December xx^th
8 pm

In hindsight, I should’ve known the night would be fucked from the get-go.

First, there was the blizzard; despite the forecast assurance that ‘the worst is behind us’ throughout the entire week since the first snowfall, the sky seemingly broke into pure, unabashed rage just after midnight as I was catching the last train home. And while I could tolerate snowfall (in fact, as you know, I welcomed it!), a blizzard was too much for me to handle – so I hid away in my apartment, praying that the call for work would never come that night.

Unfortunately, Miranda called me around six. “After some back-and-forth,” we got confirmed to go in that night. While my feelings, I’m sure, are easy to imagine, I could tell she wasn’t a fan either. As I overheard Brian in the background, setting up what sounded like their Christmas tree (alongside a tune from some classic holiday movie) – hardly a thing to run away from, especially on a night like this – a note of restrained disappointment that could easily boil over into anger was inescapable in her tone. Yet and still, in her own words, “money won’t make itself.” I suppose she was right about that.

Lastly, and perhaps most pressingly, that static feeling I told you about from before soon materialised into something considerably more real and violent. At one of the protests in the Government Sector, some revolutionary decided to up the ante and threw a Molotov cocktail into the police line closing in on them. By all official accounts, this was breaking rank: sure, there were clashes with the police, but no one actually tried to murder one another. Some even said this was a sign that the protest movement has been infiltrated (I personally have my doubts); yet and still, the truth was for lawyers to argue and historians to unearth. As of then, the fact of the matter was that a cop got hit square on the head with a bottle full of burning gasoline, and the guy’s still in the burn unit of the ICU. I guess that’s one way to turn up the heat despite the sub-zero temperature on the street (I’m sorry, I’m a terrible person, this is not okay to joke about).

Anyway, news outlets were all over that incident. Pretty much any good faith that the protestors managed to accumulate with the general public was spent overnight, with counter-protests cropping up as fast as the police began sending out its riot units, firearms in hands rather than on hips. That’s when talks of the army being brought in began as well, but that’s for later.

It was this grim state of affairs that accompanied me as I arrived at our office, covered in snow and ice, my leather jacket and sweater barely holding me together (the state of my sneakers is better left unaccounted for), and a sinking feeling at the bottom of my gut, the temptation to run out into the night and disappear for the evening, by any means necessary, but no real ways to avoid the inevitable. Miranda, professional as ever, was already there.

“Don’t say anything,” she threw at me without looking up from the computer, “I know, this sucks.”

“Sucks?” I shook my head as I took the beanie off, an emergency switch from my usual baseball cap, small chunks of snow falling out on the floor, and leaned on the front desk near her, “How does the boss justify any of this? Half the city got the night off, except for essential workers – what gives?”

“Well, I guess that makes us the other half,” she rolled her eyes, looking up at me, “Besides, it’s hard to argue with spreadsheets and Eurodollars,” I could tell she wasn’t entirely convinced – the cadence and confidence that was always on display as she switched to her ‘professional-speak’ was simply not there this time, “Don’t worry, he is not completely heartless – we’re all getting overtime for this.”

“As long as I get enough to buy a portable heater,” she smiled, tired but earnest, at my poor attempt at banter, “Maybe this is as good of an opportunity as any to finally unionise.”

“Oh, not you as well- we’ve been over this, it’s a hard no, and you know perfectly well why,” her response—almost uncharacteristically serious—took me aback for a moment, but on reflection, I shouldn’t have said that. You see, although I was mostly joking, unionisation was a big debate within the company – as it was for most other workplaces since the loosening of workplace standards laws in the 90s. But last year, by some miracle (or rather, a perfectly reasonable series of events historians will later scrutinise), we’ve seen somewhat of a renaissance moment for workers’ rights despite this paralysis through some of the most aggressive neoliberal economics across the globe for almost thirty years. Our firm was no exception: Sam, ever the rebel, came close to actually forming one after a… Ah, it’ll probably get censored anyway, so let’s just say a few “unfortunate incidents” some employees had on duty.

Anyway, point being, there was no better time to at least try and form a union. So, we had this big meeting, all the couriers (way more than I ever imagined there to be) and our handlers, without the boss being notified of it, under one roof. It was one of those exciting moments where you felt empowered, crammed into a tight living room in the middle of an insufferably hot summer, righteousness blowing with the wind in your back, a tinge of conspiracy felt in the air. I don’t remember whose apartment we were in, only that it was packed, most of us having to sit on the floor, and listen. As we cooled ourselves with beer and cider, compelling arguments were made, especially by Sam and Archie (who, to his credit, had a better-than-expected understanding of the issue for someone who only yesterday had never even had a job), and for a moment, it seemed like a formal union was within reach. But the handlers remained worried – especially Miranda – of the “practicalities of it all,” and no one laid out the counter-argument better than her. The way Miranda put it, primarily because of the company’s reputation, few would want to open Pandora’s box of more government involvement, be it through our formal registration with the overburdened Labour Bureau or harnessing the full range of legal powers that are available to unions during bargaining. To her, it seemed that our position was a double-edged sword: sure, we had looser regulations, meaning less oversight from the government if – and when – things went wrong, but the trade-offs were a more flexible working schedule, a relatively loose contractual obligation, and, in theory, better pay than the competition (plus some other non-government assured bonuses); in other words, it helped to be legally ambiguous and just–under the radar.

But as is often the case in such moments, most of us had our minds made up. Sam especially got into a massive verbal fight with her, which, although civil, became uncomfortable to watch. It was like seeing your parents fight for the first time: there was no escape from it, but no one dared to intervene. Point after counterpoint, eventually, Miranda struck gold when Sam mentioned how this was “the moment” to do it given the public support. 

“Really?” I still remember her saying at the tail-end of her cold, pragmatic spiel, with vicious, serrated emphasis in every vowel, “Okay, let’s think then: even if we were to go through with this, whom do we lobby for support? Our clients? Good luck breaching the anonymity clause. Other couriers or gig workers? They look down on us, for many reasons beyond ethics. I guarantee you: not one union or professional association across the country – hell, the continent! – will have us if we do this,” she’d puff her hair then, facial expression completely unmoved by it all, “I know this isn’t what any of you want to hear, but in this hypothetical fight, we’re on our own against mister Stavrich – a man who has been nothing but incredibly forthcoming with everyone in this room. And believe me, you don’t want to be on his shit list,” a deafening silence fell in the room for a few moments.

“Look,” Miranda turned around, sighing, “I understand your point, but we have ways to communicate – productively – with our boss. Unionising and subsequently opening ourselves up to government scrutiny will not only complicate this, but many of you might lose this job,” she’d looked at us, as if searching for validation of her position, “All I’m saying, in such a case, it’s better to deal with the devil we know.”

Say what you will about her, but Miranda had an incredible gift of persuasion. I always suspected that, but it was on that evening that I saw it first-hand in its ruthless display: despite our convictions, we spent the hours after the main debate with desperate attempts to reaffirm ourselves, but the seed of doubt was irreversibly planted. Within a week, our little “rebellion,” if you can even call it that, died down. The passion, so clear in that one meeting, turned out to be but a moment, especially after Miranda ended up talking to the management on everyone’s behalf, as most were happy to forfeit any ridiculous notion of “class struggle” for a small bump in pay, an extra week off work, and dental insurance. Be it this resolution, short memory, or worries of starting something we clearly couldn’t finish, barely anyone spoke of the incident since – least of all, Miranda herself.

Still, I did often wonder if her wish to not talk about it was more personal than she’d led to believe. I know for a fact that Miranda always thought of herself as ‘the voice of reason,’ especially in that meeting; not the enemy to her colleagues’ righteousness, but someone who, if not averted, then certainly delayed a disaster which the rest of us were sleepwalking into. But I also know on good authority (my own, that is), having lurked in our breakroom enough, that many considered her a self-interested traitor since then. Not to mention, her and Sam’s friendship was basically over since that evening. And while I don’t feel good admitting it, I too never looked at her the same, even as I tried my best to understand and rationalise her logic.

“I know, I know – but a man can dream, huh?” I decided to move past the awkward topic, “What’s the plan for tonight, then?”

“Give it a minute,” she said, busily typing something out, “We’re waiting on Archie.”

“Archie? Why?”

“Well, you two are going together tonight. It’s- Oh, there you are!” she looked up past me, waving her hand. As I turned around, Archie drudged himself in, covered – just as I was mere minutes ago – in ice and snow, face red from the overwhelming cold outside.

After our run-in with the police, I haven’t seen Archie for a couple of nights. I did manage to get a confirmation from Miranda that he was okay (whether she was aware of the incident or not, I never confirmed), but it was as if he moved with shadows on the walls, silently and unannounced. I couldn’t quite tell if it was because he decided to lay low or if he descended further into anything and everything outside of the job, as if in spite of whatever would have been best for him. Whatever it was, at that moment, he was alive and well – if not shivering and cold to his very bones.

“Fuck this,” he mumbled, half to us, half to himself, shaking the snow off his brown coat, “This is too much, too bloody much!”

“I know,” Miranda raised her hand reassuringly, “As I’ve already told Xxx, you’ll be paid overtime on top of your usual rate.”

“How cheap of a whore do I look like if boss thinks overtime is enough to buy me?” Archie replied, mostly rhetorically, unwrapping his crimson scarf, his hair a fierier brand of red than usual. He paused for a moment, looking around the lobby, pausing on me, “What are you still doing here?”

“We’re tag-teaming for the night, apparently,” I shrugged, nodding my head towards Miranda.

“Precisely,” she cleared he throat, regaining an air of professionalism to herself, “Due to the recent… escalation, the management doesn’t think it’s safe for couriers to travel by themselves at the moment. So,” she clasped her hands together, only furthering the impression that this was a speech she prepped in advance, “For tonight, it will be the two of you, on top of other security measures.”

“‘Other security measures?’” Archie, puzzled, scratched his head, but I knew exactly what Miranda meant. I felt a ball of steel stuck in my throat, recalling the little metal box in my bag. 

“Don’t worry, Xxx knows what I’m talking about,” she glanced at me suggestively, “He’ll brief you later, if necessary.”

“That’s not ominous one bit,” Archie mumbled under his nose, rubbing his eyebrows, “Fine, whatever, let’s just get it on with – I already dread having to do double the distance in this weather.”

“Actually, you won’t have to!” Miranda’s face lit up for a brief moment, the well-hidden bit of compassion flashing through her eyes ever so often apparent in her eyes, “Luckily for you two, you only have one place to visit tonight – the Gardens Estate Residential.”

“The high-rise at the North of the Old City?” I asked a painfully obvious question – it was hard to miss that building even if you tried. She nodded.

“Exactly,” she knelt down, picking up a bundle of parcels, “You each have five addresses to visit there – there’s been some backlog accumulating in the system, so what better opportunity to hit all of them at once than tonight?”

“I thought the algorithm was random?” Archie raised his eyebrow, sceptical (but deep down, clearly reassured).

“Who said it isn’t?” Miranda retorted, “I’d be more than happy to tinker around and fix that for you if you’d prefer a longer trek instead?”

“Nope,” Archie lowered his gaze away from Miranda’s smug grin. You don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Fantastic. Well, have at it,” she pushed the parcels towards us, finalising the setup of our tablets as we began packing our bags, “For the record, gentlemen, I empathise – truly. So, let’s do each other a solid and just get it over with tonight, eh? No side-tracking, no nonsense – the sooner you get out, the sooner we can all go home.”

“Aye-aye, captain,” I threw out there, struggling to fit everything in my messenger bag. It seemed that even the parcels, each of a different shape and size, were working against us that night.

“Hardly a captain, but I appreciate the gesture,” I saw Archie roll his eyes in the corner of my vision. Neither I nor Miranda acknowledged him, “Anyhoo, Godspeed to you both – I’m only a call away if you need any assistance.” 

“Let’s hope it won’t come to it,” Archie saddled his bag on his shoulder, turning over to the main entrance, “Shall we?”

“Hang on,” I sheepishly threw out there, looking towards the corridor that led to the backdoor exit, “I need to… uh…”

“What is it?”

“I have this custom,” God, I felt stupid even saying it that night, but a ritual’s a ritual “Every night, I have one cigarette over there,” I motioned towards the exit, “Do you think we can…”

“Are you insane? Fuck your cigarette! Come on, I’m not sticking around in this weather waiting for you,” I turned around to Miranda, but she was already gone to the back. With no allies – or enablers – to be found, I sighed, bracing myself for the cold, long night ahead, and followed Archie to the station.

8:28 pm
Hurrying through the snowed-covered streets, harsh and desolate, we managed to catch one of the last trains of the night. Apparently, the tracks froze over on every overground part of the railway, and with half of the city not working, the tube was getting suspended until the morning (essential workers would not emerge out of their workplaces until around 6, anyway). It was hardly surprising, then, that the station was largely deserted – even the homeless did not want to seek shelter there that night. 

