The sun rose reluctantly over the city, casting a pale, watery light through the gaps in the curtains of Sam's apartment. He hadn't slept. The black card with the word Welcome embossed on it sat on the table, its stark simplicity unnerving.
Sam stared at it, his mind running in circles. What kind of task would they give him? How far would they push him? Every instinct screamed at him to walk away, to find another way to protect Emma. But what way? What hope?
The creak of floorboards pulled him from his thoughts. He looked up to see Emma standing in the doorway of the small bedroom, wrapped in a blanket. Her dark hair was a mess, and her eyes were still heavy with sleep.
"Sam?" she said, her voice soft. "You've been up all night?"
He forced a smile and shrugged. "Couldn't sleep. Don't worry about it."
Emma frowned, stepping closer. "You're not eating enough. You're always out late. You can't keep running yourself into the ground like this."
"I'm fine," he said quickly, standing to his feet. He moved toward the kitchen, pulling out the last of the bread from the bag. "I'll make you breakfast."
"You're not fine." Her voice was sharper now, tinged with frustration. "You think I don't see what's going on? You're trying to carry everything by yourself, and it's killing you."
Sam turned to face her, his jaw tightening. "What do you want me to do, Emma? Just sit back and let things fall apart? We barely have enough to get by as it is."
"I don't need you to fix everything, Sam!" she said, her voice rising. "I just need you to talk to me. To let me help."
Her words struck him harder than he expected. She had always been strong, always tried to shoulder her own burdens, but Sam couldn't let her bear the weight of their reality. It wasn't fair to her.
"I'm doing this for you," he said finally, his voice quieter now.
Emma sighed, her expression softening. "I know. But it doesn't have to be this way. We can figure it out together."
Sam didn't respond. He couldn't. If she knew the truth—about the Brotherhood, about the path he was about to walk—she would never forgive him.
The sudden buzz of his phone made him flinch. He pulled it from his pocket, his heart sinking when he saw the message:
6:00 PM. Alley behind Delaney's Bar.
He turned the screen off quickly, shoving the phone back into his pocket. Emma's brow furrowed, her eyes narrowing.
"Who was that?" she asked.
"Just a job lead," he lied smoothly. "I've got to follow up on it later."
Emma didn't look convinced, but she didn't push. Instead, she sat down at the table, her hands wrapping around the steaming mug of tea he had placed in front of her.
"Just… be careful, okay?" she said softly.
Sam nodded, his throat tightening. "I will."
The hours passed slowly, each tick of the clock dragging Sam closer to his meeting. By the time the sun began to set, he felt like a man walking to the gallows.
Delaney's Bar was in one of the rougher parts of the city, a place where broken streetlights and shattered glass were part of the scenery. Sam kept his hood up as he approached the alley, his steps echoing in the narrow space.
He didn't have to wait long. A figure emerged from the shadows, tall and lean, with a cigarette dangling from his lips. It was the smirking man from the warehouse.
"Right on time," the man said, exhaling a plume of smoke. "I like that."
Sam said nothing, his hands clenching at his sides.
The man chuckled, tossing the cigarette aside. "Relax, mate. Tonight's just a warm-up. A little test to see if you've got what it takes."
"What kind of test?" Sam asked, his voice steady despite the tension coiling in his chest.
The man pulled a small package from his jacket pocket, wrapped in plain brown paper. He held it out to Sam with a grin.
"Deliver this to 1427 Crescent Street. No questions, no detours. Just drop it off and walk away."
Sam stared at the package, suspicion flaring in his mind. "What's in it?"
The man's grin widened. "That's not your concern, is it?"
Sam hesitated, his gut churning. Whatever was in that package, it wasn't good. But refusing wasn't an option.
"Fine," he said, taking the package.
The man patted him on the shoulder, his grip firm. "Good lad. And Sam? Don't screw this up."
The walk to Crescent Street was agonizing. Sam's thoughts raced with every step, his imagination conjuring up worst-case scenarios. Drugs? Weapons? Something worse?
When he reached the address, he found himself standing in front of a decrepit building, its windows boarded up and its paint peeling. The door was ajar, the dim glow of a single lightbulb spilling onto the cracked pavement.
Sam took a deep breath and stepped inside. The air was thick with the smell of damp wood and mildew. A man sat at a table in the center of the room, his face obscured by a low-hanging hood.
"You have it?" the man asked, his voice gravelly.
Sam nodded, holding out the package. The man took it without a word, inspecting it briefly before tucking it into his coat.
"You're clear," the man said, motioning toward the door.
Sam didn't need to be told twice. He turned and walked out, his heart pounding. The air outside felt fresher, lighter, but the weight on his shoulders hadn't eased.
This was only the beginning.