"Damn… I should have taken that hot cocoa Bailey offered," Marcus muttered, exhaling into his gloved hands as the wind bit at his bones.
He had been patrolling for over an hour. The fatigue hadn't caught up to him yet, but the cold was starting to seep through even the thick layers of his uniform.
Sliding on his visor, he scanned the villa's southern perimeter—nothing but familiar heat signatures and his team's moving practiced rhythms.
He pressed a button on his earpiece.
"Control, this is Bravo 003. Southern wing clear at 22:56. No activity. Over."
"Bravo 003. This is Alpha 621, report logged. Proceed with patrol. Over." Marcus heard from his earpiece.
"Roger. Over."
This assignment was one of the most intensive and high-profile Marcus had ever been part of. There were hourly reports, round-the-clock drone surveillance, live body cam feeds, and no breaks until the morning shift.
Two weeks in, and not so much as a stray dog had crossed their path. Still, Marcus knew better than to relax on the job. His job was simple: protect the asset, no mosquito bite in weeks.
Just then, his comms buzzed to life.
"Control, this is Lash 32. Eastern wing clear at… 21:58—sorry—22:58. All clear. Over."
Marcus frowned.
It wasn't the slip-up that bothered him. That was normal enough. But why was Lash 32's timestamp two minutes ahead of his? Their systems were synced down to the second.
"Lash 32, this is Alpha 621. Report logged. All clear, proceed as required. Over."
Still frowning, Marcus resumed his rounds. The cold was starting to gnaw at his patience. If he were a smoker he might have lit one up by now. Instead, he shook the thought away. Even the smell of cigars made him nauseous.
Soon… we'll switch with those patrolling inside the villa.
He checked his watch and unwrapped a protein bar, biting into it as he continued down the frost-lined path.
Thirty minutes passed.
At last—it was time to rotate with the officers stationed inside the villa.
A braid-shouldered man stepped out of the front entrance, calling out with a smirk:
"Hey, Marshal Black,"
Marcus looked up. The man was nearly twice Marcus's age and he never missed a chance to needle him. Friendly on the surface, but Marcus knew better. Most could see it for what it was: jealousy.
Since joining the force, Marcus had risen fast. He was efficient and obedient, and it made him a favorite among the higher-ups. Enough to earn him the captaincy of a small unit.
That didn't sit well with many of the veterans. Years in the force, and suddenly they were answering to someone younger, a Border-born at that.
Marcus knew they resented him. But he didn't care. So long as they didn't cross any lines, he let them be.
Gaan was one of those jealous people. A forty-three-year-old Iron Marshal clinging to his rank like a life raft—unkempt, bitter, and reeking of envy.
His hygiene was abysmal. Greasy, thinning blond hair clung to his scalp like dying weeds, and his lips were stained dark from years of chain-smoking.
As he approached, Gaan retrieved a cigarette from his inner pocket and lit it with the same smug defiance that always accompanied him. He took a long drag, then stepped up beside Marcus.
"Not so bad spending the night with us now, is it?" Gaan smirked, blowing smoke directly into Marcus's face. "What better way to bond than in the cold?"
He'd figured out long ago that Marcus couldn't stand smoke. Marcus always left the room whenever someone lit up. Tonight, for the first time, Gaan decided to test the boundary.
He didn't get the chance to enjoy it.
Smack.
Marcus's palm lashed across his face—sharp, fast, and deliberate. Not enough to draw blood, but enough to send a message.
"Smoking on duty is misconduct. I'm letting you off with a tap. Step on my toes again, and I won't be so generous. Let's not repeat this."
Gaan froze.
Shock and humiliation turned his face red, but the sting on his cheek was nothing compared to the fury simmering inside him. He clenched his fist as he stared daggers into Marcus's back as the younger man walked away, spitting on the ground in passing.
One by one, officers rotated positions, filling in and out of the villa. Radios buzzed and confirmations were made.
…
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Marcus stirred.
His wristwatch alarm buzzed in that familiar rhythm. The same setting he had used since before his days in the military.
He blinked groggily, lifting the watch toward his face.
05:00.
With a grunt, he sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "Of all the people to dream about…" he muttered. "That filthy gene pool."
The dream was so vivid he could almost smell the smoke still clinging to his lungs.
Groaning, he glanced around the room. For a moment, disorienting. The ceiling, the furniture—it wasn't familiar. Then the memories returned.
Right, the Eastern Mansion.
He stood, walked to the wardrobe, and opened it. Fresh uniforms hung inside—each tailored perfectly to his rank and build. His luggage, somehow intact after the train wreck.
He showered, dressed, and stepped out of his room.