Night deepened. So did people's sleep.
In the silence, the ticking of a clock echoed through the room—slow, precise—like something far away breaking apart, piece by piece.
Planning is always important. Without precision, without discipline, you cannot even pickpocket in a crowded park—let alone strike at the heart of a nation.
"The plan is solid,"
Gerald said, his eyes moving across the documents spread over the steel table.
"Distraction, rotation, manpower… it's all here."
He stopped.
"What about ammunition and explosives, Devin?"
Devin straightened slightly.
"We've placed the orders. They should cross the post soon. Our third man is handling it."
As he spoke, his fingers rose unconsciously to his mustache.
Gerald noticed.
"How many?" he asked.
"Enough for—"
"I told you not to do that."
The words were quiet.
Devin froze. His hand dropped instantly.
"Do you remember why?" Gerald asked.
"Yes… sir."
"Then don't make me repeat it."
"Yes, sir."
A knock came at the door.
"Who is it?" Gerald asked.
"J for Joker."
The door opened.
Joker stepped in, his painted smile catching the pale light. His eyes swept the room once—quick, measuring.
"You're tightening things again," Joker said lightly.
Gerald dismissed the others. The room emptied.
Now—three.
"Weren't you supposed to meet him today?" Gerald asked.
"I did," Joker replied.
"We have new instructions."
"What is it?"
"Mayer."
Gerald's gaze sharpened slightly.
"The opposition leader?"
Joker nodded.
"Why now?"
"Because timing matters more than force. Kill him now, and the government takes the fall. Pressure builds. Systems crack."
"And after?"
"He takes power. And when he does… things move easier."
Devin stood quietly, trying to remain composed.
Joker's eyes drifted toward him.
A small grin formed.
"Am I right, Devin?"
Devin blinked, caught off guard.
"W–w–wha—"
A suppressed shot cut the word in half.
Devin dropped.
No struggle. No warning.
Just impact.
The smell of burnt powder lingered in the room.
No one reacted to it.
Joker let out a short laugh.
"Clean."
Gerald lowered the gun.
"Third one," he said.
"Recruiter is deteriorating."
Joker stepped over the body.
"Or compromised."
He glanced down briefly, then back at Gerald.
"Bastards of X Forces…" he muttered.
"Patriotism, huh?"
Gerald didn't respond.
"A replacement will come," Joker said. "No delays."
Gerald nodded once.
"The Yanjo University operation?"
"Delayed," Joker said.
"Not canceled."
A beat.
"Get ready. We move."
They stepped outside.
The night air felt hollow.
Cold.
They walked toward a black car already running.
"Where?" Gerald asked.
"Sharjin."
Gerald paused slightly.
"Sharjin?" he said.
"Why there?"
Joker opened the door.
"You'll understand."
People wait for the sun to break the night.
To bring warmth. To bring clarity.
But there are places where the sun does not reach.
Where light is not delayed—
but absent.
Where people adapt.
Where they change.
Not by choice—
but by necessity.
That black car started to go in that place.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sharjin did not welcome visitors.
It absorbed them.
The roads narrowed as the car pushed deeper into the city. Asphalt gave way to broken concrete, then to uneven ground patched with whatever remained. Dim lights flickered overhead. Wires hung low like exposed veins.
The smell came next.
Rot. Fuel. Damp metal.
Something that stayed.
At one corner, a man was pinned against a wall while another counted money beside him.
No one intervened.
Not even the ones watching.
People moved along the streets—but not freely.
No one lingered.
No one stared.
And no one asked questions.
The car moved without interruption.
In Sharjin, purpose was permission.
They turned into a narrow lane.
Then another.
Then one that looked like a dead end.
The car stopped.
Ahead stood a white house.
Worn. Cracked. Forgettable.
Which made it perfect.
Two guards stepped out.
Joker lowered the window.
A look. A signal.
The gate opened.
Inside, everything changed.
Clean.
Controlled.
Built for people who understood risk.
Gerald scanned once—entries, exits, sightlines.
Then moved.
The hall opened before them.
A painting filled the far wall.
A tiger lunging forward—
toward a pack of wolves.
Not running.
Not scattering.
Watching.
Waiting.
The moment before violence.
Gerald didn't linger.
They stopped at a door.
Joker knocked.
"Come in."
Inside—
a room built for decisions.
A long table. Screens. Data flowing silently.
And people.
A woman sat at the center.
Sharp eyes. Still posture.
Lena Voss.
She didn't move as she spoke. Even her breathing felt measured.
"Logistics."
A broad man leaned back beside her.
Markov.
He smiled faintly—not warmly, but like a man who understood cost.
"Finance."
A younger man stood near the screens.
Riyan.
He didn't turn. He spoke like the outcome was already calculated.
"Intelligence."
At the far end—
a woman with a scar across her jaw.
Watching.
Joker spoke one word.
"Execution."
That was enough.
"You called us," Gerald said.
Lena nodded.
"We refined the plan."
A screen lit up.
Adolf Mayer.
"Public appearance. Two days,"
Riyan said.
Routes appeared.
Security layers.
Movement patterns.
"Too clean," Gerald said.
"Exactly," Riyan replied.
Markov leaned forward.
"The crowd will carry the chaos."
"If something breaks," Gerald said.
"It spreads," Markov answered.
Lena continued.
"We don't create chaos."
"We redirect it."
The screen shifted.
Angles. Timing. Overlap.
"Not a clean kill," she said.
"A buried one."
Joker's smile thinned slightly.
"Layered execution."
Lena nodded.
"You'll be inside," she told Gerald. "Close range."
"And me?" Joker asked.
"External trigger," Riyan said.
"Small disruption. Enough to scatter."
"Panic does the rest," Markov added.
"And exit?" Gerald asked.
"There isn't one," Lena said.
No one spoke immediately.
Not hesitation—just the brief recognition of what that meant.
"Unless needed," she added.
Another layer appeared.
Fallback routes.
Alternate movement.
"Insurance," Riyan said.
Markov smiled faintly.
"In case loyalty shifts."
Gerald didn't speak.
But he understood.
"Forty-eight hours," Lena said.
"No delays."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
They walked out.
The hall was silent again.
The painting remained.
Tiger.
Wolves.
For a moment—
the difference felt thin.
Outside, Sharjin hadn't changed.
It never did.
The engine started.
They drove back into the dark.
They didn't enter Sharjin.
They disappeared into it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~