After a quiet stretch, she spoke again.

“So.”

He recognized that tone.

“So.”

“Have you picked someone yet?”

“For?”

“The internship. Cleveland office.”

“I’m reviewing applications.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I’m hoping to find someone Columbus will like.”

She snorted.

“Translation: someone who won’t embarrass the metrics.”

“Translation: someone who won’t get eaten alive.”

“That’s different.”

“It isn’t.”

They drove past another knot of celebrating fans- one man still shirtless, now wrapped in someone else’s jacket but refusing to put it on properly. A topless woman was celebrating right beside him.

“Are you going to pick a rule-follower,” she pressed, “or someone who actually understands Cleveland?”

“You think those are mutually exclusive?”

“I think Columbus doesn’t understand Cleveland.”

He didn’t argue.

“Internships aren’t activism,” he said. “They’re filtration systems. If I put someone in who scares Columbus, they won’t last.”

“…and if you put someone in who Columbus loves?”

“They might last long enough to matter.”

She absorbed that.

“You hate that you have to think like that.”

“Yes.”

They reached her complex- stone towers rising against the winter sky, medieval battlements retrofitted with discreet modern lighting.

Elian pulled to the curb.

“Thanks for the ride,” she said.

“Always.”

She leaned over, hugged him.

“Love you.”

“Love you too.”

She stepped out into the cold, crossed the stone walkway, keycard flashing green at the heavy oak door.

Elian waited.

Watched her enter.

Counted the seconds.

Only when the door closed securely behind her did he shift the car into drive.

Behind him, Cleveland was still celebrating.

Ahead of him, Cleveland would eventually meet Buffalo.

…and belief would meet probability.

January 30, 2023, Peace Field Coordination Office- Cleveland,

07:25 local time,
City of Cuyahoga Castles, Sovereignty of Ohio, UCSS

The castle didn’t look built for bureaucracy.

It had been built for siege.

Thick stone walls. Narrow vertical windows widened and modernized just enough to meet code. Reinforced glass tucked discreetly behind medieval arches. Fiber optic cabling threaded invisibly through corridors once meant for torchlight.

The Peace Field Coordination Office occupied the second and third levels- retrofitted chambers now housing analyst pods, a briefing room, and a modest operations suite.

The mood inside was heavier than the stone.

No one was talking about policy.

Every monitor in the bullpen replayed the same moment.

4th-and-6.

Buffalo, backed up at their own 30.

Score tied 3-3 midway through the second quarter.

Everyone in Cleveland had felt the game shift in that instant.

The Beasts had gone for it.

They shouldn’t have.

They converted.

After that, the dam broke.

By halftime it was 17-3.

By the fourth quarter, the outcome had been procedural.

Elian stepped into the operations chamber with a mug of black coffee.

Two analysts were already in. One scrolling replay. The other staring blankly at a cap hit spreadsheet as if football economics could undo what had happened.

“Morning,” Elian said.

Muted grunts in response.

He took in the room.

The walls here still showed faint grooves where tapestries once hung. Now they held compliance dashboards and jurisdiction maps.

He set his mug down.

“They advanced further than they ever have,” he offered. “First WFC Championship appearance. That matters.”

Silence.

One analyst- Tomás- finally looked up.

“It doesn’t matter if you lose like that.”

“It wasn’t close,” someone else muttered.

“It was close,” Elian countered calmly. “Until it wasn’t.”

Tomás leaned back in his chair.

“That 4th-and-6 call broke them.”

“No,” another staffer said. “The fact Buffalo even attempted it broke them. That’s a team that expects to win.”

A pause.

“And we don’t?”

“Not like that.”

The replay rolled again.

Quarterback steps up. Slot receiver splits the seam. First down.

Momentum.

“Game flipped there,” Tomás said. “Everyone felt it.”

“Psychology matters,” Elian replied.

“So does roster construction,” another voice added from the corner. “We traded half the future to build this thing.”

That was the real sting.

Cleveland had mortgaged draft capital for veteran stability. Built a quasi-contender fast. Accelerated the timeline.

“…and what did it buy?” the analyst continued. “One deep run and a blowout when it counted.”

