LOCATION-
Room 2, Primrose Row Boarding House
11 Dovetail Street, East Wick District
Westry 83-FN
X-X-X-X
The bathroom door creaked open.
Varkis stepped out, damp bathrobe clinging to his lean frame, golden hair plastered to his face, an emerald eye gleaming beneath the strands.
SWOOSH!
A candlestick flew straight at him.
He tilted his head. The iron missed his cheek by a whisper.
He blinked, turned, and retreated wordlessly into the bathroom.
'My boxers…'
He grabbed a black pair and slipped behind the curtain just as—
WHAM!
The door flew off its hinges.
A stocky, middle-aged man entered, boots silent on the tiled floor.
Steve.
One of Varkis' colleagues—and currently wielding a Bowie knife.
Tap.
His steps were slow, careful.
"Varkis!"
Steve called out, cheerful in that unnerving way of his.
"Let's talk this out. No need to get your knickers in a knot."
Silence.
"C'mon, mate. Why're you acting like someone dicked in the nob?"
RUSTLE.
A shadow dropped from above.
Varkis.
The robe's cloth belt snaked around Steve's neck in one motion.
"Why are you after me?" Varkis growled.
"You want to catch a packet that bad?"
Steve choked.
"A-Argh... Ywo... lishen…"
From the steamy mirror, Varkis spotted a second figure moving.
He twisted Steve's body, putting him between the door and himself.
"Emil," Varkis called softly.
"Improve your stealth."
A sheepish face emerged behind the bedroom door—Emil, young, wiry, jittery.
"Varkis—please—just let him go. Let's talk this out."
Varkis didn't move. He looked past Emil to the rest of the room.
"Helen. Mary."
The cupboard creaked open.
Helen stepped out, calm and composed despite the dagger in her hand.
From the balcony, Mary climbed in—lithe and barefoot.
Varkis released Steve with a shove. The man stumbled to the bed, coughing.
"Talk this out?" Varkis muttered, wiping the sweat from his brow.
"Don't sell me a dog, Emil."
The silence thickened.
Then Varkis's voice came again, low and cutting.
"Why are you here? I reported my transfer to the commander yesterday."
And then, the tension in the room shifted.
No longer taut with aggression—
Now brittle with disbelief.
'Transfer' echoed through their heads like a shot.
Helen's hand fell from her dagger.
Mary froze mid-step.
Steve's coughs stopped.
And Emil…
His mouth opened, then shut.
Varkis' eye narrowed.
"So… none of you knew?"
The squad tilted their heads.
"We thought you were resigning,"
Emil spoke nervously,
"So, we wanted to throw a farewell for you…"
His eyes darted to Steve.
"Steve suggested we have a little duel with you."
Varkis looked at Steve who looked at Emil with eyes that clearly said,
'How dare you throw me under the carriage, you bastard!'
Helen stepped forward,
"We didn't come to kill you, Varkis. Just an old school goodbye."
Steve smirked from the bed, voice hoarse, but smug.
"You know how it works. One of us cracks, the rest come sniffin' for rot."
Varkis let out a soft breath. Then smiled.
"Then let's play."
Emil's brows knit.
"What?"
"The Game,"
Varkis said, rolling his shoulders.
"You all remember it, don't you?"
His eyes gleamed.
"No killing. One shallow cut near the neck means surrender.
The room shifted.
Helen sighed, but stepped into a readied stance.
Mary cracked her knuckles, a glint of excitement in her eye.
Emil drew his folding blade with a shaky hand.
Steve spat to the side and stood up, wiping sweat from his chin.
"Four against one?" Emil hesitated.
Varkis chuckled.
"I prefer a challenge."
His eyes scanned his room.
"But before we start," Varkis pointed to the bed,
"We can't have property damage here."
A FEW MOMENTS LATER-
The room, now cleared of furniture now wafted with tension like a bowstring stretched.
Varkis gazed at his surroundings-
'LOCATION: Room 2, Primrose Row Boarding House — now cleared of furniture. Only a single hanging lightbulb swings from the ceiling. Rain drums softly on the windows. The floor is scuffed, boards creaking beneath booted feet. A stool left in the balcony.
PARTICIPANTS:
Steve – Muscular, straightforward. Brute-force grappler.Emil – Lean, fast, precision knife specialist.Helen – Elegant, deceptive, fights with grace and blades.Mary – Agile and deceptive, trained in acrobatics and traps.'
WHOOSH—CLINK—SCRATCH—THUD!
It began all at once—no signal, no count.
Helen was first, slashing low, feinting high. Varkis ducked, twirled, and disarmed her with a flick.
Mary came next, springing from the dresser. Varkis caught her wrist mid-air, spun her into Steve, and used their stagger to dodge Emil's lunge.
The room became a blur of footsteps, steel, breathless curses, and cracked wood.
Then—
CLINK!
Helen's blade snapped as she lunged back, readying herself for the next attack.
No one spoke.
Only the creak of the floorboards.
The light above swayed slightly. Varkis removed his bathrobe mid-step, tossing it onto a chair.
Black boxer, bare chest. A scar ran through his lower ribs while his outer deltoid housed a gunshot scar.
Unarmed, or so it seems.
Helen was the first to move — a sudden lunge like a dancer mid-spin, fingers extended in a feint.
Varkis leaned back, barely, letting her hand whistle past his face. He snaped up her wrist — only to twist and use her as a pivot as Steve came barrelling from behind.
CRACK —
Steve's shoulder slammed Helen's back. Controlled chaos.
Mary came next-
She dived low — hands to the floor — her legs sweeping in a scissor arc. Varkis hopped over the move, air cutting around him. But Emil was already in his blind spot, dagger reversed in grip.
Slice!
A thin red line appeared on Varkis' arm.
He stared at Emil and nodded.
But now the game changed.
Varkis spun towards the balcony into a roll — grabbed the leg of the stool mid-motion — and used the broken piece like a short tonfa.
He ducked Steve's punch and twisted the stool leg into his armpit, yanking.
Steve winced — Varkis swept him to the ground, flipped over the fall, and kicked Mary mid-air as she attempted to vault from the window ledge.
THUD —
Mary slammed into the dresser. Grinning despite the bruise forming on her lip.
Emil closed in again. Knife raised.
But Varkis was already in his head. He sidestepped the first jab, intercepted the second with the stool leg, and dropped it. Empty hands now.
Disarm. