3. Memories of cold nights

Killian’s POV

I arrived at the apartment just as dusk seeped through the windows, grocery bags in hand. The quiet ache of normalcy trailed me—bread, vegetables, Anna’s favorite pasta sauce. My mind wandered ahead, anxious about tomorrow, but nothing prepared me for the image at my door.

It was left slightly open, a shard of shattered glass stuck in the frame. My heart doubled its beat. I dropped the bags—it all went soft and heavy—and drew my pistol. The tile hallway was cold under my boots as I slipped inside.

Darkness. Shadows clinging to corners. I flicked the hall light on and watched dust dance. Then I saw it: a single, heavy envelope on the coffee table, bearing the Blackguard sigil—the black falcon with clasped talons—and the words TOP SECRET stamped above it.

I exhaled hard, sliding down the wall into a seated crouch. My life—my choice, damn it—refused to leave me alone.

I sighed hard. I already left this life. It does nothing but take more and more from you. My only anchor was my sister, Anna. All I ever wanted was to protect her, let her study in peace, have a safe routine and a bright future. Not this.

They recruited me into the Blackguard when I was just twenty, cold and reckless. Anna and I were living on the street, starving and half-freezing in a night that seemed endless. We didn't belong anywhere. Then came Vincent Malcovich—a legend in Blackguard circles. A tall, broad-shouldered Orion man with silver hair and calm steel eyes. He and his team found us that night, near death. They shared water, blankets, and offers—food, shelter, and options. I always thought of them as angels, until I realized what angels really meant in that world: transactions, loyalty, silence. I joined not out of patriotism, but debt. To him, to Anna. To the promise of something more than hunger and broken glass.

My savior, the man who handed me a life, died a year ago. Officially, in a sanctioned Blackguard operation. Unofficially, we never got the full story. Either way, he vanished. After that, I told myself I could leave. But once you step into that realm, you inhale betrayal and blood. It follows you, even when you're trying to escape.

Moving slowly, I checked every corner of the apartment: bathroom, kitchen, bedroom, back room. No signs of forced entry beyond the shattered window. It was a warning. They had been here. Anna wasn't. Thank God.

I called the window repair service, arranging a new frame and pane—discreetly, quietly. She would come home and see a clean, almost-mundane living space. I didn't want her to worry. She thinks I'm a simple contractor now. Ignorant of everything.

Then I finally sat down, drawing the envelope toward me on the coffee table. Inside, I found photos of my sister—her on campus library steps, in the café laughing with friends, at a student union rally, Browse the mall shelves. Every moment captured. Targeted.

Their message: You want to protect her? You will do what we say.

Below: my mission dossier.

They want Damien Voss dead. Not just dead—exposed for failure. They want me planted by his side, closing trust gaps, disabling his defenses. Assassination in the guise of loyalty.

I leaned back against the couch, pain throbbing behind my eyes. We had seen attacks on the President, but this was otherworldly. Whoever funded it could outbid governments, and they had singled me out—once the best the Blackguard offered.

I’m soon to be assigned. I’ll be planted right next to the President to bring him down.

My stomach clenched. And despite everything, a cold curiosity surfaced: How well must I perform? The deal was this: kill the target, and Anna stays safe. Fail, and Anna becomes the message.

Placement of groceries back in the fridge. I called the window service to confirm. I subdued every sign. I didn’t want Anna to suspect when she returned.

I lit a single lamp in the kitchen and moved quietly toward the stove to cook her favorite dish: creamy chicken Alfredo with garlic, parsley, and a crisp Caesar salad. I stirred the sauce carefully, letting it simmer while I replayed our childhood.

Anna and I grew up in a two-room apartment above a closed-down subway line. Our parents—Dad, a bus driver, and Mom, a nurse—were gone by the time I was thirteen, victims of an accident or illness. I don’t know which. All I remember is waking up to silence, Anna crying beside me. I became her protector overnight.

Those early days taught us resilience. Anna had braces, abandoned toys, and endless tears—but also hope. She would smile at me and say, Big brother day? meaning she’d chosen the day to celebrate small happiness. She still does. I tried my best: I sold candy, panhandled, folded paper cranes from discarded receipts. Anything to get her inside a school at least once a week.

When Vincent Malcovich found us, it felt like a miracle. For Anna, it was survival. For me, it was a contract—but with a face. We joined the Blackguard. We were trained. Hardened. I didn’t see it as manipulative then. He had saved us. I owed him everything.

In those years, I met others inside the unit—ghosts like me, forged by fire and silence. But only one ever felt real. His name was Jalen Ward.

Jalen wasn’t Blackguard, not officially. He was a civilian prodigy, barely in his twenties, brilliant with field medicine, and dangerous with a scalpel. They brought him in after a failed extraction left three of us bleeding out in the sand, and he stabilized us all with nothing but pressure packs and a belt for a tourniquet. After that, he became a ghost like the rest of us. Not a soldier, but useful. Always useful.

We formed an uneasy alliance. Jalen knew things, knew people, and he wanted out of the system just as much as I did. He was the one I made the deal with.

It wasn’t trust; it was necessity. I gave him protection on a brutal op he wasn’t supposed to survive. In return, he helped me vanish. Quiet leaks, forged death certificates, sealed archives. He scrubbed me from Blackguard’s system like I never existed.

It cost him. I still don't know how badly. But I know he kept his end.

Now, last I heard, Jalen’s in Valeria—a resident doctor in a public hospital, stitching up civilians and staying under the radar. He doesn’t owe me anything anymore, but if I knock on his door, he’ll answer. Because when someone saves your ghost, it’s a bond that never dies.

And I disappeared physically. I severed contact with Blackguard. I moved a few states over. Anna started university. I believed we were free.

But the business always comes calling, especially for "ghosts" like me.

After plating the Alfredo onto two dishes, I set one aside with a note for Anna: Hope you still like it. Love, your brother. And I placed the other on my lap. I ate slowly, in silence.

I thought about tomorrow. About stepping into proximity with the President. My orders would look like duty. I’d monitor, report, shadow. But behind every handshake, every briefing, I'd be assessing: vulnerabilities, timings, optics.

I didn’t know anymore what I’d chosen. Whether I would follow through or betray the file.

Midway through the meal, I washed my plate, cleaned the kitchen, and wiped the counters. I replaced the envelope and my grocery bags near the entrance—back to normal.

Then I went into Anna’s room: a small desk covered in notes, textbooks, and a framed photo of the both of us as children—smiling, innocent. I stared at it. Memories flooded back: rainy afternoons when she danced in puddles, me showing her magic tricks to make her laugh. Lunchboxes stolen from church kitchens. The first time she wrote Thank you for always being there, big brother in a note I still keep.