The room wasn’t angry.

It was exhausted.

Elian leaned against the edge of a stone desk that had once supported armor stands.

“You built something competitive,” he said. “You forced Buffalo to take risks early. That’s not nothing.”

“Buffalo always forces people to take risks,” Tomás replied. “That’s the point.”

No one mentioned Rome.

…but everyone knew.

The Beasts would now travel to Rome for the WFL Championship Game.

Buffalo in Rome.

Predictable. Stable. Efficient.

Elian let the silence stretch.

He tried once more.

“Cleveland wasn’t supposed to be here,” he said. “You don’t go from irrelevance to dynasty in one season.”

“That’s what we tried to do,” someone answered flatly.

That landed harder than anything else.

Because it wasn’t just about football.

It was about Cleveland’s habit of accelerating hope- and then hitting structural ceilings.

Elian exhaled slowly.

“All right,” he said. “We’ve had twenty-four hours.”

He tapped the screen, switching from game replay to a compliance dashboard.

“Now we get back to work.”

Outside the arrow-slit windows, winter light crept over the battlements.

Inside the castle, reform resumed.

…and Cleveland, as always, had to figure out what it could actually afford to believe.

The castle corridor was too quiet.

Stone floors. Low winter light filtering through widened arrow slits. A radiator clanged once like it disapproved of ambition.

Evie Sicario stood just inside the reception archway, clutching a leather folder that contained:

• Her acceptance letter
• Her school transcripts
• A color-coded notebook
• Three pens (in case one failed at a critical moment)

Her curly red hair was pinned back with determined precision. Glasses slightly askew from having adjusted them too often already.

She was speaking.

To no one.

“Hi- good morning- I mean, obviously good morning, it’s morning. I’m Evie. Intern. Obviously you know that. I mean, you approved it. Or someone did. Which is good. That’s good. It would be weird if I just showed up-”

One of the analysts glanced over the top of his monitor.

Another muttered quietly, “New intern.”

Evie nodded enthusiastically at the silence.

“Yes. That’s me.”

Footsteps approached from the interior corridor.

Measured. Unhurried.

Elian Reyes rounded the arch.

Coat off. Shirt sleeves neat. Expression composed in that quiet way that suggested he’d already processed three reports and a budget discrepancy before 8 a.m.

He stopped in front of her.

“Ms. Sicario,” he said evenly. “Welcome to the Cleveland office.”

Evie inhaled.

Exhaled.

Then-

“You look exactly like Keanu Reeves.”

Silence.

From the bullpen, someone whispered, “Uh oh.”

Evie froze.

“I- I’m so sorry. Is that inappropriate? Is that like a… is that on a list? I didn’t see anything in the onboarding materials about-”

Elian blinked once.

Then smiled.

Not offended.

Not stern.

Just… amused.

“You’ve never heard it before,” he said.

Evie shook her head, mortified.

“I- I don’t even mean exactly. I mean similar facial structure. Bone structure. Not identical. Obviously. You’re your own person.”

Another staffer leaned back in his chair.

“This is going to take a while,” he muttered.

Elian folded his arms lightly.

“My lifelong mission,” he said calmly, “is to understand why Keanu Reeves continues to receive acting roles.”

Evie blinked.

“…Oh.”

“Yes,” Elian continued, turning slightly as if addressing a seminar. “Now. Do not misunderstand me. I respect the man. He works hard. He trains. He commits…but as an actor?”

A beat.

“The range is narrow.”

A couple of suppressed chuckles from the bullpen.

Evie’s eyes widened.

“I liked him in-”

“Speed?” Elian said.

“Yes!”

“He stands very still and says things intensely.”

“Well-”

“The Matrix? He stands very still. Says things intensely. Occasionally tilts his head.”

Someone in the office actually snorted.

Elian continued, warming up.

“John Wick? He stands slightly less still. Says fewer things. Shoots more people.”

“That’s kind of the point,” Evie offered weakly.

“Is it?” Elian said, feigning scholarly concern. “Because I have conducted field operations. I assure you: no Peace officer has ever cleared a corridor in slow motion while a string quartet played.”

