Deep breath.
My mouth dries as I step forward to accept the metal band from my leader. Our fingers brush briefly, and his green eyes flick to mine. I ignore him, positioning the band carefully at the base of my skull, making sure my hair remains tucked securely under my mask.
It wouldn’t be the end of me if I let it down, being the same length as Lachlan’s, but I’d rather not have something else to explain. I procure too many questioning glances as is.
“Center of the room, Ashford,” Elias directs, drifting back to his spot against the wall.
I walk to the indicated spot, my heart hammering. Is it normal to taste the blood beating rapidly through my body?
Focus, Cas.
This simulation is different from the tests we endured yesterday. Those were straightforward while this requires swift thinking, decision-making, and potentially speaking to peoplewho won’t hesitate to kill me. What would Lachlan do if he were here?
I chuckle to myself; he wouldn’t have come in the first place.
Before I can spiral further, the world shifts. Gray walls fade, replaced by the interior of an opulent building unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Marble floors stretch beneath my feet, polished to a mirror shine. Pillars of some dark stone rise to support a vaulted ceiling adorned with intricate frescoes. Crystal chandeliers hang like frozen waterfalls, shading the area in prismatic light.
And to fuck with my head all the more, I even smell traces of perfume and warm food.
I’m in the entrance hall of what must be an important government building or wealthy private residence. The space is crowded with people in formal attire. Men in dark suits mingle with one another while women in flowing dresses hang on their arms. Others circulate with trays of drinks while music plays softly from an unseen source.
I have no instructions beyond what Elias gave the others: identify threats, protect civilians, and neutralize hostiles if necessary.
But how do I identify threats in this sea of unfamiliar faces? I’ve only ever interacted with three people who weren’t wearing masks, and now I’m supposed to read dozens of strangers?
I should be grateful for the opportunity to learn such a skill, but it’s nauseating.
The crowd shifts as I move cautiously, studying faces and postures. My limited knowledge of psychology and body language becomes my only guide. I watch for micro-expressions, for anomalies in movement patterns, or hands that hover too close to potential weapons.
Everyonelooks suspicious to me. That woman’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes; that man keeps glancing at his timepiece. There is a server who avoids a particular section of the room.
Paralysis by analysis. If everyone is suspicious, then I have no useful information.
I needsomething. What is the purpose of this gathering? What am I supposedly doing here?
Glancing down, I’m wearing an Enforcer uniform, but more formal than the standard issue. A ceremonial guard, perhaps? In a nearby reflection, a mask confirms my disguise remains intact.
The conversations grow increasingly tense, voices rising at a steady pace as the thrill of alcohol and dancing take effect. Something is happening. But what?
Irritated, I push through the crowd toward a source of disturbance. Near a large set of double doors at the far end of the hall, several men argue. Their gestures become more agitated as I approach. I can’t make out what they’re saying at first, but as I draw closer, the words form.
“...cannot allow this to continue,” one man insists, his face flushed with anger. “The Syndicate has gone too far.”
“Lower your fucking voice. We’re surrounded by loyalists.” The three peer around nervously before one notices my approach and falls silent, nudging his companions. All eyes turn to me.
The situation crystallizes in my mind. These men are planning something against the Syndicate…and I’m meant to be a loyal Enforcer.
Theyare the threat.Iam the law.
Or are they? What if this is a test of my loyalty rather than my threat assessment? What if the real danger is elsewhere, andthese men are a distraction. Will I fail if I leave them, or must they be held accountable either way?
No, I will be expected to neutralize any perceived issue arising outside the Syndicate’s rule. And I don’t have time to analyze further, or ask questions about what they’re planning, in hopes I could use the same tactics. Elias’ eyes burn through my uniform, watching every small movement and hesitation I make.
One of the men reaches into his jacket, forcing instinct to take over. I draw the weapon holstered at my hip—a sleek pistol similar to the one Vito used. The weight is wrong in my hand, the grip too large for my fingers, but I aim it steadily at the man reaching for whatever he deems important.
“Hands where I can see them,” I order, deepening my voice just enough to sound authoritative without overcompensating.
Instead of complying, the man pulls out a small device and presses something on its surface. “Now!” he shouts.
