Crowe steps into his office. The dim light from the desk lamp casts a pale glow across the room. His desk sits in quiet order, a few neatly stacked folders and a sleek, silent phone. He eases into his chair, the worn leather creaking softly under his weight, and leans back with a deep sigh. Dragging a hand down his face, he exhales sharply.
His gaze drifts upward to the ceiling, where the faint hum of the ventilation system fills the silence.
"What the hell is going on here?" The question ricochets in his mind, unspoken yet deafening. That image from earlier—white hair, golden eyes, and that chilling, echoing laughter—won't leave him. He rubs his temples, his jaw tightening.
"How far is this going to go?"
Crowe forces himself to refocus. He leans forward and presses the concealed button beneath his desk. The soft click of the mechanism triggers a faint hum from the desk console, and a small screen flickers to life, casting sharp shadows across his face as the call begins to connect.
Before the call can fully establish, the office door swings open abruptly with a muted thud. Crowe snaps upright, his hand instinctively pulling away from the hidden button. His sharp gaze shifts toward the doorway, irritation already flashing in his eyes.
Santos stands there, stiff as a board. His uniform, though clean, bears subtle signs of a long day—creases in the fabric and a slight scuff on his boots. His hand lingers on the doorframe, betraying his hesitation.
"Santos," Crowe says, his tone sharp enough to cut. "Do you make it a habit to barge into your superior's office unannounced, or is today a special occasion?"
Santos flinches. He straightens even more, though it seems impossible, his knuckles tightening around the brim of his cap covering his dirty blonde hair. "Apologies, sir," he says quickly, his voice tight, almost rushed. "I should've knocked."
Crowe's cold stare lingers. He lets it hang, watching Santos squirm under the weight of his gaze. Finally, with a deliberate motion, he gestures to the center of the room.
"You're damn right you should've," he says coolly, his voice like ice. "Now, what is it you need, Santos? This better be worth the interruption."
Santos swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing visibly. He steps inside, cautious and measured. Clearing his throat, he begins, "Sir, I'd like to request three days of leave."
Crowe leans forward, his elbows resting on the desk as he stares at Santos. "Leave?" he repeats, his tone heavy with disbelief. "Now? In the middle of this?"
"Yes, sir," Santos says, nodding, though there's hesitation in the motion. His eyes flicker downward for a moment before meeting Crowe's gaze again. "I haven't taken a break in a long time, and I… need this."
Crowe tilts his head slightly, studying the man with unrelenting scrutiny. His fingers tap a slow, deliberate rhythm on the desk. "And this has nothing to do with recent events?" he asks, his voice dropping.
Santos hesitates, his mouth opening slightly before closing again. A flicker of something unreadable crosses his face—guilt, fear, maybe both. Finally, he shakes his head firmly. "No, sir," he says, his voice steadier now. "I just… I'd like to spend some time with my daughters. It's been too long."
Crowe leans back, his fingers steepling as he regards Santos. The faint flicker of a shadow in the corner of the room catches his eye—a trick of the light, no doubt, though it does little to ease his unease.
"You've chosen a hell of a time to ask," Crowe says at last. He exhales sharply through his nose, the sound breaking the tension. Closing his eyes briefly, he nods, the motion curt and final. "Fine. Follow protocol. Fill out the necessary documents, pack your things, and be out by morning. I want you back by noon on the third day, not a minute later."
Relief washes over Santos' face, though he quickly masks it with a crisp salute. "Thank you, sir. I appreciate it."
"Don't make me regret this," Crowe warns, his voice dropping an octave as his eyes lock onto Santos, sharp and unforgiving.
"Understood, sir," Santos replies, nodding once more. He turns sharply, his boots clicking against the polished floor as he strides toward the door.
As it closes behind him, the silence returns. Crowe leans back in his chair, dragging a hand down his face. For a moment, his hand hovers over the concealed button beneath the desk, but he lets it fall away.
"Daughters, huh?" he mutters, the words soft and reflective. The thought lingers for a moment. His features soften briefly.
"Three days," he says to himself, his gaze falling to the folders on his desk. He picks up the top one, flipping it open...
hmmm...
"...Jasmine..."
"...interesting..."
**
The Next Morning...