Laughter now.

He gestured vaguely toward the stone walls.

“In reality, there are no stunt coordinators. No dramatic lighting. No wardrobe department issuing you a perfectly tailored black suit that absorbs gunfire.”

He leaned slightly closer.

“If I attempted one of Mr. Reeves’ hallway sequences, I would pull a hamstring by the third spin.”

Evie tried not to laugh.

Failed.

“…but,” Elian added, raising a finger, “here is where I give the man credit.”

He straightened.

“He chooses roles that suit him. He understands his lane. He trains relentlessly, and he does not pretend to be something he isn’t.”

A pause.

“I respect effort. Even if the script occasionally does the heavy lifting.”

From behind a monitor:

“So you’re saying you don’t own a bulletproof suit.”

“I own sensible jackets,” Elian replied without turning, “and situational awareness.”

Evie’s shoulders had dropped noticeably.

She was laughing now. Not awkwardly. Actually laughing.

“I didn’t mean to start something,” she said.

“You didn’t,” Elian replied. “You triggered an annual lecture.”

He extended his hand.

“Welcome to the Peace Field Coordination Office.”

She shook it- firm grip despite nerves.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t call me sir. That makes it worse.”

A staffer chimed in:

“She’s lucky. Last time someone compared him to Keanu, we got the ‘Bill & Ted Existential Analysis’ edition.”

“That was relevant,” Elian said.

Evie pushed her glasses up.

“For what it’s worth,” she said carefully, “I think he works really hard too.”

Elian nodded once.

“Effort matters.”

He gestured toward the bullpen.

“Come on. Let’s see if you survive your first compliance briefing without wishing for slow-motion combat choreography.”

Evie followed him deeper into the stone corridors.

Behind her, someone whispered:

“She’s going to be fine.”

Outside, winter light crept along the battlements.

Inside the castle, a new intern tried not to compare her supervisor to an action star.

…and for a moment- just a moment- Cleveland didn’t feel heavy.

Elian and Evie now moved to the training room, which had once been a feasting hall.

Long stone walls. Ceiling beams darkened by centuries of smoke before electricity had replaced flame. Now a mounted ultra-wide display dominated the far wall, its sleek black frame bolted carefully between medieval columns.

A modern conference table sat where trestles once had.

Evie perched at one end, notebook already open, pen poised like the fate of institutional reform depended on it.

She was vibrating slightly.

Not visibly shaking.

Just… over-prepared.

Elian stood near the control panel.

“Before we begin,” he said calmly, “this is the obligatory welcome video.”

Evie nodded too enthusiastically.

“I love orientation videos.”

He paused.

“That makes one of us.”

He didn’t hit play yet.

Instead, he turned toward her fully.

“I’ve reviewed your file.”

Her pen froze.

Not dramatic.

Just a fractional stillness.

He didn’t look accusatory. He didn’t look sympathetic.

Just factual.

“There’s a note regarding prior contact with local police.”

Evie swallowed once.

“Yes, sir- I mean-”

“Don’t call me sir.”

“Sorry.”

He nodded once.

“I’m not going to ask you about it.”

She blinked.

“You’re not?”

“No.”

A beat.

“That’s yours.”

The tension in her shoulders didn’t disappear- but it shifted.

He continued, voice steady.

“I am not just your supervisor.”

That landed heavier.

“I’m responsible for this office. Which means I’m responsible for the people in it.”

He didn’t step closer. Didn’t lower his voice theatrically.

“If you ever need help,” he said, “even if it’s just to talk- you come to me.”

No paternal tone. No savior tone.

Just boundary-setting.

Evie’s eyes shimmered for a fraction of a second- not tears, just the pressure of being seen without being dissected.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

He nodded once.

“That’s all.”

He turned and hit play.

The screen flickered.

A bold Peace insignia filled the display- minimalistic, modern, slightly too polished for a castle interior.

Then-

Norah Anam.

Black blazer. Confident stance. Camera angle slightly low, because she insisted.

Her presence hit like controlled electricity.

“Welcome to Peace,” she began, with the cadence of someone who had cut three earlier takes because they sounded too diplomatic.

