NINETEEN
CAIDEN
You’d think that after almost a week away that recalibrates your entire sense of direction, something here might have shifted in sympathy.
The sky, the paint, the way the corridors breathe.
Concrete, fluorescent light, and institutional beige, but no, it’s still the same.
I sling my bag higher on my shoulder and step inside the main building, still half caught in memory.
Amsterdam lingers like warmth in my bloodstream. Especially the kiss on the bridge. The way Ari had hesitated for the smallest fraction of a second and then decided, fuck it, anyway.
That’s the thing that keeps replaying.
Not the rave or the hotel, just that choice.
He chose visibility, for us.
I didn’t realise how much that mattered until it happened. Now everything feels steadier and less fragile. We’re not operating on borrowed time anymore.
He told Niko. He’s thinking about contracts, movement, and neutral ground. We’re not guessing at the future anymore. We’re making one.
I feel — Not euphoric, that's probably the wrong word. Settled, maybe. There’s something dangerous about feeling settled in a place like this.
I’m halfway down the corridor toward the barracks when I hear something slam against metal. Hard. It’s a dull, heavy sound. It’s not the accidental bump of kit against a locker. It’s something with weight behind it.
Then I hear a laugh.
I know that laugh. I recognise it instantly. My pace speeds up automatically when I see Connor stagger into view around the corner. But he doesn’t see me at first; he’s too focused on staying upright.
One hand is pressed flat to the wall while the other is clamped tight against his ribs.
His mouth is split open again — worse than before.
Blood runs in a thin stream from his nose, and a fresh cut blooms above his eyebrow.
He nearly misjudges a step and catches himself badly against the wall. The injuries are fresh — minutes fresh.
He looks up and sees me. “Don’t,” he says immediately.
Behind him, footsteps approach at a casual pace. My bag slips from my shoulder and hits the floor. Harris rounds the corner with two of his usual orbiting shadows trailing just far enough back to pretend they’re uninvolved.
He sees me and smiles. “Varrik,” he says lightly. “Back already?” Connor straightens slightly. “Lad’s got no coordination,” Harris adds with a shrug. “Tripped over his own ego.”
I manage to contain my rage and force my tone to stay neutral. “How clumsy,” I say evenly.
Harris steps closer. “You look concerned,” he replies.
Connor shifts behind me. “Leave it,” he mutters. I don’t look back at him. Instead, I take one deliberate step forward and drive Harris straight into the lockers behind him.
The sound of metal rattles down the corridor, and he shoves at my chest in retaliation — looking more surprised than angry. I let him commit to the movement before hooking his leg clean out from under him.
He hits the floor hard, flat on his back. Out of anger — because I can’t stop myself — I grab him by the T-shirt, pull my fist back, and punch him square in the face; his head snaps to the side from the force of it.
Silence follows, and for a minute, he lies there, stunned. “You’re taking his side?” he asks, looking up at me.
“Yes,” I say with no hesitation.
“You can’t be serious,” he laughs sharply.
“I’m as serious as Bosnia.” His expression shifts at the reminder.
“That was years ago,” he mutters.
“Maybe, but you remember who dragged you out?” I ask calmly. “In fact, if memory serves, you wouldn’t even be here if he didn’t go back and drag your arse out.”
“That was his job.”
“And this is yours?” I cock my head toward Connor without looking at him.
Harris pushes himself up slowly. “You don’t know what he’s been—”
I move closer, smirking. There’s a moment — a small, almost invisible second — where our eyes lock, and something changes in his expression.
He knows.
Or rather, he knows I know something. I’ve known for months. Not because I was looking, but because Ari’s paranoia has rubbed off on me, and now I notice patterns.
Harris disappears some days. He changes before he leaves, and he’s very careful about who sees him go. He’s careful in a way that doesn’t match the persona he performs here. There’s a hotel in town that doesn’t ask many questions. I’ve seen him come and go from the same room more than once.
And not alone.
I never mentioned it. Until now. Still grabbing the front of his shirt, I pull him close so no one else can hear.
“I know where you go on weekends,” I murmur into his ear.