As the freezing train cart sped through the Capital’s tunnels, screeching, Archie remained uncharacteristically quiet. Gone were the political monologues, the bravado, the unabashed conviction of one’s righteousness; even the smugness was subdued. Every so often, he’d throw a glance at me as if preparing to ask me something, only to retreat back into his mind after momentary consideration. Funny – up until then, I’d often hoped for Archie to shut up for just a minute; now that I had what I asked for, it somehow felt like the whole world had gone awry.

“You’re awfully quiet tonight,” I decided to break the ice after we passed through the final ‘screechy’ bit of the tunnel.

“Just trying to conserve heat,” he threw back, uninterested.

“No political titbit to share?”

“Hurr-durr, dickhead, you can wipe that grin off your face,” he smiled as he said that, a bit of colour returning to his pale face, “I don’t know, there isn’t much to say anymore – everything’s just fucked, you know?”

“I would’ve thought you’d be the first to rejoice at the escalation?”

“Escalation? Sure. But the way it’s escalating? All I have is worry,” his lips pursed together in a small grimace, “I’m glad to see you’re okay, though. Some night we had, huh?”

“Listen,” I looked around, making sure we were truly alone (the CCTV was never practical enough to install on the trains, thankfully, but plain-clothed police were more of a rule than an exception by then). I was greeted only by the animated advertisements on the walls, “What happened, anyway? After we got separated.”

“Nothing much, if I’m being real,” he shrugged, almost theatrically unbothered, “Me and Said just sort of ran for a while, mostly south towards the riverbank, and then disappeared in opposite directions through the crowd. I was lying low since – or, well, trying to. Not very fun, if you can believe that.”

“I figured,” I sighed. I could tell he wasn’t telling me the full truth – there was just enough slyness in his voice, “You picked just the right time to get out, that’s for sure.”

“I don’t think there’s such a thing as ‘getting out,’ not anymore; so long as you stay in the city, you’re still ‘in.’ Especially given our line of work,” his eyes travelled to my bag, then up to the map above me, “Our stop’s coming up. Can’t get any closer to it.”

“How much of a walk is it after? I don’t come here all that much.”

“Not much at all – we go to the intersection, turn the corner, and then we’re basically there,” as he affixed his scarf, Archie must’ve noticed my puzzled look, “I used to visit quite a bit at one point – Said lived in that building in their first year of uni. I’d swing by whenever I came down from Oxford,” at that moment, the train screeched again, as the automated voice – unbothered as ever – bellowed:

“This is a Central Line train to West Ealing. The next station is: Barbican. Doors will open on the right-hand side. Change here for…” the other lines hardly mattered to us then. Archie nodded at me as he got up, metal doors welcoming the rush of cold air and our creeping demise. There was no running from it that night.

8:50 pm
“Je-sus FUCK,” was all I heard as we ascended the escalator to brave the storm outside. It was hardly pleasant when we left Westbound, but here and now, in less than an hour, it unquestionably has gotten worse. Archie, evidently, felt the same picked, holding on for his dear life, “Alright- ALRIGHT, we take the left here!”

“WHAT?”

“GO!! LEFT!! HERE!!” he screamed, desperately pushing me out into the street and, undoubtedly, muttering another few curses under his breath.

On a good night, Barbican was a unique hybrid of a neighbourhood: situated just on the edges of the Old City, it inherited its old medieval style but none of the glass-and-steel skyscrapers that categorised the financial hub. Rather, Barbican’s heyday was in the ‘60s, when brutalism (which would shift into eco-brutalism in the late ‘80s, when environmentalism still stood strong on the policy agenda) lived rent-free in the imagination of many of the Capital’s architects, to which end the high-rises of the residential estate we were heading to, visible even in this unrelenting storm, were a testament. At the same time, the district was also home to a unique blend of arts, from the music and drama conservatory that Mia was attending to the Capital’s most prominent contemporary art museum. I remember reading, way back before coming here, in one of my mum’s magazines, that such a plan had a distinct purpose. If I remember correctly, the quote said it was meant to provide residents with “anything – for body and soul – they may need in a walkable radius.” My dad was especially fond of this idea, but both him and mum wanted to live here once, a long time ago, when everything seemed possible.

Yet, on that night, the landscape was unrecognisable: the blizzard had caused a complete whiteout, draining the colours of the night into a distilled, pure nothingness of a white-and-blue fog, patches of yellow streetlamps breaking through sporadically; the streets, normally bustling with people of all ages starved for culture, were deserted – not even police cruisers thought to stick around, it seemed; every café, every shop, every kiosk, was not just closed but had its shutters tightly locked, echoing through the street as it fought with the wind; and the brutalist building blocks hovered in the air like ominous monoliths, lit windows obscured in the whiteout fog of the blizzard; and in the thunderous whistling of the blizzard, only an occasional siren broke through, signalling a temporary reprieve – if not for us, then, certainly, for someone else.

“You see it?” Archie beckoned from behind me.

“Yup!” I pointed at the monolith on the opposite side of the street, “That’s the one?”

“Precisely! Now jog on, let’s get off the bloody street!” he tapped my shoulder as we began to stalk across the walls, sticking to using them as our shield and guide against the unrelenting, piercing wind, towards our duty and, at once, the place where our fates would be sealed.

It took a bit longer than expected (and way more mustering of our combined strength once we reached the pedestrian crossing), but we finally made it to the estate, ducking into the massive archway leading into the inner courtyard, separated in the middle by an impenetrable metal gate, a quaint but equally inaccessible doorway just in the middle of it. Although we weren’t quite there yet, even a little solace was welcomed – between the two of us, we only had one scarf and one beanie, making each thankful for a temporary pause in this icy onslaught.

“That overtime pay better be worth it,” Archie mumbled, shaking the snow off his coat and affixing his bag, reminding me to do the same (it would hardly be a surprise to lose a parcel or two in this storm – it wouldn’t hurt to check), “Now, what’s all this shit?”

“What, the gate?” I followed his gaze.

“Yeah, the front yard used to be open to the public,” he shook his head, evidently upset with this discovery. Frowning, he approached the gate, raising his fist, “What is this privatising bull-” but as he was about to bring his fist down, a low sound of an unlock mechanism, deep inside the gate, rang through the air, with the doorway sliding to the side. Caught by surprise, Archie stumbled, planting his face into the snowed-over road below. A faint chuckle escaped my throat, until I looked up to the doorway again, as my heart sank.

Two glassy, perfectly opaque helmets reflected my widened eyes. A turtleneck-like bulletproof vest, hidden underneath a dark coat with a blue-and-white chequered line running across the shoulder, assured doom. A silver glimmer of a gun at the hip compelled visions of violence. Nauseating, bright-neon-yellow print of one condemning word across the vest:

POLICE

“Shit,” I muttered, as quietly as I could, standing completely still. Archie, not yet realising what had happened, looked back at me with confusion, just before noticing the pair in front of us and hurriedly getting himself up. The policemen remained silent the entire time.

“Um, uh, good evening!” I breathed a sigh of relief at Archie’s quick thinking and even quicker tongue, “Nice weather for a walk, eh?”

“Quite,” one of the figures, a tad taller than his partner, responded, in a slightly distorted, almost robotic voice, stepping over the doorframe, “This area is off-limits, residents only.”

“Ah, but we’re couriers with Booker Express,” Archie frantically started going through his bag in search of the S-Pad, “We’ve got a few orders from the estate to fulfil tonight.”

“In this weather?” despite the distortion, the policeman’s scepticism was blatantly apparent.

“In this weather, yes,” Archie then looked towards me, as if asking for validation. I nodded quietly, “All in the good day’s work.”

The tall policeman pondered our words for a moment, keeping his hands hidden inside his coat’s pockets. I felt my heart beat faster with each moment, made worse by my reckless glances every now and again at his gun, remembering a firearm in my own bag.

“Okay,” he finally said, before motioning to his partner, “We’ll need to see some ID first.”

“Naturally!” Archie, exuberant and relieved, rolled up the right sleeve of his coat, revealing his wrist. I followed suit, taking my left arm out of the jacket and unrolling my sweater sleeve, as the tall cop’s partner approached me with a phone-shaped scanner from his utility vest. A moment, followed by two synchronised beeps.

Silence, wind, the gun in my bag.

“Alright, you’re good,” the tall one said, finally, “We’ll need to check your bags, though.”

Oh, fuck, oh, no, no, no, was all I could hear ringing in my head.

“What for? Do we look like terrorists to you?” Archie chuckled, his smug grin returning as he spoke. The policemen, clearly, were not amused.

“No entry without a bag check.”

“We can’t let you,” I finally chipped in, unable to catch the voice crack as the words escaped my lips, “Company policy.”

“Precisely,” Archie continued calmly, keeping his puzzled gaze on me as he did, “Look, let me meet you in the middle: you can check the bags themselves, but we can’t let you touch the parcels.”

God fucking DAMN it, Archie.

The policemen looked at one another, considering his offer. Realistically, there was no reason to take it: we were bargaining without a negotiation chip to spare.

“Very well,” the tall one finally responded, whether in spite of his better judgment or out of some basic empathy for our job, “Please come closer and open the bags for us,” Archie nodded, smiling at me. I swallowed, barely audibly, the metal ball in my throat from before, yet it refused to go.

“Open your bag, sir,” the shorter policeman beckoned at me as I approached him, his voice equally distorted but deeper. Hesitantly, I pried the bag open, praying to everyone and anyone up above that the metal box was concealed well enough under all other parcels. To my dismay, he pulled a flashlight – any hopes of a brisk search sank with my other hopes of the blizzard being the most of our problems.

As his hands went through the contents of my messenger bag, I desperately sought something to keep my head from racing. I looked to Archie, who, clearly annoyed yet composed, contently held his bag open for the policeman in front of him. You pick this up on the job, this ability to juggle emotions and tones with different people for different situations, but Archie’s skills were both well-known and envied. He wore his emotions and presentation like a mask, one ready to be switched out and changing everything – from tone and cadence to expression and even vocabulary – within seconds. It was one of the things that made him an excellent diplomat, but, coupled with his general smugness, a dreadful (at times, even difficult) person to be around without wanting to punch him at least sometimes.

And yet, this night, for better or for worse, his diplomacy in action has finally found its practical use. I still wonder, what would’ve been if we just turned back, as per the police’s ultimatum, but by chance or by Archie’s skills being offset by a chronic inability to just shut up for a second (oh, irony of wishing he’d just stop talking in less than an hour!), we were now tumbling down a one-way course towards disaster.

“What’s that?” the cop in front broke me out of my thoughts, pointing to the silver lockbox at the bottom of the bag. My heart, ever so still at the bottom of my stomach, sank deeper.   

“A parcel.”

“Why isn’t it wrapped like the others?” the blinding glow of the flashlight reflected back into his helmet and then at me.

“It’s just a special parcel – fragile, you see,” he was clearly not convinced.

“What’s in the box?”

“I don’t know – we’ve told you, that’s the point,” I felt the same fire that must’ve been inside Archie take hold, if only for a moment, and fight back “And because I don’t know, I can’t tell you either; if it’s in this bag, that means it’s a parcel, and if it’s a parcel, it’s for a client’s eyes only,” the policeman clearly didn’t find it all that impressive, as he commandingly raised his free hand at me.

“Okay, Sir, I need you to step aside-”

“Hey, no!” Archie chimed in from the other side, finished with his search, “He’s right: if it’s in the bag, that means it’s a parcel, AND we can’t show it to you,” he stepped up to the policeman, who was still holding me by the bag, hands raised for a second, only for them to go down after he realised how bad of an idea that was, “Look, officer – can I call you that?” he turned around to the taller cop, probably assuming he was easier to reason with, “You have our IDs, you know what we look like. We,” Archie motioned at himself, then at me, “Are not going anywhere in this blizzard. If you suspect something, fine – we’ll have to pass through you to get out. And after all,” his flair was back in full swing, tone and smugness of it all, “You’ve even seen the addresses where we’re making the deliveries. So, if needed, you have both the suspects – ID’ed, recognisable, and caught on video – with a full list of where they’ve been, in a city that’s already on lockdown,” he looked at both of them, a beckoning look in his eyes, “You are holding all the cards; can’t you just let us do our job?”

Even if I would never tell him that, I have to give it to Archie – I almost clapped. The policemen, comparatively, were harder to read through their reflective helmets (and the insistent holding of my bag by one of them). After a few awkward beats in silence, insistent upon by the wind just behind us, the tall one finally took his partner’s hand off my bag.

“Fine,” he spoke, stepping aside, “Cause no trouble. You will be checked again on exit,” he tilted his head towards me – it was barely noticeable to Archie, but he made sure I saw it, “You have an hour.”