“I’m Operations & Investigations Commanding Officer Norah Anam. Some of you already know me.”

A beat.

“If you don’t- you will.”

Evie’s eyebrows shot up.

Norah paced slightly within frame.

“You’re here because the system doesn’t always work the way it should…and because some of you think you can make it better.”

She leaned closer to the camera.

“Good. So do I.”

Evie smiled involuntarily.

Norah continued.

“This isn’t a hero program. There are no slow-motion hallway sequences. No dramatic music cues when you enter a room.”

A quick cut to a training simulation room- fluorescent lighting, bored-looking interns.

“Most of this job is paperwork. Interviews. Metrics. Conversations no one wants to have.”

She smirked.

“…but occasionally, you get to make something right.”

Another beat.

“…and if you think that’s boring- this isn’t your place.”

Evie actually let out a soft laugh.

Norah glanced sideways at something off-camera.

“…and yes, before you ask- I did rewrite this script. Twice. Because the first version sounded like a tax seminar.”

Evie was grinning now.

Elian stood beside the screen, arms loosely folded.

Unmoved.

Norah’s energy didn’t falter.

“You are not here to win popularity contests. You are here to reduce harm. Sometimes that means being liked.”

A sharper tone.

“Sometimes it means being the reason someone doesn’t like you anymore.”

Evie whispered, almost to herself, “I like her.”

Elian’s jaw twitched slightly.

“You should see her in person,” he said evenly.

The video continued.

Norah leaned on a table in what was clearly a staged “casual” moment.

“You will make mistakes. Own them. You will see things you don’t like. Process them.”

She locked eyes with the camera.

“…and you will never forget that real people live at the end of every report you file.”

The screen faded to Peace insignia again.

Silence in the stone room.

Evie exhaled slowly.

“She’s funny,” she said.

“She’s strategic,” Elian corrected.

Evie glanced at him.

“That too.”

He reached for the remote.

“Orientation is the easy part.”

Evie straightened slightly.

“What’s the hard part?”

Elian looked at the blank screen.

“Reality.”

Outside, wind brushed against the battlements.

Inside, Evie Sicario prepared to learn how institutions actually move.

…and somewhere in Cleveland, Carl Ratzinger had already taken his first step into something far darker- unseen, unnamed.

For now.

The training video ended.

The screen went dark.

Evie closed her notebook carefully, as if she had just witnessed something ceremonial.

“So,” she said, “that was less boring than I expected.”

Elian powered down the display.

“That was the exciting version.”

She smiled.

“Do we get capes?”

“No.”

“Slow-motion hallway walks?”

“No.”

“Stirring orchestral cues when someone submits paperwork?”

“If that ever happens, I’m resigning.”

She laughed- softer now, nerves settling.

Elian moved to the far wall where a large digital board displayed anonymized case summaries. Colored tags. Dates. Status indicators.

“This office handles intake, review, and intervention coordination,” he said. “We are not patrol. We are not prosecution. We do not arrest people.”

Evie nodded, pen ready again.

“We examine whether systems did what they were supposed to do.”

He tapped one file open.

A workplace coercion allegation. Closed. Insufficient evidence.

Another.

A university compliance audit. Ongoing.

Another.

A retail harassment complaint. Redirected.

Evie watched the cases flicker past.

“It’s… a lot,” she said quietly.

“Yes.”

She hesitated.

“When the police don’t act,” she asked carefully, “is that where Peace steps in?”

Elian didn’t look at her immediately.

“Sometimes.”

He let that hang.

“We review process. Not verdicts.”

Her pen stopped moving.

“…and if the process is technically correct,” she said slowly, “but still wrong?”

He finally met her eyes.

“Then we document it.”

A pause.

“…and sometimes that’s the beginning.”

She absorbed that.

He walked toward the table.

“Today you observe,” he said. “This afternoon, you sit in on a compliance review call with Columbus.”

Her eyes widened slightly.

“Columbus?”

“Yes.”

“Like… the main office?”

“Yes.”

She straightened instinctively.

He allowed the faintest hint of amusement.

“Relax. They can’t see you.”

“Oh.”

A beat.