He freezes, but I don’t pause. “I know the hotel,” I continue quietly.
“I know the room you ask for.” His breathing changes; it’s subtle, but there.
“And I know the name you give at reception isn’t your real one.
I wonder why that is?” There’s no bravado now in his face, just pure calculation.
I let the silence stretch long enough for the implication to strike. Then I release him and step back.
“It’s over,” I tell him, and he looks up at me. I see the pride and humiliation wrestling behind his eyes. He understands exactly what I’m offering. Mutual silence.
“Fine,” he says, standing and straightening his shirt stiffly, gesturing for the others to move. They follow without a word, and the corridor empties.
I turn to Connor, who is still upright through stubbornness alone. “You’re an idiot,” he says quietly.
“Probably.”
“What did you say to him?” he asks studying me.
“Something that’ll keep him quiet and keep his hands to himself.” He shifts and winces. “How bad is it?” I ask.
“Just bruised,” he says. “Nothing new.” He tries to take a step and nearly doubles over. I catch his arm, wrapping it around my neck, and we start walking down the corridor slowly.
He glances sideways at me. “So,” he says casually, like we’re discussing the weather. “How’s Zakirov?” I pause. “You weren’t exactly subtle about where you were going,” he adds. “Thought I’d ask.”
“He’s good,” I say, huffing out a quiet breath.
He nods slowly. “Yeah?” he asks as we take a few more steps. “You’re still walking straight, so it couldn’t have been that great a holiday.”
I snort. “That’s your metric?”
“Seems reliable.”
“I’ll bear that in mind next time.”
He gives a faint, lopsided grin that immediately tugs at the split in his lip. “Steady on,” he mutters. “You’re glowing. It’s unsettling.”
“I don’t glow.”
“You do. It offends my eyes.”
He leans against his door as we reach it for a second, breathing shallowly. “Right,” he breathes. “Go unpack. Before you start staring wistfully off into the distance.”
“I don’t stare wistfully.”
“You absolutely do.” he argues, pushing off the door. Then he pauses. “Next time,” he adds lightly, “try coming back from holiday without starting a corridor war, yeah?”
“No promises.”
“Idiot,” he says, shaking his head, slipping inside and closing the door. I pick up my bag, head for my room, dump it inside, and then turn straight back around.
Unpacking can wait.
There’s a rhythm to coming back from leave. Check in. Check boards. Check messages. Make sure nothing has gone wrong in your absence.
Comms is halfway down the main corridor past the offices. The door’s propped open already. Inside, one of the lads is at the far console, headset half-on, and scribbling something down. He glances up when I enter. I nod toward the empty terminal. He shrugs and goes back to whatever he’s logging.
I sit down and log into the system.
Military inbox first. Routine updates, shift adjustments, but nothing urgent or explosive. No formal complaint about a corridor incident — yet.
I log out of that, then, out of habit more than anything else, I open the civilian client. The connection takes a moment, then the screen flickers and the inbox refreshes.
There’s one new message.
From: [email protected]
To: returnfire@
Date: Sunday, October 31st, 1996. 20:29
Subject: Change of plans
—Caiden,
I landed without issue.
However, there’s been a development.
I’ve been informed that I will be sent on exercise for approximately six weeks. It wasn’t previously scheduled, which means it is not optional.
Communication will be limited, so I will email when I return. If possible, I will call.
Don’t do anything reckless while I am gone.
I love you.
—Ari.
I lean back in the chair and look at the screen. Amsterdam is already starting to feel like a distant memory. Ari was steady when he left. He had a plan. He talked about structure, contacts, and neutral ground. He spoke about it as if it were something we could actually build when we had the time.
Now it’s six weeks of silence.
Comms are limited. I know what that means. Field conditions, long hours, and focus on the job. No canals and no quiet mornings. Just routine.
I close the message and log out.
He told me not to do anything reckless. I almost smile at that, given what just happened with Harris. It’s as if he already knew. Six weeks is not distance. It’s time to get things in order here. Time to watch Harris properly and time to make sure Mason stays where he should be.
And I will still be here when he gets back.