“Now, hang on,” Archie chimed in again, pushing our already exhausted luck, “It’s already almost half nine, and the estate is huge, we need at least-”

“Midnight,” the policeman turned his steely gaze towards him, curtly cutting him off, “Not a minute more,” the patience in the policeman’s voice grew thinner. His whole body turned towards my partner as one whole, imposing frame, towering over someone I always thought was pretty tall yet now seemed so small, “If you’re not out by midnight, I will personally arrest you.”

Archie, thankfully, had more brains than to argue further, as we both gave our silent nods. The tall policeman and his partner stepped back through the doorway, welcoming us in. We spent no time getting through and walking briskly ahead, away from the makeshift checkpoint and the entire incident.

As we breathed easier with each step away from the gate, the Estate’s central courtyard greeted us with little more than desolation. The cold, precisely calculated inner sanctum, its concrete pillars arching and angling around the residential palisade on either side, somehow managed to both provide refuge from the storm and intensify the cold. The courtyard-facing balconies, stacked on top of one another under a skewed angle, like blocks on a pyramid, usually bursting with life even this late in the year, were extinguished in the bluish darkness of the night with special metallic shutters that helped against extreme winds. In front of us – a tall, imposing monolith of the high-rise residential tower, seemingly stretching all the way into the clouds, with only scattered yellow lights breaking through the snow down towards us as reminders of life within it. Returning to the ground-level, despite the snow duvet enveloping all, it was easy to recognise the familiar signs scattered around: a playground with swings, struggling to move back and fourth; a picnic table; a frozen-over pond; synthetic leaves on a maybe half-plastic tree, clinging to its branches despite everything; a couple of burnt-out lampposts; and the whitened-out remains of the small garden of various real bushes just at the edges of it all. At the end, a rusty green door, with the sole functioning lamp above – a promise of safety, an assurance of temporary peace.

“Well, at least the wind’s not so bad anymore,” Archie tried to lighten the mood, even as his teeth clattered violently at every syllabus. While we increased our pace across the yard, he suddenly switched to whispering, as if the police could still somehow hear us (granted: they very well could), “I don’t mean to be nosey, but: what is in that box?”

“A delivery,” I tried to shrug him off.

“Bullshit,” he wasn’t buying it, “Come on, what’s gotten you so worked up?”

I looked at him, considering my options. Up until then, I was really hoping to avoid the conversation: as long as I didn’t talk about it, I could avoid having to remember – or rather, ignore – the fact that there was a deadly weapon in my bag, barely within an arm’s reach. Now, at an impasse, I could not afford to be so naïve as to believe I could simply bury it. That didn’t mean telling Archie, though; if I was to shrug him off, I’d be saving Archie from responsibility if something – anything – was to go wrong. He had no idea I carried a likely unregistered-slash-stolen firearm; how can he possibly be blamed for whatever happens as a result of this if he remains in the dark? On the other hand, Miranda did send us out as a pair – we’re meant to look out for each other. Surely, that includes being made aware of a potential instrument of our damnation (or salvation, pick your poison – they both work)? More importantly, if something was to go wrong, and it did come to using the gun, would I trust myself to do it?

I hated how practical this debate sounded in my head. It reminded me, somehow, of both my mum and Miranda at once. But those were the only two possibilities that night.

With a sigh, I took him by the arm, tugging on it to come closer to me. He took the hint, huddling as we hugged the wall near the main door, just off to the side where the shadows prevailed against the merciless streaks of light. Slowly opening the bag, I pulled the metallic box just above the other parcels (without fully removing it from within), carefully pressed on the locks in the right place, and, with a click, pried it open just enough to show what’s inside. As he leaned against me, both for warmth and visibility, I saw Archie squint to see better through the shadows, struggling for a brief moment; but there was no mistaking the instance he finally understood what he was looking at it.

“No fuckin-” Archie’s eyes widened wildly as he almost shouted, catching himself to switch back to whispering, “No fucking way? Why do you have a gun?!”

“It’s not mine!” I shooed at him, my teeth clenched, checking behind us as nonchalantly as possible while I pressed on the box and closed the bag. The police’s oblique helmets were nowhere to be seen in the white storm ravaging the courtyard, “Do you honestly think I’d want to bring a fucking gun to the job?”

“I don’t know, you are Xxxxxxx,” I couldn’t tell if he was joking or serious, but the jab – admittedly, self-applied at times – at a national stereotype was both unwelcomed and terribly mistimed. As he pulled away towards the entrance, once more looking over his shoulder at the gate, he breathed deeper, as if to collect himself, “Is this… the ‘security measure?’”

“Yes,” I joined him under the lamp, “Miranda gave it to me the same night we met at the protest.”

“And have you used it?”

“No; not planning on either.”

“Good- Well,” Archie’s face suddenly shifted, a terrible idea festering behind his eyes, “No, forget it. Although,” he clearly had some debate going on within his mind, “Do you want me to hold on to it?”

The thought from earlier returned: could I trust myself to use it, worst comes to worst? Could I trust Archie to do the same?

“I think I’ll hold on to it for now. But,” I tapped the bag lightly, “I wanted you to be aware where it’s at and how to get to it, should the need arise.”

“Noted,” he paused, as if considering something, his face unexpectedly relaxing into a fading smirk of gratitude, “Thank you, for telling me – I don’t know if I’d do the same in your shoes, but I appreciate the trust,” I nodded back, as if it was a perfectly ordinary thing to be thanked for. At once, Archie’s face morphed back to its usual, smug-tainted self, “And don’t worry, I’ll just do the song and dance for these guys again on the way out – just, maybe, push it more to the bottom?”

“Good idea.”

“Well, it is mine, so it has to be,” he smiled insufferably, “Alright, well, no time to lose. Let’s see if I still remember the code to get in.”

“Shouldn’t we just buzz the apartments directly?”

“You could,” he nodded as his trembling fingers punched the numbers into the electric doorman, “But it’s a bloody maze; I’ll explain more once we’re out of this blizzard. We’re definitely better off getting in first, figuring out our bearings, and-” with a low-toned beep, the mechanism creaked, peeling the door back from the magnet holding the doorframe together at the top, “Ha, still got it!” he gestured his hand, welcoming me in, “After you, good sir.”

9:15 pm
As we hurriedly cleared the short entryway, shielding ourselves from the piercing ice of the blizzard, I was expecting a regular, narrow lobby of a residential building, however expansive it may have been – the dime and dozen in our line of work, inevitably blending together into one brown-and-orange mush. Instead, I was faced with an overwhelming prospect: the lobby was more akin to an open concrete warehouse illuminated with yellow LED lamps, some half a football field long. Up ahead, in the middle, the light tones shifted to blue, which, when instinctively approached (as did I), revealed a sight like no other. Floor after floor, stretching all the way to the sky, hidden by the blizzard and locked behind a glassy skylight, plants of all different varieties – from lilies and dandelions, figs and occasional cacti, to ivies and chrysanthemums, poppies and lavenders – lined the walls, the crevasse, and pathways, wherever you looked. So outlandishly impossible was the sight, I didn’t even notice, just to the side on the right, a mighty oak tree, its branches stretching past the corridors of the first floor, its shade providing ample cover for anyone seeking shelter as they enter. Accordingly, the source of blue-slash-violet light – the UV lamps – were scattered throughout the support beams of the building, their quiet hum signalling the busy process of maintaining (as unobtrusively for the human residents as possible) the life of the plants across the building.

For a moment, it really seemed like nothing – not the wind or the frost from the outside, nor the corroding forces of industrial progress – could disturb this harmonious peace. For a moment, it even seemed like a future like this was still not beyond our reach.

“Wow,” was all I could say, staring in disbelief. It really did feel like a dream, to be in this impossible structure, made so not because eco-brutalism wasn’t attempted before, but rather because someone would care enough to actually continuously ensure this building’s ability to maintain a healthy balance amongst all its inhabitants.

“I know,” Archie threw back, approaching me, “It’s quite the sight, isn’t it? I’ve been here a million times, and it’s still doesn’t get old.”

“But how do they afford all of this? This is a greenhouse – literally and figuratively!” Archie shrugged in response.

“I am no scientist. Something-something, photosynthesis-assisted-spaces; something-something, right-place-right-time for a project like that, and now no one dares to even try and get rid of it,” I didn’t see him (how could I look at anything but all this greenery!), but I audibly heard him smirk, “Impressive what a couple hundred people can do when organised, eh? Come on,” he tapped my shoulder forcefully, “I’m aware how great this looks, but clock’s ticking,” he was, sadly, right, so I forced my eyes away from the nauseatingly impressive display back to the ground, as Archie stepped up to one of the bulky grey pillars with a faded copper plaque on it.

Itched onto it was, what I assumed, a broad outline of the building’s first three floors: the square-shaped middle section, starting from the lobby, and two L-shaped annexes connected to it, with only one additional floor to them (so, in sum, almost a П-shaped building). Although the light made it more difficult to discern, compared to the traditional electric displays that were more usual in our line of work these days, it was strangely pleasant to work with a physical, imperfect, aging map for a change. 

“So, we’re here,” Archie pointed to the middle square, “I think it will make the most sense for us to work our way from the bottom and to the top, rather than running back and fourth?”

“Agreed,” I nodded, extracting my S-Pad and checking the address registry, “What’s your ‘lowest’ address?”

“Hang on,” Archie followed my example, his hands still shaky from the cold, “Fourteen-oh-six… One-oh-seven… Ah, found it! I have twenty-three, ground floor, in the-” he looked up at the plaque again, “West annex, to my left. You have anything that way?”

“I don’t believe so,” I scrolled through the addresses, “My lowest is one-oh-one, followed by one-ten and one-fifteen.”

“Ah, mate, all those are in the East annex, first floor,” he tapped the plaque again, “No biggie, let’s split up; I’ll go get mine done as quickly as possible, then I’ll regroup with you in this central area on the first floor, yeah?”

“Sounds like a plan,” I nodded, “Which way’s the lift?”

“Just there in the corner,” he pointed off to my right, in the middle-and-back of the inner lobby sanctum, “Same as stairs, since you’ve asked.” 

9:41 pm
Contrary to my expectations from how the night was going at that point, the first two doors I knocked on ended up being our “bog-standard” deliveries: tired eyes, uninterested looks, barely noticeable presence of the person on the receiving end. Although, one thing of note did stick out – the hastiness, the unmasked, blatant desire to just get it over with. Admittedly, our job was hardly comforting to our clients, and the desire to sign your delivery receipt and get back to whatever it is they were doing was understandable; yet, after almost a year of warmth, banter, and even occasional connection, it was still harsh to have a door slammed into your face without even a “thank you.” It was even as if the concrete walls of the residential block, enveloped in the warm yellow and purple of the LEDs, seeped disdain at me, egging the unwanted, bothersome guests to leave this garden of tranquillity. I suppose, if it was on any evening that I should be a bother, it would be the one with the worst blizzard of the century yet.

By the time I got to door 115, I was dragging my heels; the initial euphoria of the impossible greenery of the central atrium dissipated, and I was reminded of my bothersome place in the society. With those unwelcomed thoughts, after briefly confirming the address, I searched for the electric doorman that was the norm for every other apartment of the building, only to discover a weathered plastic doorbell instead. A weird feeling of not-quite nostalgia overwhelmed me for a moment, culminating in a brief yet defined whiplash of a long-lost childhood memory, one that I preferred to not dwell on further and simply ring the doorbell. Behind the doorway, something that sounded like a reverbed sound of a bird chirp rolled through the rooms, followed by slow, measured shuffling of feet towards me. I stepped back, doing my usual song and dance of professionalising my appearance, clearing my throat, and unearthing the designated parcel, and froze, the cold concrete sticking like glue to my feet. 

As the leather-covered door creaked open, I was greeted by someone who I would’ve never have thought to be amongst our clientele: an elderly gentleman, decades – indeed, lifetimes – older than me. His hands, frail and weathered from time, somehow still retained their elegance, like those of a pianist or violoncellist, holding a hardbound, crimson-coloured book. Grey cardigan on his shoulders, carefully woven and lovingly held together by its bulky threads, seemed a size too big for him, a wrongly measured gift of care that made him appear smaller despite his height. A pair of thick glasses, alongside the balding head and grey hairs of the beard, completed the sage-like appearance.

“Yes?” he asked, voice low, tone measured, a smidge of accent I couldn’t quite place that remained throughout – perhaps in spite of – the years.

“Delivery for,” I checked the registry, “Eugh-clid?”

“Ah!” his face shifted, a warm smile resurfacing his dimples, “That delivery, of course! ‘Euclid’ would be me,” I handed him the parcel, which he gently placed alongside his own book right under his arm, and the S-Pad for the signature, “Been awhile since I have ordered from your fine establishment, but you are just in time.”