“Yet.”

She blinked.

“Is that a joke?”

“Mostly.”

From the hallway, a staffer called out:

“Cozens just gave a press conference.”

Evie’s head snapped up.

“About the game?”

“About next year,” the staffer replied. “Said Cleveland isn’t done.”

Evie smiled faintly.

“Elian?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Do you think he believes that?”

He considered for a moment.

“Belief,” he said, “is often a strategic resource.”

She frowned slightly, thinking about that.

He gestured toward the conference table.

“Come on. Let’s show you what real work looks like.”

Outside, winter wind scraped lightly against the stone battlements.

Inside the castle, Evie Sicario took her first steps into the machinery she still believed could be improved.

…and somewhere in Cleveland, unseen and unnamed, something else was beginning to move.

The stone corridor narrowed as they moved deeper into the castle.

Evie hadn’t expected this part of the building to exist.

The air changed first- cooler, sharper. Less archival paper and more disinfectant. The medieval archway opened into something startlingly modern.

Steel doors. Reinforced glass. A biometric access panel mounted discreetly beside a thirteenth-century column.

“Tactical Operations,” Elian said, swiping his credentials.

The door unlocked with a muted click.

Inside, the contrast was almost theatrical.

Mat-lined floors. Simulation walls. A mock apartment entryway built into one corner for breach drills. Digital target systems recessed into reinforced partitions.

A small group of officers in dark gray training uniforms paused mid-movement when they noticed Elian.

“Director,” one of them said with a nod.

Elian didn’t correct the title.

“Orientation tour,” he replied evenly. “This is Evie Sicario. Junior Compliance Analyst. Intern.”

Evie tried not to look twelve.

“Hi,” she said, immediately wishing she had chosen a less breathy tone.

From across the room, a tall officer- probably only a few years older than her- lowered his protective visor and pulled it up over his head. Their eyes met.

Not intense.

Not cinematic.

Just curious.

He blinked first.

One of the other officers smirked.

“Careful,” she called out lightly. “Look at her wrong and we’ll have to file a report.”

A few quiet laughs.

The younger officer’s ears turned faintly red.

Evie felt heat rise to her own face.

Elian glanced toward the speaker.

“We are not arresting people for eye contact,” he said dryly.

“Yet,” someone added.

The joke landed soft- half about the Creepy Man Law, half about the culture shift everyone pretended not to notice.

The Tactical Operations Commander stepped forward- compact, steady, built more like a marathoner than a brawler.

“Commander Hale,” he said, offering Evie a firm handshake. “Welcome to the less glamorous side of reform.”

She shook his hand.

“This is glamorous,” she said before thinking. “It’s like… very efficient.”

Hale huffed a small laugh.

“Efficient doesn’t trend.”

Elian gestured toward the training setup.

“Operations handles what data cannot resolve,” he said.

Evie looked between them.

“So you… enforce compliance?”

“When necessary,” Hale replied. “High-risk warrants. Protective extraction. Securing volatile audit sites.”

“We deploy rarely,” Elian added. “If you see them frequently, something has gone wrong.”

Evie nodded, absorbing the distinction.

They moved further inside.

Beyond the simulation space, another set of doors opened into a gym.

Free weights. Rowing machines. A climbing rope rig bolted into reinforced beams that once held banners and shields.

The old stone walls framed modern steel racks.

Evie’s eyes widened slightly.

“You’re allowed to use it,” Elian said casually.

“I am?”

“You are Peace staff.”

Her expression flickered- surprise, then something like pride.

Commander Hale nodded toward the younger officer from earlier, who was now pretending not to listen.

“Most of our analysts don’t take us up on that,” Hale said. “We’d welcome the company.”

Evie pushed her glasses up.

“I run,” she said quickly. “Sometimes.”

“Good,” Hale replied. “You’ll need stamina if you sit through compliance calls.”

Light laughter again.

The younger officer glanced her way once more, this time with an awkward half-smile.

Not bold.

Not lingering.

Just human.

Elian turned toward her.

“You won’t spend much time here,” he said. “Your work is upstream.”

Evie nodded.

