I needed something to happen. Anything.

  The back of the van felt smaller than usual. Five of us sat on the bench seats that lined the interior hull—Jen and Mous to my right, Bran and Cuiran to my left. No one spoke for several minutes. The only sounds were the low hum of the engine and the faint beeping from the scanners.

  Outside, the Ninth district rolled past in muted shades of steel and glass. Clean streets. Nothing out of place. Lydia and Kate were up front. Driving, monitoring feeds and logging route markers. They were able to keep themselves busy.

  The rest of us had nothing but our thoughts.

  In the short time since we'd been promoted to official marshals, we'd seen more than most citizens would in a lifetime. Crime wasn't rare in Conrad. It just wasn't always visible. Murder investigations that never made the public feeds. Kidnappings masked as voluntary disappearances. Fraud networks that ran through entire districts before being quietly dismantled. Aggravated assaults buried under settlement agreements.

  And yet, somehow, none of it had been ours. We were present. Observing. Assisting. Never initiating. Never tested.

  "Can't believe I'm saying this," Bran muttered, leaning back with his arms folded behind his head, "but maybe some crime wouldn't be the worst thing right now."

  Jen nodded in agreement. "I knew I wasn't the only one thinking that."

  I completely understood their feelings. Their statements didn't come from bloodlust or arrogance. They came from pressure. For most of our lives, we'd been forged for this role. Endless drills, simulations, conditioning. Every weakness isolated and corrected. We were shaped into tools but remained unutilized.

  It was like heating water in a sealed container. Energy building steadily without release. Sooner or later, something had to give.

  "Careful what you wish for, tercero," Kate's voice crackled over the comms.

  Bran groaned. "Stop calling me that."

  "No."

  A few weeks before our Class 1 promotion, I'd been asked to designate a second and third in command in the event of an unavoidable absence. Everyone assumed Bran would be my second and with good reason. Physically and tactically, he was the obvious choice.

  But leadership wasn't that simple. Kate had a better head on her shoulders. She processed information faster and made decisions cleaner. Where Bran reacted, she calculated.

  He understood this. He hadn't argued when I named him third. That didn't stop Kate from weaponizing the title. 'Tercero' was drawn from an old Terran language that formed half her cultural heritage. She said it meant third. Bran clearly wasn't very fond of the nickname. Personally, I thought he could do worse.

  "Well since we're on the topic," Lydia began, "If you could choose the crime for our first official arrest, what would it be?"

  Mous stretched her legs out. "Compact violation, easy. Barely any paperwork. We hand it off to the CCA and call it a day. Those guys fold if you look at them wrong."

  Jen shook her head. "That's dull. If we're talking first real arrest, then cultists."

  Her tone hardened slightly. "Pathetic parasites," she continued. "Preying on the insecure and weak-minded."

  Cuiran shrugged. "True. But if someone's stupid enough to fall for that garbage, maybe they deserve what they get."

  Jen shot him a look. He lifted his hands defensively.

  Bran leaned toward me. "You've had one arrest already. What's your pick?"

  Compact violations fell under the jurisdiction of the CCA. Any victories made in that direction would be credited to them. A best we'd get our names on a report that no-one would read. Hard pass.

  Petty crimes weren't worth anyone's time. That left two categories that actually mattered. Terrorism and cultist operations.

  Cults rarely ever called themselves cults. They were 'movements', 'faith circles' or even 'collectives'. Small ideological groups that claimed enlightenment while quietly isolating civilians, draining resources, and pushing radical doctrine under the guise of transcendence. A very small number of them were harmless. The vast majority weren't.

  "I'd rather take on one of the anarchists." I said quietly.

  "Really?" Bran tilted his head. "Why?"

  Anarchists were simple. They wanted chaos. Infrastructure damage. Civil destabilization. Their motives were ugly, but at least they were honest. The problem was that we weren't always successful in stopping them. That was what made their arrests so high value. Cults weren't so straightforward.

  The Faith of the higher mind, for example, believed human governance was inherently flawed. That society should submit to an artificial overseer—one pure of bias, emotion, and corruption. It was an idiotic and destructive mindset. But technically legal.

  And that was the problem.

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  Most cults operated in gray areas. Manipulation and psychological coercion weren't crimes. Our authority only activated once a line was crossed. And the line was always crossed.

  Eventually.

  Before I could answer, a voice came through the comms.

  "All units, stand by for priority traffic."

  The van went silent instantly.

  "Units in the Ninth District, reports of shots fired. Caller reporting possible attack. Location is Tangler Street, Building Twelve. Multiple shots heard, people screaming. Any unit in the vicinity respond code three."

  The air sharpened.

  "Lydia—" I started.

  "Mapping directions already. It's the address of a small research facility called Dutton Mulark about eight minutes away. Heading there now. "

  I put on my helmet. "CO-Unit 154, copy. Seven minutes out. Responding code three."

  "CO-154, received. You're primary."

  Kate didn't wait for my orders. The siren activated, rising into a piercing wail as we merged aggressively into the high-speed lane. The stabilizers adjusted, pressing us slightly into our seats as acceleration increased.

  I turned to the others. "Game faces on. This could get real, fast. Stay sharp."

  The van cut through traffic. Civilian vehicles parted quickly at the sound of the siren. Three minutes into the response, dispatch came back on.

  "Update for units responding to Tangler Street, Building Twelve. Original caller advising incident may be a false alarm. Caller now states noises believed to be misheard. No further reports of shots fired at this time."

  There was silence again but a different kind. I looked at the others. They shared my thoughts.