“Mhm,” I nodded quietly, sensing a shiver run through my spine at the gust of wind that seemingly came out of nowhere. Where could it have possibly come from?

“There, all done,” Euclid handed me back the S-Pad, striking me out of my stupor, “Would you care for some tea for the road? It’s a terror of a night outside, and you are already shaking like a leaf.”

“I, uh,” after the last two deliveries, such straightforwardness came unexpected. Not to mention, I was on a much, muchstricter clock than usual – an offer for some tea, most of the time, was a welcomed opportunity for a reset in the middle of an otherwise exhausting routine. That night, though, I was perfectly aware that I had just over two hours left – not to mention, Archie would be waiting for me somewhere back at the main annex of the building. Put simply, there was just not enough time, “I would love to, but I really need to get going, sir. Thank you for the offer, though, and have a great rest of your night.”

“Alas, a shame, but I understand,” there was a tint of sadness to his eyes as he said that, but only for a brief, blink-and-you-miss-it moment, “Could I trouble you, though, to please tell Samuel I said hello? You can just use my pseudonym; he’ll know who you’re talking about.”

I couldn’t help my head from jerking back at him as he said that. There was no way it could be the same Sam I thought of; and yet, the truth was there was simply no way it could’ve been anyone but the same Sam.

“You know Sam?” I asked, as nonchalant as possible.

“Sure! Terribly intelligent guy, great conversationalist – he’d always bring me my parcels and stop by for a quicky cup of tea,” he affixed his glasses, “Haven’t seen him in a while, sadly –must be a busy season for you all.”

“Something like that,” I couldn’t help myself – I was too intrigued at that point. It wasn’t strange for some of our customers to be ‘regulars’ (not to brag or anything, but we were diligent and unique in our services, compared to the competition); yet it was strange to see the same customer on a regular basis. After all, the algorithm governing our shifts was randomised; I am no mathematician, but the odds of the very occurrence he described seemed neigh impossible to me, “He’s a friend of mine.”

“Ah,” Euclid nodded his head with glee, “Any friend of Samuel is a friend of mine,” he shifted in place from one leg to the other, the weight of living pressing down from above the ribcage, “You sure I cannot interest you in some tea?”

“Oh, why the hell not,” I snappily responded without much consideration – I could hardly contain myself, “A cup won’t hurt,” the man, evidently pleased, stepped to the side to let me in.

Directed inside, I made my way through the dark hallway into the living room at the end of it. Upon entry, the room beamed with what I can only describe as ‘controlled chaos:’ leaning towers of books – old and weathered on top of pristine new prints, and vice versa – created very real impenetrable walls throughout the room, guiding the visitor towards the transparent door out to the balcony; a leather armchair, covered with a hand-crocheted blanket, stood idly in the corner by a bookcase (the presence of which struck me as absurd and almost redundant, given the state of the room); a dimly lit desk by the window, overlooking the snowed-in front yard where the blizzard still raged on, hosted an old, worn-out black laptop, surrounded by even more books, pamphlets, documents, a sense of overcrowded messiness looming above it all; across the walls, in various shapes and sizes, a collection of paintings and photos, most of Euclid with a woman of the similar age, sometimes with another, younger woman standing with them, all smiles; underneath, in the middle, a strange empty spot where, I guess, a couch used to be, providing a minor – but appreciated – extent of breathing space; atop the windowsill, a black cat with sporadic white patches napped peacefully; next to it, a slightly rusted menorah completed the room’s modest yet striking décor.

“Pardon the mess, but feel free to sit anywhere. I’ll get the tea,” Euclid threw to me from the hallway, disappearing into a side room with orange light weakly spilling on the floor, “Any preferences?” he asked, slightly louder than before.

“Anything but green!” I threw back, tiptoeing around the books towards the desk. I wasn’t sure if taking the armchair in the corner was appropriate, but taking the desk chair felt even more invasive. In the end, I positioned myself in the empty space where – supposedly – the couch used to be, leaning against the wall. My eyes darted around the room, as if searching for something, eventually meeting the piercing green eyes of the now awakened cat. Despite my rude disturbance, it didn’t seem to mind my presence. All the same, I couldn’t help but feel exposed.

“Oh,” Euclid, holding a tray with two porcelain cups, chuckled from the door, “Seems you’ve met Kafka. Don’t worry, she’s a good cat – if you’re nice,” he effortlessly glided through the room, as if every step was a learnt part of some elaborate choreography, every wall of books less of an obstacle and more of an accessory that enhanced his stride, “Please, sit!” he nodded towards the armchair, “I’ll take the desk.”

“Thank you,” I clumsily made my way to it, almost tripping up on a volume called ‘Twilight-ism: Essays and Poems of Thatcher Years, 1979-1999,’ before finally settling down. As I did, Euclid handed me my cup – it was just the right degree of warm, a testament to the learned and far from given skill of hospitality, “Thanks again.”

“Ah, don’t mention it – that’s but a simple breakfast blend, just as Samuel took it. Hope you don’t mind. Milk, sugar – honey?”

“That’s okay, don’t trouble yourself,” sugar would’ve been nice, but I didn’t want to be a bother. He nodded, taking a second to give Kafka a gentle brush, before taking a sip of his tea. Silence enveloped the room, only broken up by the angry, forceful bashes of the wind outside, alongside my realisation that I really did not think this one through.

“It’s beautiful,” I nodded towards menorah on the windowsill, trying to make some, any conversation, to fill the void. 

“Ah that old thing,” he smiled, mostly to himself, “Haven’t used it in years. My wife, she was the one to take religion seriously, but that’s in the past now. Still,” he took a sip, without letting his gaze drift away from the window, “It is beautiful.” 

“Is she…” I didn’t want to be intrusive, but there wasn’t a way to ask without it being so at least somewhat. Euclid, noticing my hesitancy, shook his head with a bittersweet smirk.

“It’s alright, the past is the past.”

“I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“And you didn’t – I brought Maggie up. Which, to be fair, she is kind of hard not to; day in day out, I am reminded that she’d never allow this,” he waved his hand around, evidently proud of himself. His hand stopped for a moment on a volume titled ‘A Long Winter in Berlin: How the Continental Revolt of ‘92 Failed.’

“I think it’s kinda nice,” I confessed both to move the conversation along and because it was the truth – there was undeniable charm to the chaos enveloping the room, even if the pre-arranged positioning of the books was less of a design and more of an aftereffect of an attempt at order, “I always wanted a library, but most of my books are back home.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it in your age – kids your age are overburdened as is with university texts,” he smirked, “But once you’re out, there is no excuse. Or so I tell my students, anyhow.”

“You’re a professor?”

“Far too grand; these days, I am just a teacher,” he picked up, as if out of nowhere, a badge (hidden behind ‘The New Empires of the 21^st Century,’ which I actually did read for a course once!) with his face on it, just underneath the name of, what I assumed, one of the Capital’s many schools, “High schoolers, though sometimes I get invited to do a lecture or two in the university I used to tenure in, but nothing too world-changing, if you can believe that.”

“You were tenured? I thought it was a life-long post?”

“Aren’t you just a curious young man?” I felt my cheeks redden, embarrassed at my straightforwardness, but Euclid clearly was having a great time egging me on, “I can see how you and Samuel were friends – he was such an erudite, always asked questions, just as you are –albeit in a slightly subtler way.”

“About that, actually,” an opening finally presented itself – I intended to seize it, “Where did you know Sam from?”

“That curious, huh?”

“No, it’s just- It’s quite the coincidence, don’t you think?” 

“Ah, yes, this small world of ours! As I said earlier – he would always bring me parcels from your fine establishment,” Euclid shrugged, leaning back into his chair to pick up a toppled over copy of ‘Ego and the Myth of Self: The Loneliness and Isolation in Contemporary Britain,’ before returning to his cup, “But, I did meet him once before, maybe a couple of years back, at a speaker event I was doing. Not my proudest moment, that one,” Kafka jumped off her windowsill into Euclid’s lap, relaxed but ever alert. He gave her a couple of loving strokes behind the ears, continuing, “It was about the current education’s approach to Britain’s multi-ethnic composition, which I thought was horridly misguided and contributed to the unrest down South, near the border – you remember how bad those were couple of years back, don’t you?” I nodded. I don’t want to get into too many details (I’ll likely get censored anyway), but let’s just say the army had to step in at some point, “Well, the faculty tried to talk me out of it, but I persisted – and paid for it, in ego if nothing else, because turnout – and the news coverage that followed – was atrocious. But,” he raised his finger dramatically, “Samuel was there, and he approached me afterwards with more questions. So, we got to talking – he was so curious about it all, full of genuine thirst of knowledge. Ah, if only every student was like him…” Euclid was slipping away into daydream, and I didn’t dare to interrupt – I was already treading a fine line – but then he went quiet for a considerable time, so I had to chip in again.

“So, he would just come here and… talk to you?”

“Hm? Oh, sure!” Euclid jerked his head, as if being shaken awake from deep slumber, “I mean, I heard it isn’t that unusual for you – eight hours for, what, five deliveries a night?”

“Sometimes more,” I hid my eyes – when he put it like that, it did seem rather lax, but I promise you most deliveries were more demanding than these.

“I do not mean that as an insult – it is difficult, for both you kids and old wisecracks like me, to socialise these days,” by then, Kafka moved on from Euclid’s lap onto the bookshelf, almost knocking over a first edition of ‘Migration in a Post-Internationalist Legal World’ – a slim volume, fresh off the presses – and began surveying me from above, “Plus, as much as I love her, Kafka is hardly a substitute to real people – let alone, academics like Samuel, who I can talk about my expertise with – so I very much did welcome the company.”

“What is your expertise then, exactly?” I figured a pivot would be useful in my attempt to not come off as too keen. I couldn’t quiet place then, just why I was being as cautious in my conversation with Euclid as I was, but a part of me felt that I was discovering a side of Sam I hardly knew before, like a well-kept secret that was out in the open only minutes ago, and I wished to do everything I could to not stumble over myself in its pursuit. 

“These days, it’s mostly History,” there was a certain bittersweetness to his words, a longing for glories of yesteryear, a realisation of how far he has come – and how much was left behind, “But I cannot help and do a little more than just teach History.”

“How so?” the pieces were falling into place – Sam was a historian, in the truest sense of the word, and even as a simple undergrad, he took the craft with care and diligence you’d expect of a doctorate candidate. It was hardly surprising then, that just as I seemed unable to avoid conversations and encounters with people in whom I saw parts in myself, Sam was drawn to this old, sage-like figure of an academic – because of course he was. At the same time, Sam was not the kinda guy who would do a PhD; he was practical, hands-on, and although a chat every so often about the topic would, undoubtedly, be a thrill, I sensed something else going on.

“Well, let me ask you a counterquestion,” Euclid suddenly shifted in posture, growing in size at least twofold, eyes piercing into my soul, “What do you think the purpose of history – or History, the discipline – is?”

“Uh,” I dug my brain, looking for an appropriately nuanced answer befitting a true academic, “To teach the past so we may inform the present?”

“Admirable answer, but too narrow,” Euclid stood up, heading directly for the bookshelf behind him. Momentarily, after a concerningly brief search, he unearthed a big, red tome, gold letters spelling out ‘The Unwritten Past: On History, Reality, and Hope.’ The author’s name, seemingly, has been omitted (or, rather, scratched out, with poorly covered up marks in the tome’s cover itself), “This book – well, I can’t exactly give you a full rundown, as it is illegal to do so – but it shows that the point is, much more ambitious,” he moved up to me, eyes transfixed on the book, seemingly ignoring the chair in his way, his whole body elevating itself a few inches higher, “You are right in saying that we learn the past to inform the present – and yet, the present keeps getting worse. We tell ourselves, ‘surely, this time, it will be different?,’ and it simply never is.

“No, my friend, history has a deeper point than that. The way we – and I mean ‘we’ as a society – normally talk of the past is akin to a novel: it’s only ever a half-truth, carefully constructed and told, and it outlives its purpose the moment a new edition is printed; what only yesterday we have known as facts is omitted, or rewritten, or simply discarded like it was never there. The discipline of history is the remedy, the filling of that other half: when one commits himself to it, he discovers much more than mere patterns of repetition; rather, he sees the past – and himself in it – as a living, breathing phenomena, and takes something truly unique out just for himself. And rarely will it inform the present, but it, often, will allow us to understand what happened and how the challenges described were navigated by people striving, just as we do, for change. For, what is more human than a study of similar – or, sometimes drastically different – experiences of other humans in their own contexts?