“…but,” he added, “sometimes cases intersect with operations. When they do, you’ll understand what it looks like on the other end.”

She looked back at the mock apartment entryway.

At the reinforced shields.

At the quiet discipline in the room.

Data lived in one wing of the castle.

Force lived in another.

Same building.

Same mission.

Different tools.

“Do you ever wish you were out there instead?” she asked Elian.

“In the field?” he said.

She nodded.

He considered the question.

“Field work looks decisive,” he said finally. “It rarely fixes root causes.”

She thought about that.

Behind them, someone resumed a drill. Boots against padded flooring. Controlled movement. Quiet commands.

Elian gestured back toward the corridor.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s show you the part where most of the real damage happens.”

She blinked.

“The database?”

He didn’t smile.

“Yes.”

They stepped back through the stone archway, leaving behind the sound of controlled impact and measured force.

Inside the castle, reform and enforcement shared walls.

Evie had just seen both.

After her tour of the Tactical Ops division, Evie went back to the bullpen. The bullpen was quieter than usual.

Most of the senior analysts were in a Columbus call. The hum of the servers filled the gaps between keystrokes.

Evie sat at her assigned workstation, spine straight, glasses low on her nose, eyes flicking between two screens.

Left monitor: intake summary.
Right monitor: AI classification output.

Coercion Probability Index: 0.41
Escalation Threshold: Not Met
Recommended Action: Archive / Monitor

Her brow furrowed.

She re-read the narrative portion again.

Power imbalance present.
Delayed reporting.
Third-party witness uncertain.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.

She added a qualitative note:

“Reporting delay consistent with documented trauma response patterns. Recommend manual review before archival.”

She hesitated.

Then hit save.

Behind her, a voice cleared gently.

“You don’t blink much when you’re focused.”

Evie nearly jumped out of her chair.

Mike Burrow, the younger officer who caught Evie’s eye in Tactical Ops, stood a respectful distance away, tactical uniform swapped for a plain dark tee and training pants. His hair was still slightly damp from the gym.

“Sorry,” he added quickly. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s fine,” she said, pushing her glasses up. “I was just-”

“Re-evaluating the machine?” he offered.

She blinked.

“Is it that obvious?”

He nodded toward her screen.

“Most interns just confirm the AI tags and move on.”

Her cheeks warmed faintly.

“I just… wanted to make sure it didn’t miss anything.”

He glanced at the note she’d added.

His eyebrows lifted slightly.

“Manual review flag. Bold.”

She straightened a little.

“It’s probably nothing.”

“Probably,” he agreed.

…but he was quietly impressed.

She wasn’t posturing.
She wasn’t trying to look smart.
She was just… working.

“So,” he said casually, leaning against the partition wall without crowding her space, “what does your schedule look like? Orientation day seems… intense.”

She nodded quickly.

“Yeah, today’s full-day onboarding…but, starting Wednesday, I’ll only be here every other school day. One to four.”

He tilted his head.

“That’s it?”

“It counts as one of my classes,” she said. “Civic Governance Placement.”

“That sounds official.”

“It is,” she said with a small, proud smile. “If I do well, I can apply for the summer track.”

“Summer track?”

“Fuller hours. More responsibility. Maybe assist with live compliance audits.”

She said it like someone describing a scholarship abroad.

Burrow studied her for a second.

“You’ve been here half a day,” he said lightly.

She shrugged.

“I don’t want to waste it.”

That landed.

He wasn’t used to hearing ambition that didn’t sound competitive.

“You planning to take over Columbus eventually?” he teased.

She wrinkled her nose.

“I just want things to work better.”

Simple.

Unembellished.

He believed her.

A beat passed.

“So,” he said, keeping his tone casual, “there’s a sandwich place across the square. Decent. If you’re hungry.”

She brightened briefly- then hesitated.

“Oh- that’s really nice, but my mom already made me lunch.”

She gestured awkwardly to a neatly packed container beside her keyboard.

“I don’t want to waste it.”

He nodded immediately.

“Of course.”

No pressure. No shift in tone.

“Rain check?”

She tilted her head, thinking.

“Maybe after my regular schedule starts?”

