The second hand on the wall clock twitched and froze, as if caught in thick syrup. Time slowed its run, almost stopping, and at that moment my third eye, that inexplicable inner vision that had always saved me in critical situations, rose smoothly to the very ceiling. From that height, I could see the entire scene in the smallest details.
The guard, a bulky man with a perpetually sweaty neck, grabbed my shoulders roughly. His fingers dug painfully into my muscles, shaking me like a rag doll. This was the same guy I had lent spare change to almost every morning when he did not have enough for coffee from the vending machine in the lobby. Now he clearly intended, with visible satisfaction, to drag me across the entire open space and present me to my colleagues like a petty thief caught red-handed.
A little further away sat Miller. My boss. The man for whom I had voluntarily stayed until midnight, polishing his reports to perfection until my eyes began to water from the monitor. Now he watched my humiliation with poorly concealed glee. There was not a trace of sympathy in his gaze, only the cold triumph of a petty tyrant.
Rage boiled inside me. It did not merely burn, it lashed like molten lava, flooding my consciousness. Bloody images flared in my mind. I clearly imagined breaking the guard’s forearms, hearing the dry crack of bones, and then driving Miller’s nasal cartilage straight into his brain with one short palm strike.
I understood that it was wrong. It was a dead end. But the sense of betrayal was so sharp, and the humiliation so viscous, that logic capitulated. Time still dragged on, but I knew it would soon return to its usual rhythm. By that moment, I needed a precise and calculated line of behavior ready.
[Special command: disable emotions for 24 hours]
The decision was impulsive, almost desperate. Possibly even dangerous, but it worked instantly. It was as if a switch clicked in my head, and the entire chaos of feelings went out at once. The anger that had been choking me a second ago vanished. The resentment over Miller’s betrayal turned into empty noise. The thrill of the coming fight disappeared.
My mind became crystal clear, cold, and calculating. There were no longer enemies or traitors, only variables in an equation that required solving. My current state most closely resembled those moments when you launch an old video game, not for the story or achievements, but simply to mechanically pass time by completing repetitive quests.
[Tactical mode] ceased, and the world regained its normal speed.
In the last fraction of a second, I managed to unclench my fists. Krav Maga, which I had trained in, was too brutal for this office. A fight in front of a dozen witnesses using lethal techniques was a guaranteed way to end up behind bars for a long time. I needed something else. Not injury-prone jiu-jitsu.
I jerked my hands sharply, grabbing the clumsy guard’s wrists. Accustomed to simple compliance, he did not expect resistance and lurched forward by inertia. I merely assisted him slightly, using his own weight against him, a basic rule drilled into beginners on the first training session. The guard’s heavy body, unable to stop, collapsed onto the floor, landing directly on his own bulky belly.
Then pure reflexes took over. I dropped onto his back in an instant, pinning him to the carpet, and locked in a tight chokehold. The guard’s face immediately turned crimson, veins bulging on his forehead. He frantically tapped his palm against the floor, the universal gesture of submission. I did not loosen my grip by a single millimeter. This was not a soft training gym, and the rules of sports etiquette did not apply here. There would be no mercy.
After a few seconds, the resistance stopped. The guard went limp under my pressure, slipping into unconsciousness. My cold calculation suggested he would regain consciousness in about thirty minutes. At most, he would suffer mild redness on his neck and a bruised ego.
"What… what’d you do to him?!" Miller’s voice broke into a shriek. He practically pressed himself into his leather chair, his face deathly pale. "Did you kill him?"
"Yeah," I lied calmly.
In my current coordinate system, a lie was the shortest path to the goal. It was the optimal behavioral model for suppressing the opponent’s will.
"And if you don’t want to join him in the afterlife," I rose slowly and stepped toward his desk, "give me my money. Right now."
"Okay, okay! Just don’t touch me!" Miller fumbled with trembling hands in his desk drawer and pulled out a check already filled out in my name. "Here. Exactly two thousand one hundred forty dollars. Your wages for eight days and all unused vacation pay. It’s all there down to the cent, I swear!"