“You must take this with a grain of salt, however – I am but an old academic living out the twilight days of my career, and even many of my experienced peers disagree,” a hint of bittersweet regret in his voice, “But, if I had to give a simple answer, I would say that History is a jigsaw, loaded with immense responsibility – indeed, duty – for those that undertake the task of assembling it to inform, inspire, and sustain our collective hope for change. Nothing else has been a constant in history but that desire, that ever burning passion of human spirit, for things to be different, to be better than they were yesterday, no matter the cost. And that is the lesson that I hope my students to take away – a lesson Samuel especially understood quite well,” he paused then, as if having ran out of fuel, posture shifting back to something much more grounded a human once again. He hid his eyes for a moment, looking around and transfixing, only for a moment, on a volume named ‘Out-Laws: “Extremist” Movements and Government Subversion in the 21^st Century,’ before finally returning to the chair and setting himself down in front of me.

“That’s a good way to look at it,” it sounded all too familiar, and I could hardly contain myself in remembering Sam’s impassionate speeches on the subject, “And I do agree with your reading of history, but isn’t that… a lot for high schoolers?”

“Quite the contrary,” he answered lazily, as if this was a question he got asked on the daily, “I think something as important as belief and consideration of change – especially as it pertains to history – should be something to inspire from a young age. Sure, there will be better inspirations later: an ideology can make the social wrongs apparent; a good story can set them aflame in passions; an inspiring leader can make the zeal of change inescapable; but only history, at least in my experience, will provide them with comfort – and, indeed, certainty – of all those things coming to fruition being an inevitable reality rather than a fleeting daydream,” he paused, as if deciding to correct course momentarily, “Do you not feel it too?”

“Feel what?”

“That tingling sensation of change, the tension in the air, the history of it all?”

“You mean the recent protests?”

“Of course, but beyond them – the small grinding of the gears and the processes of our world shifting, day-in-day-out, the smaller revolutions of every person on the street? Does it not fascinate you – or, at the very least, make you endlessly wonder – how each one of us, reacting oh so differently to whatever’s going on the street, will be one day judged and regarded as a source?”

In a way, I did feel it; that small acknowledgement, in every person met and passed by, that their own world was never quite standing still, was hard to escape – if anything, it was easy to drown in at times; that beyond my interaction with them, a whole process – one which I could never understand nor fully grasp – was underway; that each story – however miniscule – mattered to something to someone. But to see it as history – or History, capitalised – was a little much for my brain to comprehend, at least insofar as the grander narrative of it all was concerned. And yet, here I am doing the same thing with this little story I am writing for you; what a way to oust myself as a hypocrite?

“I do,” I finally responded, taking another sip of tea, “At least to an extent, I do see what you mean,” Euclid’s face lit up, the same way my own teachers’ faces lit up whenever a particularly daunting concept was finally within reach of the class, “But I struggle to think of how it fits into… History, of it all, I suppose – as a continued thing, you know?”

“That’s the puzzle, isn’t it,” he chuckled, reaching for some other book on his desk, before haphazardly pulling his hand away at the last moment, “It is one thing to demonstrate, from the teaching perspective, how all these times change has happened to other people; it is quite a different ask to inspire those you are teaching that they are no different,” his face dropped then, from a hopeful grin to a sombre grimace, “Not to mention, how to do it fairly and concisely, to not push a ‘narrative’ on them, as I have already been accused of doing.”

“I am guessing Sam had an idea?” I tried to dig deeper.

“He never told you?”

“It was never much of a conversation topic for us,” I couldn’t quite hide the regret in my voice with that last note, “And I never felt fully qualified for something so high-brow.”

“Huh,” he scratched his beard, “Suddenly, it’s starting to make a little more sense, that friendship of yours,” I didn’t quite know, what he meant by that – not then nor do I still – but I decided to not bother interrupting, “Well, I cannot say what he thought before our lengthy arguments spent here. But, be it under my influence or not, he did let it slip that he, and I am paraphrasing here, thought we would never know until it happens to us; that is, nobody feels the weight of history, the judgement of generations yet unborn, the degree of power he wields, until he picks up the banner of hope himself and does something in its cause. I suppose, he thought the judgement of fairness was a matter of historical inquiry; the matter of history itself, why, that was a matter of hope, of belief, and of action.”

I couldn’t say I was surprised – Sam was always one of those rare people who believed nothing was impossible, not least ‘the right thing,’ and that all it took was to accept the plunge and take your odds on something you believed. Many a night were wasted on this debate back in uni, especially whenever poli-sci students were involved. Unabashed and unashamed, Sam would call them cowards for falling in line for wishing to work in government, for, as he saw it, towing the line in the face of injustice imposed on us by the conditions we inhabited. Despite such harsh words, his zeal was infectious, his convictions – clad in righteousness and desire for something better. In retrospect, it was hardly surprising he led the unionisation efforts, and even less surprising he found a kindred spirit in Euclid.

And still, I couldn’t deny that it made it more upsetting to realise he didn’t think of me as an equal in that regard: beyond those little spats in my first two years at school, we rarely talked in terms as loaded as “hope.” Perhaps it was mercy; perhaps it was unwillingness to sour the relationship between us; perhaps, somewhere along the way, I became less of a friend and more of a colleague. In the end, it did not make me feel better however one decided to look at it.

“That boy was one passionate devil, that much is certain,” Euclid suddenly broke the silence, tone full of reminisce and wistfulness “I don’t mean to sound rude, but do you know when he might be returning to work?”

“I am not sure,” I said after a brief pause. I didn’t want to get into the whole story of him being out of town at such a strange time and how long it’s been since we last spoke.

“Did he quit?” despite his best effort, a hint of worry fell off his lips as he said it.

“Not quite, he’s just… away, for now,” was the most I could muster.

“Ah, a shame – I’m sure he, of all people, would be in awe of everything happening in our little town. Do tell him I said hi, would you?”

“I will,” I paused, looking down at my cup, meagre remains of the tea at the bottom forming stain patterns I neither understood nor cared to try and discern, “Can I ask you something?”

“You just did,” he smiled. Admittedly, I walked into that one, “Yes, of course you can.”

“It’s been something I always wondered with Sam, too,” I mulled over my words, as if I’d never get a chance to ask this question ever again, “It shows where me and him differ, but I’ve thought about it quite a lot recently,” I cleared my throat, “I understand the desire for change, and striving for hope, but what good is any of it if it just… goes nowhere?” 

“How do you mean?”

“I guess,” I couldn’t help myself at that point, “I guess I’m wondering- I guess I’m afraid. I’m afraid to take a chance on things, to stake a claim that I know can backfire, to give hope a shot. I feel as if I have too much at stake as is, and the risk- The risk is just not worth it, you know? Isn’t it better to just let things be as they are, and try and do good where you can? Isn’t it safer, not to not hope, but to temper my expectations, at least as far as ‘tomorrow’ goes?”

Euclid went quiet, puzzling over my words for a moment. I could feel Kafka’s judging gaze staring me down, making me wonder if I made a mistake spilling my guts over something like this – to a stranger, no less, to whom I had, at best, one degree of separation. And yet, it felt nice to get that thought of the system – as nagging as it was over the last month – hell, last decade – to someone outside of my personal circle.

“I want to preface this by saying that this is not a universal answer, as you might have guessed by now,” he sat up straight, “To my end, I have been called an optimist way too many times to at least regard it with some self-awareness. Yet it is the same answer I give my students,” he cleared his throat, his academic posture filling his old bones, “It is true that history is filled with hopes that were dashed, just as it is filled with those that came to fruition. Inherently, it is a gamble. But – again, if you were to ask me – is life not a gamble, too? I mean, consider my Maggie,” consciously or not, he waved towards the menorah at the window, “One day she’s fine; next she wakes up and finds out she has a year to live; and then she’s just not there anymore. And yet she rose, every day, with assumption that she would get better; every day, she welcomed as a new opportunity for her history to take a turn, to end up in a better place than she was a day ago. What good would not hoping do for her, or for me, if I am being selfish?” he paused, eyes running wildly around the room. The right words, as they so often are, seemed to escape him. He stayed like that a moment before continuing again.

“I don’t mean to sound delusional, but so much of my life has been an exercise in hope – for myself, and for the better world. There were good days, where I saw humanity come together in the tiniest moments of splendour and genuine love; and there were bad days, where I felt my hands sink to unthinkable lows,” he paused, sighing, “It’s hard not to think, at times, that the best we can do as a specie is tribalism. That hatred of one another, somehow, is a natural consequence of being, well,” he smiled awkwardly, shoulders shrugged, “Us, you know?” he considered the liquid in his cup, blowing on it (despite it being quite a bit less than room temperature by now), finally giving it a sip, “But I can’t not hope; just as Maggie couldn’t not hope that she would get better, I can’t wake up each day and go to my students with the belief that all they are studying, all that they aspire to do, and all the hopes they have of things changing, is futile. Because, if I do, what’s the point in getting out of bed at all?”

“A job?” I unnecessarily answered his rhetorical question, a wave of shame crashing over me as soon as the words escaped my mouth.

“Ha! Not at my age,” at least Euclid seemed to have taken it in stride, “No, my friend; there simply isn’t a point otherwise,” he longingly looked at Kafka, who by then had decided to take another nap on the bookshelf, “What I am saying is, it’s okay to be cautious, realistic even. But to not hope at all is to submit to despair in such a way one forfeits his humanity. As history teaches us, humans are foolish, and that’s just fine by me. After all, what can be more human than to foolishly believe – even in the face of mounting pessimism – that things can get better?” he smiled, regarding me for a moment, “I suppose, our mutual friend’s point about seizing that desire, and being the master of your own history, that’s just the next step. Hope, well, it is but that drive’s beginning,” as he finished, he checked his wristwatch, his eyes widening slightly, “I believe I’ve kept you long enough – pardon me for indulging in such a self-interested exercise.”

“Not at all,” I checked my phone – I really should have left by then – as I began getting up, navigating my way around stacks of books again, “Thank you for the tea.”

“Thank you for listening,” he smiled gently, pointing to the side and letting me pass, “Oh, almost forgot,” he picked up the tome with its author scratched-out, the red cover seemingly pulsating in the seams, golden letters, “Would you give this to Sam when you have the chance? He gave me this as a little extra request, said I would need to return it eventually, and I think enough time had passed.”

“He gave it to you as a ‘request?’” now that I definitely needed to hear.

“Why yes! I was told your fine establishment carried books from beyond the Wall sometimes, and it just so happened that this tome was banned both there and here, so I-

[REMOVED]

 THIS SECTION HAS BEEN MARKED AND INTENTIONALLY LEFT BLANK BY THE ORDER OF RCC AND THE NATIONAL SECURITY COMMITTEE

“Stay warm out there!” and with those words, I was on the outside again, in that empty hallway, wind wallowing and raging against the windows and the walls of the structure that has stubbornly kept it at bay for as long as they had.

I could try and knock on the door again, to ask for a more elaborate explanation of everything I’ve just heard, or at least try and dig deeper about my best friend, about the side of him I was now properly seeing for the first time in years, but of course I didn’t. A convenient excuse would be to say I had a job to do – and I did – but, truth be told, a pit inside my stomach was begging me to get away from here and simply not think further about it, at least not tonight.

Starting the walk back, I checked my phone. It was almost half-ten, and my screen was flooded with messages from Archie, asking as to where I was. The latest one simply read:

“@ 1406. Don’t take too long!” five minutes ago. I supposed I should’ve hurried up.

10:33 pm
After a small bump along the road (first floor elevator, turns out, has been conveniently hidden behind a slightly overgrown vine), I made my way up to the fourteenth floor. Walking through the narrow hallway, doing my best not to look down into the open chasm in the middle as I gawked at the fauna around me, purple UV rays travelling along the walls and pillars, I finally reached the door 1406. Opposite of it, atop the concrete railing – the only safety measure preventing one from plunging to the abyss below – a small flowerpot, carefully upkept, stood. Bare and unprotected by any glass, bloody red, daffodil-like flowers (carnations, I think?), mixed with a few white lilies, defiantly bloomed under a simple yellow glow of a terrarium lamp, haphazardly wired to stand just above them. Despite the overwhelming vegetation on display, there was something undeniably unique about this red-and-white pot, but I wouldn’t be able to tell you just what it was – sometimes, a nice display is all it takes to feel as if you were somewhere else altogether.  

It took me a second to notice, but the door into the apartment was slightly ajar. Whether it was Archie’s attempt to give me a sign of sorts, or a genuine mistake, but I took it as invitation. Sure, I probably should have continued with my deliveries – I still had two to do – but an innate need within me beckoned to check that Archie was okay, at least visually.

On the inside, I found myself in a similar corridor to Euclid’s apartment, except this one had a considerably higher ceiling. It looked like an old, pre-war apartment you would find on the continent, maybe in Vienna or Paris – one of those old cities where all the best academics and artists seemed to have been either exiled to or where they, at one point or another, found refuge. At the end of the corridor, a fork – to the left, a white, locked doorway; to the right, another ajar door, warm orange light, shuffles and murmurs, dancing shadows of it all beckoning from within.