“Every other day, one to four,” he said, committing it to memory.

She smiled.

“Yeah.”

A voice from down the row called out:

“Burrow, Hale wants you back downstairs.”

He straightened.

“Duty calls.”

He stepped back, then paused.

“You’re doing good work,” he said. “Don’t let the algorithm bully you.”

She blinked.

“Algorithms can’t bully.”

He gave her a look.

“Sure.”

He walked away.

Evie turned back to her screen, heart still thudding faintly from the interaction- not flustered, just… seen.

She reopened the intake file.

Re-read it again.

Adjusted one more tag.

Across the room, Burrow glanced back once.

She was already focused again.

Not looking at him.

Not trying to impress anyone.

Just working.

Something about that made him stand a little straighter.

He didn’t have words for it.

Admiration, maybe.

Or the quiet instinct to keep something like that from being damaged.

He shook it off and headed back toward Tactical Operations.

Upstairs, the machine kept humming.

…and Evie kept typing.

The bullpen had settled back into its low electronic hum after Burrow disappeared down the corridor.

Evie reopened the intake dashboard, trying to convince her pulse to return to baseline.

Across from her, a woman in her mid-fifties leaned back in her chair, stretching her shoulders like she’d just finished a workout.

“Burrow’s cute,” she said casually.

Evie nearly swallowed her own tongue.

The woman grinned.

“I’m Miriam Vega…and I’m not HR.”

Evie blinked.

“Oh. Hi.”

Miriam was compact, wiry, and carried herself like someone who refused to slow down just because a calendar insisted she should. Her hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail. There was nothing fragile about her.

“Relax,” Miriam said. “If I reported every workplace crush I’ve witnessed in this building, we’d need another castle.”

From the adjacent workstation, a man with wire-rim glasses didn’t look up from his screen.

“It’s not statistically supported that Tactical Operations personnel exhibit higher attractiveness rates,” he said flatly.

Miriam shot him a look.

“Len, you audit algorithms. You don’t audit abs.”

The man finally glanced up.

Leonard Horowitz looked younger than Evie expected- mid-thirties, maybe- but with the permanently tired eyes of someone who hadn’t slept properly since becoming a parent.

“For the record,” he said, “I’m married.”

“Congratulations,” Miriam replied. “So am I.”

She turned back to Evie.

“Priya,” she called lightly.

At the far end of the row, a woman in her early forties rotated her chair around. Calm eyes. Measured expression.

“Priya Desai,” she said. “Senior Compliance.”

Evie nodded quickly.

“I’m Evie.”

“We know,” Len said gently. “You flagged a 0.41 CPI intake for manual review.”

Evie froze.

“That was wrong?”

“No,” Priya said evenly. “It just means you’re paying attention.”

Len leaned back slightly.

“The model weights delayed reporting heavily,” he explained. “Sometimes too heavily. I monitor for drift.”

“Drift?” Evie asked.

“Behavioral bias accumulation in training data,” Len said. “The system learns what it’s fed. It doesn’t question its own assumptions.”

Miriam waved a hand.

“Translation: the machine isn’t evil. It’s just literal.”

Evie nodded slowly.

“I just thought it deserved another look.”

Priya studied her for a moment.

“Good.”

Miriam tilted her head.

“So. Schedule?”

Evie straightened instinctively.

“Today’s full orientation. Starting Wednesday I’m here every other school day. One to four. It counts as a class.”

“Civic Governance Placement,” Priya said.

“Yes.”

“…and summer?” Len asked, already half-turning back to his screen.

“If I qualify, I can apply for the summer track. More hours.”

“You’ve been here six hours,” Miriam said, amused.

“I don’t want to waste it,” Evie replied quietly.

That seemed to land with all three of them.

Miriam folded her arms.

“He asked you to lunch, didn’t he?”

Evie hesitated.

“Yes.”

“…and?”

“My mom packed something,” Evie said, gesturing awkwardly to her container.

Miriam snorted softly.

“That’s not what I meant.”

Evie pushed her glasses up.

“I don’t want to rush anything.”

There was a small pause.

Not judgmental.

Not probing.

Priya nodded once.

