Fucking pitiful excuse of a man.
And yet, his weakness isn’t just his body. Curious, when I pressed him about the checkpoint sequence, he fumbled it. Any courier worth a damn knows the order—except this one. Either he’s thick headed, or he’s hiding something. I haven’t decided which I’d like to break open first.
My arms cross, the weight of my uniform settling across both shoulders. The fabric is a second skin to me now—black tactical material designed to intimidate as much as to protect. The mask on my face is equally familiar, the interior molded to the contours of my features through years of wear.
The band on my wrist vibrates once—a message from Syndicate Leader Rennaux demanding my presence tomorrow morning. No doubt to discuss our progress with the new squad. Or rather, his expectations for when we’ll be deployment-ready. Lucian Rennaux oversees all Enforcer operations across the six provinces, his authority rarely questioned even by his fellow Syndicate leaders.
Unlike Vaughn Harridan, who manages propaganda and intelligence gathering, or Everett Montclair, who controls the economic lifeline of Dascenia, Rennaux deals in direct action. He expects results, nothing less.
The discovery of those bands of dissidents beyond the perimeter has unsettled the entire Syndicate. Three distinct groups were identified by aerial surveillance drones—one in the northeast forests, another nestled in the southern foothills, and a third moving between cave systems in the central plains. Initial estimates suggest seventy to ninety individuals total, predominantly females.
Females that should be in their respective facilities, producing more male children with powers to strengthen our ranks. Instead, they’re out in the wild, uncontrolled, undermining everything we’ve built.
What’s most concerning is the lack of physical evidence atthe perimeter. No damaged sections or disrupted scanner networks; no signs of forced passage. It could only mean one thing: internal assistance. Someone with knowledge of the systems, access to the scanner logs, and authorization to move through checkpoints has been facilitating these escapes.
A traitor among our ranks.
That’s why I volunteered to form this special unit. Every Enforcer must check in at the Center between assignments. By positioning myself here, I can personally evaluate everyone passing through. Watch for inconsistencies, behavioral anomalies, signs of divided loyalty.
So far, I’ve found nothing conclusive, but it’s only been two weeks since we learned about the rebellion. The traitor, if they have any intelligence, will have gone to ground. Every Enforcer outpost across Dascenia received the security alert—whoever is responsible knows we’re looking.
A grunt draws my attention back to the present. Styx shifts his weight, adjusting his hold. His Thermic abilities make him invaluable—being able to regulate temperature through touch means he can discreetly incapacitate targets without permanent damage. Unlike some of the more destructive powers, his is controlled and precise. Useful.
I despise training the incompetent, but even I cannot deny a certain satisfaction in this position. Watching them strain, measuring their limits, determining their worth. It’s cleaner than the paperwork that consumes my days here at the hub. The endless requisition forms and petty territorial squabbles between unit commanders are agonizing. Before taking this assignment, I hadn’t realized how stifling those administrative duties would become.
Kellen understood. He has the patient mind for it, but even he recognized my growing restlessness. When the opportunity to form this specialized unit arose, he and Elias didn’t hesitateto join me. We’ve served together since we were barely out of training, our powers and approaches naturally complementing one another. My Anchor abilities ground us while Elias’ Revealer talents expose lies, and Kellen’s Telepath skills allow us silent coordination in the field.
We’ve more than earned our current ranks through years of flawless service and unwavering loyalty. And one benefit of such rank is the ability to select our own assignments. The Syndicate rewards those who prove themselves unquestioningly devoted to its cause.
Ashford slips again, recovering much to my dismay. His arms shake visibly now, though I shouldn’t be surprised. His file lists only one previous employment as a messenger between provinces, but his conditioning is nonexistent. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he’d spent his life confined in a cell, never dealing with proper physical exertion.
I’ve wanted to cut him from the team multiple times, more so after mentioning my sister Anja—something he should have never been privy to. His attitude borders on insubordination, his performance is consistently subpar, and something about him feels as though he’ll never belong.
But Elias made a compelling case after our last debriefing.
“The Empath abilities he displayed are extraordinary,” Elias had argued, leaning against my office wall. “Have you ever seen anyone influence emotions like that without physical contact before? And on multiple subjects?”
I hadn’t. Empaths are rare enough—perhaps one in a thousand men manifests the ability. Ninety-nine percent require direct skin contact to sense emotions, let alone manipulate them. Corin Spinel, our other Empath recruit, needs both hands on a subject to achieve even basic influence.
But Ashford…
I glance at him again, studying the lean, insufficient framebeneath the uniform, my lips curling. What he lacks in physical prowess, he makes up for in his power. When we retrieve those women from beyond the perimeter, having someone who can calm them remotely will be invaluable. Females in such situations tend to resist, often injuring themselves in the process. Dead women can’t repopulate. Damaged women produce fewer viable offspring.
Ashford’s power could save us significant losses. It’s the only reason I tolerate his continued presence.
I check my wristband. 17:08. Eight minutes past our established end time, but I’m not concerned with schedules. Training ends when I decide it ends.
“Drop,” I command, disgusted at the relief that overtakes their postures. They release the bar, landing with varying degrees of grace. Styx maintains his balance perfectly—good. Crowell stumbles, which is disappointing but not unexpected given his obvious fatigue. Ashford practically collapses, his knees buckling before he catches himself.
All three stretch their shoulders and wrists, trying to restore circulation to numbed fingers. I’m finished dealing with this hopeless lot.
“Despicable,” I tell them, not bothering to soften the assessment. “If you can’t handle a simple endurance test, you’re useless beyond the perimeter. Do better tomorrow or find another assignment.”
I turn without waiting for a response. There’s nothing they could say that would interest me unless it’s ‘yes, Commander.’
The Enforcer Training Center rises before me as I cross the yard—a massive structure of reinforced concrete and steel, its windows tinted to prevent observation from outside. To the recruits, I’m sure it appears intimidating and unwelcoming.
To me, it’s simply home.