Before proceeding, I decided to look around, and indeed: on the floor, alongside multiple, stacked on top of each other pairs of boots and sneakers, Archie’s messenger bag, eerily identical to mine. Next to the pile of shoes, a dressed with slim legs of polished wood, with various effects and something that looked like a folded napkin. It was dark, and I was unable to see properly, but something about it colour combination, seemingly red and black, seemed familiar; and yet, be it by choice or by innate reaction of something deeper in my brain, it avoided me at that moment. Just above it, a little basket, filled with phones and various other electronic, uncaringly thrown together like an unfinished salad. Right underneath the dresser, a black gym bag, filled with… something. I gave it a slight kick from curiosity, barely holding back a hiss as I did – it was filled to the brim with something heavy, hardened, metallic. With each passing second in that apartment, things became more and more worrying.

After a brief moment of hesitation, as every fibre of my body begged me to get back out into the inner sanctum and simply text Archie from there, I took a deep breath. Scanning the hallway and ensuring that no other light came from under any of the other doors along the way, I decided – once more, against my better judgement – to see what was happening in here for myself. There was an inescapable feeling of temptation in the air, and I was too powerless, too keen, to resist the curiosity, even if it promised nothing but my own doom in the long run.

Deciding against taking off my shoes, or even putting my bag down, I stalked towards the door with the light underneath, all the while gripping the harness as if my life depended on it. Drawing closer, the voices became more defined, betraying a sense of a casual conversation on the inside. A sense of déjà vu from the party earlier in the month overtook me, and the scene at the bathroom flashed before my eyes just as I expelled it from memory – it was not the time. I tried, in my head, absolutely hopelessly so, to decipher, just how many people was I intruding on, or at the very least to catch the one voice I would have recognised in the entire sea of conversations happening in there, growing louder with each step.

I didn’t even notice how fast I was at the door, squatting, ready to peer into the room. It felt as if hours had passed, but in reality, I must’ve made it across in under a minute, if that. Taking another deep breath, I gently pushed the door, peering into the living room.

A completely unremarkable living room was stacked with people, mostly young but a few visibly older, sitting in a semi-circle by the wall – I counted at least thirty, all bundled together, some having to give up their space on the chairs and the sofas. The two sources of light – low-hanged lamps in each corner – created a sense of stage despite the rooms modest size. It was a miracle I was able to see it through all the bodies bundled together into this tight space, as I could tell a few were standing mere inches away from the doorway I was now shameless spying through, but I could see the chair in the middle of it all. Sitting contently and waiting for everyone to settle down, a slightly older man – perhaps in his late twenties or early thirties – sat in the chair, hands wrapped around one knee. Dressed in a worn blue sweater, the kind that military used to wear a decade or so ago, his black hair ever so slightly betrayed his age by displaying an occasional grey streak (some of it, dyed over). His face, comparatively, betrayed very little, filled with nothing but pure patience and determination, the kind of face you’d imagine having stared death down more than. His presence seemed to have even tempered the wind outside, which was remarkably quiet despite the high floor we were on and the intensity with which one could hear it wail on the way up.

Yet, just behind the man, plastered across the window, I saw a familiar artefact.

A banner, as simple as it was distinct to me and every other citizen of the Capital: crimson red background, an orange half-sun in the middle, a newly added black line just under it.

That very same banner from the night all this began.  

The banner of the “Suns,” sprung across the window of the very room I was prying on.  

Momentarily, panic overtook my body; sweat, dangerously, loosened my grip on the door. What the hell have I stumbled upon? Was Archie in that room? Why was he here? How long have this meeting been going on? What was in the bag in the hallway? The headbands, what were those for? Why-

“O-kay then,” the man in the middle, his Northern accent seeping through despite the tone, began attentively, “Enough chit-chat. I know you all have thoughts, so let’s get on with it,” the air in the room shifted, as shuffles and murmurs dissipated, “Taking where we left off, does anyone – and if you are in this room, that really does mean anyone– have any concerns or qualms at all with what the plan is?” his eyes drifted across the room, piercing every person in sight. For a second, I was afraid he was going to stop on me, until, thankfully, a figure rose somewhere to my right, “Yes, Said?”  

“Lux,” a familiar silhouette from a different night stood out, rising to their feet – I didn’t need to guess who it was. Yet with the face obscured by the teal headscarf, all I could make out were their rugged sweater and delicate hands, “You’ll have to excuse me being blunt, but this is madness. You know we can’t do this,” murmurs across the room, some disapproving, others – with notes of genuine concern – followed.

“Quiet,” Lux – the man in the middle – raised his voice, shutting down the room again. To say that his presence was commanding would be an understatement, as even I – someone who technically wasn’t even in the room – felt the need to obey and be quieter than I already was, “This is precisely why I called this meeting, so I expect you to show respect to one another before we commit to a decision,” he cleared his throat, returning the gaze on Said, “That aside, comrade, I disagree. If anything, this is the only way we have left. We’ve tried your approach,” he raised his hand at them, as if attempting to diffuse a situation he foresaw as headed to the wrong direction, “And it worked – for a time, and to a point; but now, for better or for worse, it’s time we did something that’s been long overdue: escalate.”

“But we did already escalate,” they refused to back down, stepping up to the middle, the man in the chair – unmoved, “And look where that got us, someone throws a single Molotov, and we’ve already lost most – if not all – public support – even after we’ve disavowed it!”

“Said, you- we’ve been over this: you know we had to disavow it,” he parried, rubbing his eyes, “You and me both know that, if we didn’t say something, we – and pardon my French – would be fucked, legally speaking.”

“Alright, fuck legal then – between us, are you okay with this?” for the first time, I saw Said’s face again; they looked exhausted, as if they haven’t slept since the night the three of us ran from the police, “You’re okay with torching people – better yet, you want us to do it more?”

“Not all people, Said, we are not terrorists; cops, however, do not count,” Lux said, coldly, without breaking away his eyes or moving a single muscle, “And if you think we’ll defeat fascism with words, why, just look what happened at Leicester, on the Parliament Square, or – hell! – in front of your own university the other night. I mean this in the nicest way possible, but unless your solution is to play dead and roll over, I would love to hear what other way out you see?” his eyes drifted to the back of the room for a second, “Yes, Patrick?”

“What about the border skirmishes last year?” came a young, hight-pitched voice from the back of the room.

“What about them?” Said turned around towards the speaker.

“We could do a hit-and-run like that again – less risky, innit?”

“No- you are not listening to me!” Said shook their head, clearly annoyed, “If we go through with this, they will kill us. The city’s already on lockdown, there are talks of the military rolling in, all other chapters have gone dark – we’ll just hand the government an excuse to crack down on us even harder!”

“Alright, hey, listen,” all heads turned towards the smug voice coming from the same direction Said emerged from minutes earlier. The red patch of hair was less of an affirmation and more of an addendum before I even saw Archie. I hate to admit it, but a warm, fuzzy feeling went me through my bones as I connected the dots that it was him speaking, “I understand that tensions are high, but we must keep a cool head here, yeah? Personally, I think Said has a point: this is risky, and I really think we should think this through, so why don’t we just-”

“I’m sorry, Archie, but I do not believe you’re qualified for this discussion,” Lux cut him off, his face shifting – just for a split second – into disgust, “You are barely a part of the movement as is – frankly, it’s a miracle you’re here at all.”

“Hey- don’t patronise me, I was on the barricades same as you!” Archie parried, a note of genuine hurt ringing through his voice, “Or is that no longer good enough for you? Am I not ‘the right kind of leftist’ anymore? Have we – finally! – reached the point where the Mister Luxemburg admits he’s a demagogue who couldn’t give a fuck about results?”

“Watch your mouth!” someone from near the door, to my left, shouts. A few others, in the middle, begin getting up, before Lux raises his hand again.

“Enough, all of you!” his voice drops on the room, like an iron hand of a true leader. Only silence follows, “Archie, I don’t know why Said trusts you so much, but I am willing to eat my words and accept that you’re not going anywhere. However, let me remind you that we are not here to dissect my rhetoric; we’re here to decide what is to be done. So, unless you’ve got something of substance to contribute, let us stop wasting each other’s time and cease this pointless debate.”

“Pointless? You- Tsk, whatever, man,” I’ve never seen Archie back down from a fight this easily before, and yet there it was, clear as day, as he sank back into his seat. Lux regarded the room for another moment, Said still standing near him, before continuing.

“Look, I know there are those of you here who doubt me – especially after the mess that was the Festival. I do not blame you for it, and I take responsibility for every one of our comrades arrested or killed – as you know, only a few weeks back, the first trial had started,” he lowered his hand, turning back over to Said, “I especially know how you feel about it all, my friend, and I appreciate your input on so many of my difficult decisions. But I ask that you – and all of you here who have the same opinion as this incredibly valuable member of our movement –trust me when I say I know what I suggest is not only right, but is necessary.”

“Lux, you-” Said began talking again, but Lux cut them off again, hand raised.

“Please, let me finish,” after a pause, they waived their hand, head lowered, “We’ve laid dormant for a year – a year, when we could have instead been coordinating, leading, imbedding ourselves into the social consciousness. Instead, we spent a year in infamy, in worry of doing, quote-unquote, ‘the right thing’ to win the public back. We’ve negotiated, we’ve secured union support, we’ve marched. Where has that gotten us? Back to square one,” he slowly got up, scanning the room over, then the banner, his back turned to the rest of the room.

“What we are seeing right now is something that has been painfully obvious for years: these people don’t need an excuse to demonise us or think of us as terrorists. Whatever we do, they will hate us, they will find a reason to paint us as unreasonable, and they will, to paraphrase you,” he nodded towards Said, locking eyes with them for a moment, before turning back to the room, “Try to kill us. They’ve done so again and again with our queer, immigrant, and other marginalised allies, murdering them in cold blood in alleyways and behind pubs, on buses, in broad daylight. They’ve done so with politicians who’d insomuch as show a slight bit of sympathy for the basic human decency we advocate for, just as they did with Carole Polonski back in 201X. They’ve done so with every single idea, person, group, anything and anyone who got in their way; of course they’ll try to do the same to every single one of us. If you think that makes me a demagogue,” he shot his eyes, full of restrained anger, towards where Archie was, “Then so be it. But when you are given evidence like this, when there is nothing – not a single thing – that you are given as a sign on the contrary, what good is there in being civil?” he caught his breath, as if trying to keep it together. The room stood silent.

“This may not be the thing any of you want to hear,” he shook his head as he continued, “And I understand that; believe me when I say do not wish to expose anyone to unnecessary danger. Nor do I wish to make it seem like this is an easy decision And you are correct in saying,” he turned ever so slightly towards Said, “That we do not have the public support we’d want. But public support is a matter of politics; it has rarely done any good for those fighting for real change.”

“Stephen, you are not hearing me,” Said seemed like they were about to cry, “To hell with public support, I understand your point there – but what of us? What about protecting each other, our community?”

“We keep each other safe. We have, we do, and we will. But none of us are safer in inaction.”

“It’s not inaction,” their voice broke as they dropped down to Luxemburg’s level, holding out for his hand, “I’m simply begging you, not- this. There must be another way, a different approach- fuck, anything, j-j-just- just… not this,” another uncomfortable silence.

“I wish there was,” Lux shook his head as he placed his hand on their shoulder, “Believe me, I do,” he paused, a sour grimace frozen on his lips, “But there really isn’t. You know this as well as I do. I’ve known you long enough to be sure of that, at least.”

Tension hung in the room. The slight whispers of the wind outside barely broke through to disturb it. A heavy realisation, like a plague, began spreading throughout the room, one that I knew too well: there was no more arguing to follow that night. Said, seemingly like there was something still lingering on their mind, held their gaze as long as they could, before turning back to the room and walking to their seat.

“Okay then,” Lux slapped his knees as they jittered, ever so slightly, the first bit of nervousness that I’ve seen from him finally seeping through, “All those against, or with any remaining concerns, raise your hand.”

A shuffle as a bundle of hands went up. Lux, quietly moving his head, counted to himself.

“Noted. All those in favour?”

A forest of hands arose in front of me, as a tight, queasy feeling overtook my body.

Lux couldn’t help but smile with a corner of his eye.

“Great. It’s settled then,” he breathed out, relieved, “But I don’t want those of you with concerns to be silenced; let’s take five and then hash it out before we get on with it. Oh,” he spoke upwards as he got up, “And, if anyone isn’t fully comfortable with this, take this as your opportunity to leave. I – nor anybody else – will judge, I promise,” quiet nods in response. Nothing more to be said. Raffling sound of people getting up.

