Kim rubbed his eyes, still groggy from sleep, as the faint hum of the kettle filled his cramped apartment. The flickering fluorescent light above him barely illuminated the peeling wallpaper and the stacks of unwashed dishes on the counter. He grabbed a dented tin can from the table, shaking it lightly. The hollow rattle made his stomach sink. Lyd.
He turned it upside down, spilling the last few coins onto the table. His breath hitched as he stared at them. Five… Ten… Fourteen Lyd. That was it. That was all he had left. Fourteen Lyd to his name.
A bitter laugh escaped his lips. This wouldn't even get him through the next day. Rent was due, the landlord was already eyeing him like a vulture, and work—if he could even call it that—had been drying up for months.
The kettle whistled, snapping him back. He poured the water into his chipped bowl of instant noodles, watching the steam rise like ghosts from the past. The ones who had money, power—choices. Unlike him.
The rusted old TV in the corner crackled to life, its screen warped from years of neglect. He hadn't planned on watching anything, but then—BREAKING NEWS.
The bold red letters filled the screen, followed by shaky footage of smoke rising over the JPD District. Crowds in black masks surged through the streets, Molotovs shattering against patrol cars. Sirens wailed. The camera panned to the scorched remains of a checkpoint, its metal gates twisted and charred. Kim froze. Anarchy in JPD.
And then the camera zoomed in on something—someone. A flash of a jacket. A familiar emblem on the back. Kim shoved his chair back with a screech, the instant noodles forgotten on the counter, steam curling into the cold air. His heart pounded against his ribs, his breath caught somewhere between panic and disbelief.
He tore across the room, yanking his uniform from where it had been draped over the back of a chair. Wrinkled, unbuttoned, the badge barely clinging to the fabric—he didn't care. His trembling fingers fumbled as he shoved his arms into the sleeves, not even bothering to tuck in his shirt. He had no time.
The news replayed in his head—fire, riots, bodies on the ground, that familiar emblem flashing across the screen like a death sentence.
He bolted down the stairs of his decaying apartment complex, the steps groaning under his weight. The landlady shouted something at him—probably about rent, about those miserable fourteen Lyd—but her voice was drowned by the blood rushing in his ears. He had to get to the precinct. Now.
The streets were alive with the murmur of a city on edge. People whispered in hushed voices, glancing at their phones, at the smoke rising in the distance. Kim ran through them, pushing past the early commuters, past the street vendors setting up their stalls, past the stray dogs sniffing at overturned trash cans.
His shoes pounded against the pavement, the weight of his uniform growing heavier with every step. The precinct was far—too far. An hour and a half on foot. But he had no money for the tram, no time to wait for a bus. His legs would have to carry him.
Through alleyways where neon lights flickered, past rusted fences covered in torn posters, through empty lots where broken glass crunched beneath his soles. His lungs burned. His heartbeat roared in his ears. The city blurred around him.
He barely noticed when he crossed into JPD territory—the air here felt different. Tense. The smell of smoke was stronger now. The sirens were louder. His pace slowed, just for a second. Then—BOOM.
A distant explosion shook the air. Kim stumbled, catching himself against a light pole. Too close. The riot was spilling into the streets ahead. He could hear the shouts, the chaos. And somewhere in that chaos—his precinct.
Kim grit his teeth, wiped the sweat from his brow, and forced his legs to move again. Faster. Kim's breath hitched as he pushed through the sea of bodies, his uniform damp with sweat, his lungs burning. The crowd roared around him—anger, fear, desperation—all blurring into a suffocating wall of sound. He shoved forward, barely aware of the hands that grabbed at him, the curses thrown his way. Then—gunshots. Loud. Sharp. Final.
Kim's body locked up as the sound tore through the air, silencing everything else. The people around him flinched, recoiling in horror, but his eyes—his eyes were already locked on the scene ahead. A boy.
A Zwarten boy. Young. Maybe sixteen. Maybe less. He stood in the middle of the street, his arms raised, palms empty, his lips parted as if he had been speaking—pleading. His dark skin glistened with sweat under the flickering streetlights, his clothes torn, his breath ragged.
The first bullet struck his chest. His body jerked violently. The second tore through his shoulder. The third—his stomach. And then more. More.
His body convulsed with each impact, his knees buckling, blood splattering onto the cracked pavement. The officers—Kim's fellow officers—stood in a tight formation, their guns still raised, their faces blank, as if the boy were nothing. Nothing.