"I know. I counted," I said, taking the check and giving the amount a brief glance before slipping it into my pants pocket. "It’s better for you if our paths never cross again."
I turned and left the office. A crowd of curious colleagues had already gathered in the corridor. They stood almost pressing their ears to the door, greedily catching every sound. Before, I would have felt awkward or ashamed. Now, my mind was clear. I did not care at all about their judgmental or frightened looks. These people posed neither a threat nor a benefit to me. Just background.
I left the building calmly, stepped out into the sunlit street, and headed home at an even, almost leisurely pace. No one tried to stop me, no one came after me. On the way, I stopped by the bank and cashed the check without any issues.
So Miller already had a paycheck prepared for me. It looks like a classic scam I read about online. The employer deliberately stalls to avoid paying what I’m legally owed. To get my wages through legal means, I’d have to hire a lawyer and go to court. But the problem is that the legal process would cost me more than the unpaid salary. I wouldn’t even be able to recover anything beyond what I’m owed, since the check was issued properly and on time but just "accidentally" got lost. Employers know this and count on the screwed-over employee deciding it’s not worth the hassle of court and walking away from their pay.
I could’ve asked Danny for help, of course, but that doesn’t feel right. The curator made it clear that the Pentagon handles problems that interfere with my duties. For example, if the police block my access to the portal. Or, like in my case, when I need clearance for special training courses that would help me work more effectively. If I went to the curator to help me get my paycheck back, it would look pathetic: I’m being paid twenty thousand dollars a month just for existing, and I’m worrying about two thousand.
"Tom, I’m home!" my mother’s voice came from the hallway. The rustling of bags followed. "I bought everything fresh for your favorite tacos. We’re having a feast tonight!"
This news did not evoke anything in me at all. No anticipation of a tasty dinner, no warmth from my mother’s care. Even the thought of crunchy tacos that I had loved since childhood left me indifferent. At that moment, I was a biorobot executing basic algorithms to maintain the body’s vital functions. And, most strangely, the absence of emotions did not upset me in the slightest.
Out of scientific curiosity, I conducted a small experiment. I opened a compilation of cute kitten videos on the computer, then turned on the most depressing music from my playlist. The result was zero. No reaction whatsoever. I could just as well have stared at a blank wall.
Evening came unnoticed. There was a knock at the door, firm and demanding. Two uniformed police officers stood on the threshold. The situation began to take an undesirable turn.
"Are you Thomas Ross?" the older one asked, giving me a professionally cold look.
"Yeah," I replied in an even, toneless voice. I did not even blink. "What’s this about?"
"Thomas Ross, you’re under arrest on suspicion of robbing Jonathan Miller today at noon," the officer took out handcuffs from the case.
So Miller had gathered the courage after all. A petty, vindictive bastard. Naturally, my address was in the office records, he had simply handed it over to the authorities to make their job easier. For a split second, a tactical option flashed through my mind: knock both officers out and escape. But logic immediately discarded that scenario. What next? Run from the law until conscription? Extremely inefficient. The military office would hardly welcome a wanted candidate. Besides, leaving my mother alone to deal with the consequences of my fight with the police was irrational. That meant I had to go to the station and resolve the issue legally.
"Let me change my shoes," I pointed at my house slippers. "Don’t want to get them dirty in a cell."
"One minute," the officer snapped. "And don’t try anything stupid."
I replaced my slippers with sturdy, practical lace-up boots. Intuition suggested I would not be released quickly.
"Who are you?! What are you doing?!" Mom rushed into the hallway, nearly waving the frying pan she still held in her hand. "What do you want from my boy? He didn’t rob anyone! Go find real criminals!"
"Mom, it’s okay," I forced something resembling a smile. It came out fake, but it should be enough for her. "It’s a misunderstanding, I just need to go and clear things up. If I don’t come back in 24 hours, call Danny. Tell him where I am."