  "Dispatch, confirm no additional callers reporting shots?"

  "Affirmative, CO-154. No additional callers. Only reporting party."

  I muted the channel and looked toward the front. "Kate?"

  "Statistically? Ten percent chance it's a hostage situation. Caller retracts after being coerced."

  "Or," Cuiran added quietly, "some examples were made. If you catch my meaning."

  Jen chuckled. "Aren't you just a ray of sunshine?"

  "I try my best." He replied, smiling.

  Eight minutes away from a potential active shooter or eight minutes away from nothing. The choices was obvious.

  "I'll take those odds. Stay on course. Eyes open."

  I reactivated the channel. "Copy. We'll continue to check the location."

  "CO-154 received."

  We pushed on. I removed my helmet briefly and rested my hand against Trent. Then Lloyd. The feeling was grounding.

  Soon," I murmured under my breath.

  Jen stared at me incredulously. "You have a problem. You know that right?"

  I smirked. "Jealous?"

  "I'm gonna have to agree with Jen." Mous said. "You've been obsessed with those things ever since you got them. Not sure that's so healthy."

  "Thank you."

  "I don't have a problem with it." Bran chimed in. "I think it's nice he has someone— excuse me,— something important in his life. If you want we could leave, you know, give you guys some space to get more intimate."

  "You know I might just take you up on that offer." I said with mock consideration.

  "I'm sure you would, you disgusting pervert."

  "Leave the captain alone." Lydia said, amused. "So what if he likes his little toys? Everyone needs a hobby."

  "How dare you?" I replied, feigning outrage. "I know you didn't just compare these beautiful works of art to mere—"

  "You all should quit it right now." Kate cut in. "I'm not listening to another lecture on how he's supposedly revolutionizing close-quarters combat."

  Cuiran sighed dramatically. "Not even a joke, unfortunately. Worst five hours of my life. He even made us apologize to those things. Oh and by the way, Trent's a stupid name."

  The van erupted with their overlapping complaints, mockery and exaggerated reactions. I shook my head in disappointment. These people wouldn't recognize greatness if it slapped them on the face.

  "Alright that's enough," I raised my hand. "I will address this disrespect you have all shown me later. Especially you Cuiran. You owe Trent another formal apology."

  He rolled his eyes.

  "For now, we have a job to do. So this matter is tabled."

  A few reluctant grunts followed. The van settled into uneasy quiet, though I could still feel their judgment hovering in the air like static.

  Ignoring them, I ran my thumb along the polished surface of Trent's blade. "Forgive them," I whispered reverently. "For they know not what they say."

  Jen looked away in exasperation.

  The street greeted us with indifference. A couple of hovercars drifted lazily along the upper lanes, their engines humming like distant insects. Pedestrians stepped off the Driftwalks and slowed when they noticed our unit. A few stared openly. Most lost interest once it became clear there were no explosions or screaming victims spilling into the road.

  I looked to the building across from us, quiet and unremarkable.

  Dutton Mulark. If I hadn't known better, I would have assumed it was a common mid-tier firm. Flat fa?ade. Neutral panels. Tinted windows reflecting the afternoon haze. No visible security at the entrance. The place felt wrong by virtue of looking so normal. Maybe it really was a false alarm.

  I walked to the front of the van and signaled Lydia to open up.

  "What do you think?" she asked, eyes scanning the structure.

  "Too early to say," I replied. "I'll take a closer look. Kate?"

  She glanced up from her pad. "Yeah?"

  "Kill the sirens. Let dispatch know I'm conducting a preliminary inspection."

  "Sure."

  I crossed toward the building. The street quieted almost immediately once the sirens cut. The remaining onlookers drifted away, their curiosity extinguished. Clearly, there was no excitement without spectacle. When I reached the entrance, I tried the door. It was unlocked.

  Something tightened in my spine as I stepped inside.

  The air was cool but had a faint metallic odor. Probably some chemicals or whatever they used in there. The lobby lights were on and the reception desk stood empty. A digital directory glowed beside it, cycling through departments. No overturned furniture, broken glass, or immediate signs of struggle. But no people, either.

  That part that scraped against my nerves.

  Midday on a weekday. A research facility should be staffed. Even skeleton crew operations leave someone at the front.

  At this point, protocol dictated that I announce myself. I decided against it. Anyone inside would have heard us arrive. The sirens alone would have broadcast our presence across the street. And if there was a hostile actor in here, shouting my position felt very counterproductive. I moved further inside, boots quiet against the floor.

  The odor evolved. Much denser now. It coated the back of my throat and I could practically taste it. It was earthy, for lack of a better description, and even a bit sweet.

  I approached the desk, fingers brushing its surface. No dust. Recently used. A tablet lay face down near the edge, screen cracked.

  Just then, I realized the scent was one I was familiar with. My mind reached for the memory automatically. I prided myself on the speed of my sensory recall. It was almost instantaneous. This particular instance, however, took a lot longer than it should have.

  This only happened in one of two cases. Either, it had been long time since I last perceived it or it was—

  I stopped cold and immediately bolted back to the door.

  You irredeemable fool.

  How could I have been so slow? How was I so careless?

  The smell of blood was one I was knew all too well. Countless incidents and experiences engrained it's composition deep into my subconscious. There was only one reason why I wouldn't recognize it immediately.

  A dangerously large amount of it had been spilled.

  CCA: Compact Compliance Authority

  The Compact is a the name of a group of three laws that are universally enforce. It was created as a response to the Collapse. The CCA is in charge of enforcing the Compact across the system and wields authority second only to the Council of Celestial States.