Instantaneously, I sprang to my feet, hurrying back down the corridor as quietly as I could, without looking back. Once out the door, I pulled out my phone and sent Archie a text to notify him I was waiting in the walkway, where everything but the flower display seemed to have been permanently altered in the obscuring light of uncertainty. 

“Omw,” he shot back instantly.

11:06 pm
“Over here,” Archie beckoned as he opened the door leading to the fire escape staircase, covered with laminated bricks and plaster, only the hum of LED lamps accompanying us. Just by the platform leading downwards, an observation window stood, the storm raging on behind it, whistles of the wind blowing restlessly to be let in, futile. A few crumbled cigarettes on the floor, like a glimpse behind the façade, indicating we’ve found just the right place to escape to for a smoke break, “You got a cigarette I could bum?”

“Sure,” I said, as casually as I could, trying to hide the terrible mix of emotions festering within me, as we stepped up to the window. Somehow, it felt like Archie was doing the same thing, “You okay? Seemed to have taken a minute in there.”

“What, me? Yeah, just,” he paused, taking the cigarette out of my pack, looking for the right words, “Ran into an old friend – you remember Said? That was for them.”

“Oh, they still live here?” I did my best to feign surprise.

“I know, right? Anyway,” he leaned into the flame, tip of the cigarette lighting up to commemorate a brief moment of comradery and simple kindness, “They had a few of their friends over, we got into… a bit of spat.”

“That sucks,” I grimaced, doing my best once to not betray my knowledge of the exact kind of spat that happened mere minutes ago, “I’m sure it wasn’t that bad, or at least not as bad as you think it was?”

“Maybe,” Archie shrugged, “You never know with people, especially friends-of-friends.”

“I suppose,” I shrugged back. A palpable pause stood between us as I assessed if I should try and press him on it or just appreciate the fleeting moment of peace.

“Can I ask you something, Xxx?” Archie suddenly broke through the silence, without taking his eyes off the window. I reflexively nodded, taking a drag of my cigarette, “Do you think I’m mean- or, well, bad, as a person?”

That was a new one.

“No?” I tried to sound convincing. And I truly hope I did: it’s not that I thought otherwise, I just never really thought of Archie one way or another, overlapping attributes notwithstanding, “Why do you ask?”

“I guess I was doing some soul-searching and reflection, with everything going on,” he took a shaky inhale of his cigarette, pausing. Then, “Over the last few years – maybe, specifically, since last year – I feel as if I’ve grown meaner, harsher. I’m annoyed easier, I’m find myself being bitter, I get into fights with others- hell, half the time, I seek those fight outs. And there,” he nodded his head towards the main annex from where we came from, referring back to the apartment, “That spat, was another example, so it’s a little fresh.”  

“Okay,” I pondered, “Did you start that particular fight?”

“No. No, I didn’t start it, but I definitely escalated it, and I don’t think I had to.”

“Right,” I picked my words carefully, still under the assumption that I shouldn’t reveal the extent of my knowledge. My parents often told me one sleeps better knowing less, and this seemed like a situation where I should have kept my own awareness to a minimum, let alone further it, “You’re a lot of things, Archie, but I can’t imagine you said anything so bad it can’t be fixed. Besides, you probably didn’t mean it, if it was between friends?”

“Oh, no, I have,” he grimaced unpleasantly, “I meant every word I said. In fact, I only piped down because I didn’t want to make the fight bigger than it already was,” a chuckle, “That’s the worst kind of it, isn’t it – where you don’t want to make it worse, but you know what you’ve said is right. Or…” he stumbled on his words for a second, as if catching a lump in his throat, “Or at least you hope it is right, and you are convinced it is, you know?”

“Yeah,” I looked away, first to the floor and then through the observation window, searching for the right thing to say. In the distance, a few lights, probably of the government sector, broke through occasionally, only to be swallowed back up by the storm, “From my limited experience, I guess you’d have to decide what’s more important: being right but mean, or nice but going along with what’s wrong.”

“Were it ever so simple,” I heard Archie’s back hit the wall behind him, as he slid down to the floor setting himself by the window, his cigarette rapidly burning out. I decided, in a less dramatic fashion, to simply squat right against him, “Besides, whichever way I do decide, I don’t think I recognise myself anymore – it’s a lose-lose. And that’s one fuck of a prospect in itself.”

“How so?”

“I mean- This this whole situation, I’m just wondering if this is – somehow – is the problem, a culmination, if you will, of the person that I am today. It didn’t start yesterday, mind you – on the contrary, I first caught myself changing during freshers. It was part of the reason why I left Oxford before my first year was up: I didn’t like the kind of person that school, that program, was making me. I wanted to be… well, something, I guess, other than that. I liked my friends there, but so many of them were cynical, heartless even, all the while claiming to they were simply realistic,” another pause. The recollection clearly wasn’t pleasant for him, “But that’s not the problem; the problem is that, at some point, I caught myself agreeing more and more with them, losing sight of why I came to that school and all the ambitions I initially treasured. And I didn’t want to be like that, whatever the prestige or the opportunity; I wanted to be something realer, more honest, truer to how I envisioned myself, I guess,” he looked up to me, a hopeful grin on his face. A plea of connection I’ve seen thousands of times before.  

But it wasn’t reciprocated; I couldn’t, no matter how much I tried, reciprocate it.

At that moment, I felt something that I haven’t before felt – nor expected to feel – towards Archie: envy. I always knew his background (it wasn’t exactly a well-kept secret, not with his flamboyance), as well as bits and pieces of his story, particularly that he went to my top choice school (that, naturally, I did not get into, despite the offer, we don’t need to get into it), but this was a first in knowing the greater picture. And those details, however incomplete, made my blood boil. There was this man, handed every chance to prove himself in the highest, most prestigious institution in the country, all to only squander opportunities I, as a teenager, was willing to break my back twice over to receive, over a thought in his early twenties that he wanted to be something “realer.” In retrospect, it was judge-y, maybe even unfair, but I couldn’t help it. Despite our predicament – as you may say, in the trench together, notwithstanding where we came from or what we each thought to be when we were younger – it brought me no sense of reassurance or brotherly appreciation, no joy in taking our common reality for what it was. Rather, I felt overwhelmed with a nagging question – “how was he more qualified than me?” – that I didn’t like to hear within myself. Worse yet was the follow-up: “what gave him the right to give up something that I bled myself drying trying to achieve, all to still miss the mark?”

The fleeting moment of camaraderie in our shared cigarette had turned to ash, with nothing to show for it but tar in our lungs and an unpleasant taste in my mouth.

But there was no point in acting on this feeling, however much it gnawed at me. Nothing good would come of it. And yet, I felt its taint within me.

“I see,” was all I said, finishing my cigarette. By then, the ash had long stopped falling from Archie’s, “And this is still not it, then?”

“I don’t know, Xxx,” he put the cigarette out completely against the floor, before putting the butt into his pocket, “I thought it was, but… I just find myself turning into a kind of person I don’t know if I want to be. I feel bitter again. Angry. And I’m not trying to say that it’s these guys’ fault,” he once again motioned towards where we came from, “Because fundamentally they are good people – hell, maybe they’re right, I just-” he caught his breath once more, rubbing his temples, “I cannot help but disagree, and I feel like an asshole doing so. But I can’t go back either. Whichever way it is, I have a terrible gut feeling that it’s too late for me.”

“Can’t be,” I shook my head affirmatively, “No, don’t be ridiculous. If you can reinvent yourself from dinner jackets to running deliveries after dark once, you can do it again.”

“You have one awful sense of humour, you know that?” he looked at me, a weak smile stretched across his face, as I for the first time noticed the slight bloodshot in his eyes, “I’d like to think you are right. But I’m afraid I may have made my bed already; the kind of person that I am- have- become, even if for all the right reasons… I don’t think I get to reinvent myself.”

“You’re not making any sense, you- we are barely in our mid-20s, yet you speak of it all in some pretty apocalyptic terms,” I threw out, desperation becoming nakedly apparent. There was a note of impatience in my voice now; this charade between us two could only go on for so long, “What’s really going on, Archie?” I guess I had no other move left but to try and be direct – albeit, softly – but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t seeking out a confession by that point. Archie held his eyes on me for a moment – just a moment – as if wondering if I knew then already, before covering them up with his hand and rubbing his temples.

“Even if I wanted to, I can’t tell you. I’m sorry, Xxxxxx. Maybe if Sam was around, sure, but-” he caught himself, realising he let slip a crucial detail for the first time since we started talking, “Ah, forget I said anything.”

“What does Sam have to do with this?” the taint turned violent. It was time to play my hand.

“Xxx, for your own good, forget I said anything.”

“Archie, I know you were at the Suns meeting. What does Sam have to do-”

Suddenly, a clanking noise came down the stairwell. Without saying anything, Archie jumped to his feet, startled. Silence, only broken up by the wind outside. Looking around, he leaned to check both the stairwell above and below us, but all he found was the white of the storm banging against the window. Archie froze for another moment, before turning around, walking up, and pulling me up by the collar on my jacket.

“Fine. You want the cat out of the bag?” he whispered angrily, face reddening to match his hair, “Here it is: something bad is going to happen. I don’t know when and I don’t know how exactly, they don’t tell me these things anymore. But I know that something bad – something on the scale of the border clashes, but here, in the Capital – will happen,” he paused, but his face betrayed him; there was no mistaking the anger being replaced by confusion, as I felt his grip loosen, “I am in too deep. I know I am,” he finally let go off me, wabbling to the side, stepping up to the railing, “And I don’t know what to do about any of it.”

We stood in silence for a moment, as I realised that I may have pushed my luck – and Archie – too far. But, despite my best judgement in retrospect, I pressed him one last time.

“What does Sam have to do with this?”

“Does it matter anymore?” he turned around, blowing his nose, “All I know is Sam was in touch with someone who helped with our failed union vote, and that it was his delivery tab that I had to pick up that got me in contact with these guys. That’s all.”

We stood there for a minute longer, uncertain as to where we were to go now. The night seemed to stretch out endlessly in the distance, but the clock, we both knew, was ticking.

“How many more packages you’ve got?” he finally asked, pulling out his S-Pad. I opened my bag, not wishing to bother with tech: a box, a little envelope, and the gun case were was everything that was left in there.

“Just two.”

“I have one. I’ll meet you in the lobby once you’re done,” he said grimly, without even so much as looking at me. Putting his tablet away, he stepped past me up the stairs, back to the door to the main area, when he finally turned around to me, “I just wanted to confide in someone. Was that really so much of a fucking ask?” without waiting for my reply, he swung the fire escape door open, and slammed it shut on the way out.

An empty echo rolled down the stairs. The howling storm beat mercilessly against the glass.

Once more, I was alone.

11:34 pm
Back in the main annex, a semblance of life beyond the plants had emerged: certain of their safety from the cold, some people (quite a few from the meeting earlier, it seemed) scattered between the floors for their pre-bed activities. Some stepped out to water their flowers; others leaned by the edge overlooking the central chasm with books or their phones in hand; few others hurdled together in conversation, doing their best to keep it down, be it for privacy or respect reasons. Archie was nowhere to be seen (or heard, for that matter), and a great feeling of hollowness had taken hold inside me. I desperately wanted in that moment to rush home, take a warm bath, and sleep – for as long as possible – after all the strange, perplexing conversations I’ve had over the course of this night, to hide away from the world and all its unpleasantries and confusion. Yet I had two more stops; there was no point in skulking.

Conveniently (I really did not want to go another ten floors up), the second-to-last stop was on the same floor, as I found the unremarkable metal door in one of the short corridors away from the central floor annex. Verifying the door number – 1414 – I knocked, loudly as I can, bypassing the dismantled doorman on the side. Hurried steps intensified and died out, just before the door swung open. A cacophony of sounds, ranging from festive music from bygone decades, fell on me, as I was greeted by a boy – not quite yet a man – in a ugly Christmas jumper, his fair hair scattered across his face.

“Yes?” he asked, voice full of politeness, barely noticeable hints of accent that I couldn’t place hiding within.

“Delivery for,” I checked the pad, holding back a groan, “Your Mum?”

“Ah!” the boy snickered, evidently pleased with himself, “Yeah that’s- that’s me. Didn’t expect you guys so late, but this is actually perfect timing.”

I sighed, rolling my eyes as I looked away to retrieve his package – the small box – and promptly handed him his delivery alongside the S-Pad.

“Please sign here,” I wanted to get this over with.

“Oh,” his face shifted to a look of confusion, “Is that it? I thought I order two items.”

Now came my turn to be confused. I took the S-Pad back to check, and indeed – two parcels were listed, one for the box and one for the envelope. Swiftly taking it out of the bag, feeling something sand-like inside, I checked the back, and indeed – the barcode numbers, the sole designation printed on the envelope, matched with that on the S-Pad and the box.

