D'IO

The tavern smelled of rancid beer, cheap tobacco, and despair. It was one of those holes tucked away in the shadows near the docks, where veterans of forgotten wars went to waste away in silence, far from prying eyes.

Mike sat at the bar in the darkest corner. His back was bent, his shoulders rigid.

"The usual," he said, his voice like sandpaper scraped against stone. "And leave the bottle."

The bartender didn't ask questions. He knew that face, the scars cutting across his cheek, and that ghost-like aura of a man who had just crawled back from the front lines. He grabbed the bottle of cheap whiskey, filled the heavy glass tumbler, and left both on the greasy wood before retreating into silence.

Mike reached for the neck of the bottle, but before his fingers could wrap around it, a strange hand clamped down over his. A firm, warm, all-too-familiar grip.

"My friend, you're not planning to drink that all by yourself..." said a low, scratchy female voice. "Buy me a drink."

Mike didn't flinch. He recognized that touch instantly.

"Alright, Jessy," he muttered without raising his head. "Let's go find a booth."

They took seats in a secluded booth in the deepest corner of the pub, where the light from the oil lamps barely managed to pierce the smoke. Jessy sat across from him. She was a woman carved from stone, possessing the sharp gaze of someone who had seen too much hell. They had once served in the same elite British assault unit—a ghost squad now disbanded, scrubbed clean from the registries and the Ministry's memory. Between them had burned something dense and violent, a flame born in the rubble that still smoldered beneath the ash.

Jessy stared at the bottle, then locked her eyes on Mike's.

"How are you holding up?" she asked.

Mike didn't answer. He didn't need to. He let his sunken dark circles, the dead gray tone of his skin, and the shadow of a torment eating him alive speak for him. Jessy couldn't know about the black rot gnawing at his lungs, but she could see the empty shell of a man who had stopped clinging to life.

Jessy let out a shaky sigh, gritting her teeth.

"Is it really that bad?" she said. "I don't think so."

Mike slid a second glass toward her and poured the golden liquor to the brim, keeping his hands steady to mask the dull tremor rising from his chest.

"You always overthink things, Jess," he replied dryly. "Drink up and stop asking questions that don't concern you."

Jessy stared at the glass, but didn't touch it. She leaned across the table, dropping her voice to a near-whisper.

"I'm not here to make small talk, Mike. Strange rumors are floating around the circuit. A private consortium is rounding up anyone with field experience. Ex-contractors, ruthless men, people who know how to handle weapons. They're paying astronomical sums for a gig in South America. But they're also saying the stakes are absolute maximum, the risk is total, and nobody knows what you're walking into. And your name is at the top of the list."

Mike brought the glass to his lips. The burn of the alcohol numbed his throat for a second, choking off the grip of a treacherous cough.

"The pay is good," he said with a mirthless half-smile. "Nothing else worth knowing."

"It's a one-way trip, Mike!" Jessy snapped, grabbing his wrist in an iron grip. "Whoever is behind this is buying your skin. You don't need the money—you're just looking for an excuse not to come back!"

Mike broke free of her grip without haste, meeting her gaze with glacial calm.

"Nobody lives forever, Jess. The difference is that I've stopped worrying about it."

Jessy clenched her fists on the table. Her anger gave way to a fracture of pure desperation. Her eyes shone in the gloom.

"Don't go, Mike," she pleaded, with a vulnerability she had never shown him on the battlefield. "We'll fix whatever is tearing you apart... I'll help you. Death is the only thing with no solution."

From the darkest corner of the tavern, hidden between the shadow of a wooden pillar and the fog of the room, a figure slowly stepped forward. The sharp outline of a dark, impeccably tailored suit could barely be made out, clashing miserably with the squalor of the pub.

"Allow me to disagree, Miss."

The voice was calm, glacial, sharp as a sterile scalpel.

Mike and Jessy snapped their heads around. The man took a single step into the lamplight, just enough to reveal a square-jawed face and a smile utterly devoid of any trace of humanity. He was the consortium's emissary.

"Your friend has already accepted the terms of the contract," the man continued, sliding a small rectangular black card across the greasy wooden table. He pushed it slowly with two fingers, stopping it right in front of Jessy's hands. "The figures are what you heard. Enormous. And the danger he will face should he accept is no less severe. But mark this: it is worth the risk, because whether you die or survive, you will do so in a way no human being ever has before."

Jessy stared at the black card. There were no details on it, only a series of geographic coordinates embossed in silver relief.

Mike fixed his gaze on the emissary with a locked jaw, while the silence of the tavern suddenly grew heavy as a tomb.