I strongly disliked the idea of dragging my supervisor into this mess. The last thing I wanted was for the Awakened Corps to learn about my issues with the police. It was a last resort.
"Hands," the cop said, rattling the steel rings of the handcuffs meaningfully.
"That’s not necessary," I demonstratively put my hands into my jacket pockets. "I’m going voluntarily, I’m not going to resist."
The officer did not insist, and we went down to the patrol car with its red and blue lights flashing nervously. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Mom at the window, carefully writing down the car number in a notebook. I knew that before that, she had already recorded the station number where I was being taken and even the officers’ names. Mom’s meticulousness. At least something in this world remained unchanged.
The procedures at the police station dragged on with exhausting slowness. First came the endless wait in line for photographs, the camera flash struck painfully into my eyes, capturing my front and profile against a measuring scale. Then fingerprinting. Next came the humiliating process of confiscating personal belongings: phone, keys, wallet. Everything was cataloged and packed into faceless plastic bags to the monotonous clatter of keys.
This bureaucratic fuss seemed like the height of absurdity to me. I had not yet exchanged a single word with a detective, had not seen any official documents, had not heard the essence of the accusations, yet the machinery of justice was already grinding my identity.
"The detective handling your case, Alvarez, already left," the desk officer said without even looking up from the monitor. His voice sounded indifferent, like an answering machine. "You’ll wait in a cell with the rest."
We walked down a long, brightly lit corridor. We passed the first cell, it was completely empty, only long benches gleamed with metal. The second was also empty. In the third, three women sat in wrinkled clothes, whispering quietly about something. But the fourth… the fourth resembled a can of sardines. Twenty men crowded into a space barely meant for eight. And that was exactly where I was placed, accompanied by the grinding sound of heavy bolts.
I did not understand the logic. Why pack one cell to capacity while leaving others empty? However, my emotionless mind immediately supplied an answer. It was not a mistake, it was a strategy.
The iron door slammed shut with a heavy, final clang. I was left alone with a crowd of suspicious individuals. There were no cinematic tattooed gangsters here. Mostly worn-out old men reeking of cheap alcohol, and young guys with empty, watery eyes, typical weed smokers. Naturally, my appearance stirred interest. All eyes turned to me.
"Well, well, look at him," a guy in a greasy tracksuit spoke up. He was clearly missing his front teeth, which gave his grin a stupid look. "Go on, spill it. What’s your name? What’d you do to end up here with us decent folks?"
"If you want to know something about me, introduce yourself first," I replied in an icy tone. My voice sounded firm in the cramped cell, without a trace of fear or agitation.
"Heh, look at this cocky rooster!" the thug jumped up from the bench, his movements sharp and twitchy. He began circling me like a shark. "What, some kind of athlete? Guys like you are respected here. You’ll be my friend if you behave right."
And then he struck. A cheap, sharp swing, turning his body and aiming his fist at my jaw. But to me, in a state of absolute composure, his motion looked like that of a snail. On pure reflex, I intercepted and deflected his attack with my left hand, and with my right I delivered a hard, short strike straight to his throat.
The thug instantly choked on his own cry. He doubled over, wheezing and gasping for air. A second later, he vomited right at his feet onto the dirty concrete floor. This was no office, and there was no place for the delicacy of jiu-jitsu here. The laws of Krav Maga applied, eliminate the threat as quickly and harshly as possible. I already raised my hand to twist his elbow and finish disabling him, but stopped myself in time. An extra charge for grievous bodily harm inside a police station was unnecessary. Instead, I simply swept his supporting leg, and he collapsed with a dull thud into his own vomit.
"Anyone else got questions for me?" I asked calmly, slowly sweeping my gaze across the subdued onlookers.
"N-no, man, what’re you…," they muttered, pressing themselves against the walls. "Just sit tight, we’ve got nothing to do with this. Be whoever you want."