“My apologies,” I said, trying to hide my anxiety. Have I forgotten a package back at the office? “Here you go. Plea- Please sign here,” I handed him the pad and the envelope with a trembling hand. The boy, his appetite for mischief dissipated by then, took it from my hands, promptly signed off, and returned the device to me, “Thank you. Have a good night.”

“And you,” he said, full of uncertainty, eyes fixated on my perturbed face, slowly closing the door. Momentarily, I was alone in the corridor once more.

Returning to the main annex, back amongst the strangers of the building, I found a corner to lean on and regroup. My immediate thought was to go through my bag – twice! – to see if something was amiss, but nothing remained inside except for my personal effects, the pad, and the gun case. It was not like me, nor like Miranda, to forget to pack a parcel, so I thought a mistake was in the delivery order itself (who knows what technical error could’ve occurred?), so I went into the S-Pad. And yet, all details seemed correct: the last address was an apartment in the estate, on the fifth floor; a pseudonym was used; and an appropriate number for the delivery was present as it was during the hundreds, if not thousands, of deliveries that I’ve made in the past. Only two things were out of place: in a separate field, the delivery had both a “FRAGILE” and “URGENT” tags attached to it. Those were rare as is, requiring days – if not weeks – of preparations, and something had to have gone terribly wrong on logistical end for this to somehow be a mistake. I was tempted to call Miranda, to see if we could verify this – to see if she could verify this – but Miranda certainly wouldn’t have appreciated being bothered unreasonably on a night like this. More pressingly, I was conscious of time; the absolute worst thing that could happen is for both me and Archie to get in trouble with the police waiting just outside. It was a do or die, nothing else in-between.

At that moment, my gut began to twitch, the gnawing feeling inside of it telling me to run, to forget about my duties, and just vanish into the night, leave all this for the morning light, and not worry so much about something that I clearly had no handle on any longer. But stupidly, stupidly, I swallowed that feeling, and descended back down to the ground.

11:40 pm
With only twenty minutes left on the clock, I made it to the door marked 507 – a perfectly ordinary metal door, unremarkable in every sense of the word. Pushing myself through the temptation that had by now festered into a constant, resonating scream inside my head to just “GET OUT,” I dialled the doorman.

A minute passed by. Then what felt like another. Nobody bothered to answer.

Finally, footsteps, followed by the creek of the door.

As the door opened, a tall man, seemingly in his mid-thirties, leaned out from behind the door he opened only so slightly. Behind him, the apartment was pitch black, broken up only ever so slightly by the blueish hue of the window. His dark hair, messy and very evidently uncut, sporadically covered his eyes, hollow and empty in their icy gaze. A rolled-up long-sleeved t-shirt, unremarkable except for a print saying “International Legion” above the heart, revealed bandages, going all the way to his wrists. An engagement ring, faded but still unmistakenly gold, decorated the pale left hand gripping the door. A smell of medicinal alcohol and sleepless nights hung dead in the air as we both stood without saying a word.

“Uh,” I finally decided to break out of the stupor, “Hello. Are you,” I checked the S-Pad, “Mr. Oswell?”

“Wrong address,” he said forcefully, as if his words alone could push me away, “Wait. Yes. Yes,” he seemingly warmed up a little, pulling the door slightly more back towards him, “That delivery, right?”

“Yeah,” I wasn’t sure how to proceed there, “I believe there may have been a mistake – I’m all out of parcels, but it does say here,” I raised my S-Pad, “That you have an urgent, special delivery tonight, so I just want to check if there was an error on our end.”

“Error?” the man sounded puzzled, “No, that can’t be – I specifically requested this one as soon as possible, and you guys told me it’ll be here tonight,” there was anger festering beneath his eyes, “Can you not check again?” before I could even answer, the man tilted his head to the side, looking at my bag – now opened, after I got the S-Pad out, “What’s that?”

God damn it.

“Nothing. I am all out of parcels, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fragile. I specifically asked for special packaging. Are you sure that’s not it?”

“I’m-” was I really sure? I didn’t want to think that he could be right, but I’d be lying if the thought hadn’t crossed my mind earlier, “Please give me a second, I need to call my supervisor.”

“Okay,” he nodded, “Would you like to come in?” he opened the door slightly more. The silhouette of the window was all that broke through the all-enveloping darkness.

“That’s okay, it won’t take long,” I smiled as politely as I could, pushing the fears somewhere deeper below my gut, as the man, accepting the delay, closed the door just enough to leave it ajar.

Immediately, I ducked by the wall. My hands shaking, I extracted the case out of the bag. I needed to verify it for myself first, I needed to know I wasn’t going crazy. Quickly checking the bar-code number on the S-Pad – 051216 – I felt around for an etching, or markings, anything on the side.

Nothing on the top. Surely, this was a simple mistake?

Nothing on either side. Yeah, just a misunderstanding – a glitch in the system.

Nothing on the bottom. Maybe I don’t even need to call Miranda after all, and I can just-

In the corner, just underneath the latch, a rough texture. I paused, barely keeping it together. Moving my finger a little to the side, another etching. Gulping, I turned the case up to look at it.

Right where I thought it was, a barely noticeable string of numbers, crudely cut into the metal with a miniature laser:

0. 5. 12. 16.

This couldn’t be happening. This had to have been a coincidence. How else was this happening? There is nothing in our office that can do this, nothing of the sort that would be able to-

No. Stop. I can’t spiral, not now, nor then.

Collecting myself, I dropped the box back into my bag, going straight for my phone. Miranda would know – if anyone would know, she would, she can sort this out, we can still figure this out.

After a few dials, a sleepy voice on the other end.

“Xxx? It’s not like you to call. Everything okay?”

“Miranda, uh,” I minced words, trying to not sound too stricken with panic – back then, I wasn’t sure if my phone was being tapped, “Listen, I had a little cough up with a delivery.”

“Oh?” I desperately wanted to imagine her face, to find some common ground in the gravity of the situation, but her tone betrayed nothing – not a sliver of emotion or concern.

“Yeah, the last one,” I pulled up the pad again, “The fragile, urgent delivery?”

“Lemme quickly get this up in front of me,” pause. Clicking of keys in the background. Then, “Yup, I see it – what’s the problem exactly?”

“It’s the-” I caught myself at the last second, remembering the need for caution, “The security measure, Miranda. That’s the delivery.”

“…What?” she sounded more confused than surprised.

“Your security measure. It’s the last delivery,” before letting her continue, “I checked the numbers – they match. To the dot,” I turned to the side, making sure ‘Oswell’ wasn’t there, and added, quietly, “I think the guy knows it, too.”

“That’s- That’s impossible, I-” I hate to admit it, but it was a relief to hear the concern finally come through, “No, I packed everything myself, I checked the logs, that’s- Xxx, you have to believe me, I don’t know how that could’ve happened, I’m so sorry.”

“And yet, here we are,” a shaky breath in-between, “Look, what do I do? Do I just cancel? Do I tell him that I can’t give it to him?”

“Okay- first of all, don’t panic, that’s not gonna help,” a groan – she’d make it whenever she rubbed her eyes, “Fuck- I mean-” another pause. I could almost hear the inner gears in her head turning, “Okay. Okay. Do you think you can get out of there, like, just run?”

“There are cops outside – they searched us as we entered, and I dodged a bullet with Archie’s help, but I don’t know if we’ll get so lucky again.”

“Shit,” another groan, “Right. Okay. No, right, that’s- Fuck’s sake!” something fell over in the background. Silence. Then, “Alright. Alright, I hate this, but- Maybe you should just give it to him.”

“Miranda, what the fuck is wrong with you?!” I instantly hissed into the phone.

“Shut up, I am not done,” the cold professional was back. All the worry in her voice had just disappeared, like it was never there, “Xxx, the security measure is ‘dirty.’ It was never meant to be a permanent solution. If you get caught with it- Look, I don’t know how this happened, but maybe,” she stopped herself, but only for a second longer, “Maybe it’ll be easier – and better – if you just get rid of it now.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I was willing to ignore many red flags in my line of work in the past. But this – this was a line I didn’t want to cross. Maybe it was because of what I’ve seen before, maybe the cynicism had worn off for a moment, or maybe I was scared shitless, but I couldn’t-

“Are you there?” she asked, almost robotically.

“I can’t do this, Miranda,” I wiped sweat off my face, “What if he-”

“That’s not your concern. Look,” she audibly got up, “We can figure out how this happened later, but right now, you are in danger. But you have an out – you have an out that’s both your job and too good to not take,” another pause, as if she herself began realising just what she was telling me to do, “I can’t make you do this, but I think you have to at least consider the option. Maybe there’s a chute nearby you can drop it off at, but- Fuck, I don’t know.”

She was right. I didn’t want to admit it, but she was right.

“Xxx?”

“Yeah,” I answered, rubbing my eyes, “Yeah, I’m here.”

“Call me once you’re out of there. I promise we’ll figure this out. Okay?”

“Okay,” there was little more to say, so I didn’t bother waiting for her reply as I hung up.

I checked the clock on my phone. 11:54. I had five minute to make the call, if that. Desperately, I searched inside of me for an answer, an alternative solution to all this, but there didn’t seem like one: I haven’t seen a single garbage chute throughout the building. Walking outside with the case still in my bag was begging to be searched. All the questions that only half an hour ago seemed like a trivial matter of “we’ll build that bridge once we get there” instantaneously were closing in on me.

Could I really do it? Could I really cross that threshold and wipe my conscious clean? Was there ever a path back after all this?

I couldn’t help but think of Archie’s words, and how it was too late for him. Maybe this was the moment when it finally became too late for me, too.

Pulling myself together, I got up, feeling sick to my stomach. It was not just a knot any longer; rather, it became a noose, one that seemingly was tightening around my lungs with each step I took back towards that door. My legs were fighting me; my brain was screaming; something else entirely was now in control.

Hearing my footsteps, Oswell reemerged from darkness once more.

“Hello again,” he said politely, “Did you manage to resolve the issue?”

“Yeah,” I swallowed a stone in my throat, “Yeah. It’s sorted now.”

“Well?” he asked it so innocently, like this was really just an innocent hiccup. I held my gaze for a moment, fighting the irresistible, terrible urge, to just try my luck with it and run, convincing myself that I was fast enough, that I could break away, that there was, after all, a different path.

But once more, the realisation, with the terrible voice of Miranda, of my parents, of Sam, of Margaret, even of Archie, and of every other person that has shaped and guided me to this one terrible moment in time, bellowed from somewhere deep inside:

“This is the only way out.”

Not waiting any longer, I let my hands do the ritual I’ve performed so many times already, as they took the metallic case and the S-Pad out of my bag.

“Please check all the information and sign right there,” the voice that came out of my throat was not my own. To this day, I still don’t know, whose it was. Oswell, however, couldn’t care less as he filed it and handed the pad back to me. It was only then that I could hear myself again, “Could you please check that this is your package?” my one last gambit, a chance – a slim one, but a chance nonetheless – that could yet make this right. Carefully taking the case, he elegantly opened the latches, his expression completely unmoved.

“Yeah, that’s the one,” he closed it shut, with not so much as a twitch of a muscle on his face, “Thank you. I imagine this was difficult to get, so I appreciate it,” I stood silent, unsure of what more to say. But just as I was about to turn around, Oswell suddenly extended his hand out, patting me on the shoulder, “May we all find out way back one day,” it was only then that I picked up a hint of accent in his voice – a familiar cadence that I’ve definitely heard before, a long time ago, but couldn’t quite remember, where. It was reminiscent of home, of a place beyond the Wall and my adult world, of somewhere where this interaction never happened. In the same moment, it was gone, replaced with a simple smile of an unfamiliar stranger, “Good night,” and then, he disappeared into the darkness, door once again ever so slightly ajar.

I stood motionless for a moment, trying to process the feeling I had just now, staring at the gap in the door. A thought crossed my mind of running in and taking the case back, before I could irreversibly walk out that front door with full knowledge of what I’ve just done – of what I may have done – before the chain of causation that has led me here became a permanent part of my story, before I became someone I didn’t recognise nor wanted to be, before it was too late.

And yet, nothing followed.

No beckoning of my legs to not turn around and start walking towards the elevator.

No impulse stopping my hand from pressing the button for the ground floor.

No gut feeling of resistance, as I walked underneath the oak tree, to leisurely check my phone as the clock moved from 11:59 to midnight.

No more voices telling me of what I should do.

And then, at once, it all came back, as a single gunshot rolling through the building.

In the very same instances, shuffles and hurdles of people running out of their apartments followed, in-between clanking of iron and a triumphant scream, “the morning has arrived!”  

A text from Archie: “we have to leave NOW.”

And that nagging voice – my own, this time – begging:

Get out, the morning has arrived,

Get out, we have to leave now,

Get out,

Get out.

But it was too late.  

END OF PART 2