“Good.”

Len added, almost absentmindedly, “Impulse decisions correlate with long-term regret at a measurable rate.”

Miriam rolled her eyes.

“Ignore him. He hasn’t slept properly since his daughter was born.”

Len didn’t deny it.

“Seven months,” he said.

“Seven months and already auditing the morality of dating,” Miriam shot back.

She leaned forward slightly toward Evie.

“For what it’s worth,” she said, “if you ever do use the gym downstairs, don’t let Tactical Ops outpace you. They hate that.”

Evie blinked.

“You go down there?”

“Every week,” Miriam replied proudly. “None of them want to be one-upped by a woman in her fifties.”

“That’s not accurate,” Len muttered. “Competitive pride is age-neutral.”

Miriam pointed at him.

“Exactly.”

Evie found herself smiling.

The bullpen didn’t feel intimidating anymore.

Just… alive.

Priya turned back to her monitor.

“Welcome to Peace,” she said calmly.

Len resumed scanning a line of code.

Miriam cracked her knuckles and stood.

“Now finish that intake. If you’re going to challenge the algorithm, do it properly.”

Evie turned back to her screen.

Focused.

…but no longer alone.

Hapsburg York International Airport, January 30, 2023

13:12 local time,
City of Cuyahoga Castles, Sovereignty of Ohio, UCSS

The bathroom sink ran too long.

Carl Ratzinger stared at his hands under the fluorescent lights.

Water. Soap. Scrub.

Again.

The mirror above the sink reflected a version of him that looked slightly off- pupils too wide, shoulders too tight, jaw clenched like he was bracing for impact.

He turned his hands over.

No stain.

Nothing visible.

Just skin.

He rubbed harder anyway.

The soap dispenser squeaked as he pumped it again.

Someone entered behind him- footsteps, a zipper, the hollow echo of tile.

Carl’s pulse jumped.

Don’t look nervous.

He lowered his head slightly, scrubbing with mechanical precision.

He imagined it there.

A thin smear across the knuckles.

He rubbed until the skin reddened.

The other man washed quickly and left.

Carl counted five seconds after the door shut before shutting off the water.

The silence felt loud.

He stared at his reflection again.

You’re fine.

No one is looking for you.

Not yet.

He dried his hands carefully. Threw the paper towel away. Missed the bin the first time. Picked it up. Dropped it in properly.

Control.

He pushed the door open and stepped back into the airport concourse.

Normal noise.

Rolling luggage.

Flight announcements.

A child crying somewhere near Gate 22.

No alarms.

No sirens.

No one staring.

His job knew he’d taken time off. Approved weeks ago.

His father had handed him an envelope at Christmas.

“Invest it,” he’d said. “Travel. Do something.”

Carl adjusted the strap of his backpack.

He was doing something.

He found a seat near his gate and sat stiffly, scanning faces reflexively.

No one scanning back.

He forced himself to breathe slower.

Inhale.

Exhale.

He reached into his backpack and pulled out the folded pamphlet.

Glossy. Bright.

A photograph of a woman at a podium, fist raised, mid-speech.

“Gender, Power, and the Architecture of Consent”
Ciudad Juárez
Guest Lecture Series

He read the title again.

Then again.

The words made his jaw tighten.

Architecture.

As if it were a building.

As if it were a system.

As if it were neutral.

He flipped the pamphlet over.

Bio paragraph. Awards. Advocacy campaigns. Book titles.

He imagined her speaking.

He imagined the applause.

He imagined the certainty.

They don’t understand.

He looked up at the departure board.

His flight number blinked beside the word On Time.

Backing out now would make it meaningless, he told himself.

The thought steadied him.

Not fully.

…but enough.

A boarding announcement crackled overhead.

“Now boarding Group Three…”

He folded the pamphlet carefully, sliding it back into his bag.

He stood.

Checked the gate one more time.

Checked the crowd again.

No one looking at him.

Not like that.

He stepped into line.

Hands clean.

Breathing even.

The airport lights reflected off the polished floor as he moved forward, indistinguishable from every other traveler waiting to board.

…and somewhere behind his steady expression, something was still forming.