Kim's knees gave out. He collapsed onto the ground, the world tilting, his ears ringing. His hands clenched the fabric of his trousers, his breath coming in shallow, broken gasps. This wasn't real. This couldn't be real.
The boy gurgled, his body twitching, his fingers grasping at something unseen—at life, at hope, at anything that would pull him back. But there was nothing. Only blood. Only silence. Only the widening stain beneath him. Kim's vision blurred. His chest felt tight, his stomach twisted.
He had seen death before. He was an officer—he had seen criminals shot, bodies in morgues, cold corpses with numbered tags. But this—this wasn't that.
The crowd scattered, feet pounding against the pavement in a desperate retreat. People screamed, shoved, fled into the alleys, their fear louder than any siren. More gunshots rang out in the distance—warnings, threats, reminders that this city did not belong to them.
Kim did not move. He knelt there, frozen, his knees aching against the hard pavement. The blood—the boy's blood—crawled toward his shoes, dark and thick, seeping into the cracks of the street. His hands trembled on his thighs. His breath came in slow, shallow gasps. It was just him now. Him and the body.
The officers lowered their guns. One of them kicked the boy's motionless leg, checking for any final twitch of life. There was none. Another muttered something under his breath, shaking his head, before turning away. They moved with practiced indifference, stepping over the body like debris after a storm. Kim still didn't move. He couldn't.
His mind replayed it—the boy's face, his shaking hands, the way his body jerked with each shot. The way the life left his eyes before he even hit the ground. He wanted to scream. Cry. Vomit. But all he did was stare.
Then—a shadow loomed over him. A slow, deliberate set of footsteps approached from behind. The officers had already dispersed, but this one had stayed. Watching. Waiting. Choi.
Kim didn't need to look to know. He felt the weight of the man's presence before he even spoke. "Get up."
Kim didn't move. A sigh. Boots shifted. "Kim." This time, Choi's voice was softer. Firm, but not unkind. "Get up."
Kim's lips parted, but nothing came out. His throat felt dry. His limbs refused to obey. He just stared at the body.
A pause. Then a gloved hand wrapped around his upper arm—gentle, but unyielding. Choi pulled him up, guiding him to his feet. Kim staggered slightly, his body numb, his mind distant. "Let's go," Choi said, his voice unreadable.
Kim didn't remember walking. One moment, he was on the street, his knees wet with blood, Choi's firm grip pulling him away. The next, he was sitting in a cold, gray office, staring at the polished wood of the desk before him. His mind was empty, hollow, like a shell left behind after the tide had pulled everything else away. Across from him sat Commissioner Roderik Vaele.
An Alben man in his late fifties, with ashen-white skin and hair so pale it looked almost translucent under the office lights. His thin, sharp features gave him the air of someone who never smiled—at least not when it mattered. His eyes, a cold shade of steel-blue, were unreadable as they flicked over Kim.
He sighed, leaning back in his chair, fingers tapping idly on the armrest. Behind him, the window overlooked the city—a skyline stained with smoke, flashing lights, and distant chaos.
"You're quiet," Vaele observed, his voice smooth, practiced. The kind of voice that didn't raise itself, because it never needed to.
Kim said nothing. The commissioner slid a file across the desk. A blank report sheet, pristine, untouched. A pen rested neatly on top.
"Write it down," Vaele ordered. "Like everyone else."
Kim swallowed. "Sir?" His voice barely sounded like his own.
Vaele's expression didn't change. "The report, Officer Kim. The official report." He gestured toward the sheet. "That boy had a weapon. He was resisting arrest. He made a move that forced our officers to fire in self-defense."
Kim's fingers curled into fists on his lap. He could still see the boy's hands—empty, raised, shaking.
"He didn't have a weapon," Kim murmured, voice tight.
Vaele exhaled through his nose, a whisper of irritation crossing his otherwise impassive face. "I wasn't asking for your opinion. I'm telling you what happened." He gestured toward the paper again. "Now write it down."
Kim's hands twitched. He could feel the weight of Choi's gaze from where he stood near the door. Silent. Watching. The way he always did. "I…" Kim's throat tightened.
Lie. He wanted him to lie. Just like the others. Just like every other officer in that precinct who would write the same damn words to keep JPD's name clean.
Outside, sirens wailed. Smoke still lingered in the air. And somewhere, not far from this very office, a boy's body was being dragged off the street like garbage.