Santos hums softly as he sits on the edge of his cot, his barrack dimly lit by a single overhead light. His casual clothes—a simple black t-shirt and faded jeans—feel foreign against his skin. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and runs a hand through his tousled blonde hair, the strands falling messily back into place. His green eyes flick toward the small bag at his feet, half-packed, but his mind is elsewhere.
Cici's gonna want to show me her art again, he thinks with a warm smile. And Lydia... she'll probably drag me to some new ice cream place she's obsessed with. His thoughts shift to Angela, her voice ringing in his ears as though she were right there. Wonder if she's still mad about me forgetting our anniversary last year. He chuckles softly, shaking his head.
Mark bends down and tugs the zipper on the bag, inspecting the contents. Socks, a clean pair of sneakers, a few toiletries. He rummages through it briefly, checking and double-checking, then slings it over one shoulder with practiced ease. As he stands, the cot creaks beneath him. His gaze drifts to the small desk tucked in the corner, where a manila folder sits waiting.
"Don't wanna forget that," he mutters, striding over to grab it. He flips it open briefly, scanning the contents, then closes it with a crisp snap. Glancing around the room, his brows furrow slightly. "Am I forgetting something?"
The thought gnaws at him until his eyes land on his pillow. He strides back to the cot, reaching beneath it, and pulls out a slightly worn photograph. Cici and Lydia smile back at him, their faces framed by the backdrop of a sunny park. His smile softens, a tender contrast to his usual sharp-edged demeanor.
"Perfect," he says softly, slipping the picture into the front pocket of his jeans. He pats it once for good measure, then turns to the door, his boots thudding lightly against the floor as he walks.
The corridor outside the barracks is quiet, dimly lit with flickering overhead fluorescents. Mark's footsteps echo faintly as he navigates through the maze of hallways, the sterile gray walls broken only by the occasional numbered door. He rounds a corner and stops in front of an elevator, its metallic sheen catching the faint light.
Placing his thumb on the scanner, he leans in slightly and speaks clearly. "Mark Romero Santos. Identification number 891-AC-91380. Security clearance code Tango-Alpha-Bravo-7-3-9er."
For a moment, nothing happens. Mark shifts his weight, the silence unnerving. Then, with a soft ding, the elevator doors slide open.
He steps inside, glancing briefly at the panel. The lobby floor button glows faintly, but his eyes linger on the small, ominous keyhole near the bottom. Beneath it, the floors stretch down to thirteen. Mark's stomach twists uncomfortably, and he looks away, pressing the ground floor button with more force than necessary. The elevator begins its smooth ascent.
"Let's not think about that," he mutters under his breath, shoving his hands into his pockets.
The elevator doors open into a bustling lobby. The polished floors gleam under the bright overhead lights, and the air hums with quiet urgency. People in sharp suits move briskly through the space, their faces set in grim determination. Conversations blend into an indistinct murmur punctuated by the occasional sharp ring of a phone.
Mark weaves through the crowd, his bag slung casually over one shoulder. His eyes scan the room, taking in the security checkpoints, the large digital displays showing classified updates, and the sealed glass conference rooms where intense discussions unfold. He's seen this too any times, but today, he feels oddly detached, his mind already halfway to home.
He approaches the front desk, where a young woman with auburn hair pulled into a neat bun sits behind a sleek, modern counter. Her hazel eyes brighten when she sees him.
"Well, well, look who's up early," she teases, a playful smile tugging at her lips.
Mark chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. "Soldier requesting official leave," he says, his voice tinged with excitement.
The woman raises a brow, pulling a small clipboard closer. "Special occasion?" she asks, flipping through the paperwork.
Mark feels his cheeks heat up. "You could say that," he admits, the corners of his mouth twitching upward.
She smirks knowingly but says nothing as she examines his file. After a moment, she nods and slides the clipboard back toward him. "Everything checks out. Be back at the exact time you listed, okay? No excuses."
"Yes, ma'am," he replies, a bit too eagerly.
The woman laughs softly, waving him off. "Go on. Don't keep your family waiting."
Mark grins, salutes playfully, and heads toward the revolving doors. The sunlight streaming through the glass catches his face as he pushes through, and for the first time in weeks, he feels lighter...
so much lighter...