Danny once said that hand-to-hand combat is almost useless in portals against whatever lives there. Perhaps he was right. But in civilian life, the ability to efficiently and without unnecessary emotion take down an aggressive opponent remained invaluable.
While the thug floundered in the puddle, trying to breathe, I walked up to the door and knocked on it several times with my fist.
"Guard!" I shouted. "Guy’s sick. He’s puked all over the floor!"
The guard who came in response to the noise cursed for a long time and with enthusiasm. In the end, they dragged the vomiting man away somewhere, and all of us were taken out of the cell. The cleaning lady would only arrive in the morning, and no one wanted to breathe in the smell of half-digested chicken. We were transferred to a neighboring cell. All together again.
And that was when the meaning of what was happening finally became clear to me. It was a classic psychological tactic. The cops deliberately kept people packed in tight, in stench and noise, so that by morning the detainees would turn into a compliant mass ready to sign any confession just to avoid being sent back into that concrete hell. But to their disappointment, these tricks did not work on me, with my emotions shut down. The stench of unwashed bodies was merely a chemical irritant, and the crowding was a matter of inconvenient geometry.
I fell asleep sitting on a narrow bench, since there were no places to lie down at all. To the steady mumbling of addicts about where to find decent stuff in this area, I slipped into a heavy oblivion.
I did not manage to get proper rest. I deliberately chose not to use the [special command] for deep sleep, in a place like this it would have been the height of recklessness. In the morning, we were marched to the restroom, given a sweet bun with vanilla and a mug of sweet cocoa. Finally, they came for me.
The interrogation room was small, windowless, with walls painted in a depressing gray color. A dim lamp buzzed under the ceiling.
"Tom, I heard you stirred things up last night," Detective Alvarez, a heavyset man with greasy hair and small, darting eyes, lounged casually in the chair opposite me. "So you like to fight, huh? Well, well. That talent will come in handy in prison."
"I still don’t understand exactly what I’m being accused of," I replied, looking him straight in the eyes. My voice was even, without a single note of irritation.
"Don’t play dumb with me!" Alvarez slammed his palm on the table. "Your boss, Mr. Miller, told me everything. Said you burst into his office like a rabid dog, beat a professional guard unconscious, and took ten thousand dollars under threat of murder."
"That’s not how it happened."
"You can tell those fairy tales to a jury. I’ve got video footage from the office showing you pointing a gun at Miller and forcing him to write the check. I also have a medical report on the guard’s broken arms. Armed robbery and assault will get you at least five years, Tom."
I mentally analyzed his words. He was lying. Blatantly and clumsily. I had not beaten the guard, only put him to sleep. Miller had handed the money to me personally, and it was much less. But most importantly, there had never been cameras in the boss’s office. That man valued his privacy too much to record his own schemes.
"Bottom line, Tom, you’re in deep trouble," Alvarez slid a sheet of paper toward me. "But I’m feeling generous today. Sign a confession and you’ll get three years. With good behavior, you’ll be out in one. Think about it. It’s your only chance not to rot behind bars."
"I’m not signing anything."
"Still cocky, huh?" The detective grinned, and at that moment he painfully reminded me of that nighttime thug. "Fine. Go back to your cell, sit there another day or two. Maybe your memory’ll clear up."
"I’ve got the right to one phone call," I said, a phrase that had become a classic. "I demand my phone be returned immediately."
"You’ll get your call," Alvarez grimaced, clearly displeased with my persistence. "But you’ll make it here, in front of me. And no longer than two minutes. Got it?"
I did not argue about the legality of such restrictions. The main thing was to get a connection. There were still twelve hours before Mom would call Danny. I had time to try to resolve everything through another channel.
The detective tossed my smartphone onto the table. I quickly selected the recently added number in the contacts.
"Hey, Rachel," I said when the call was answered. "I need help. And I’m afraid it’s pretty urgent."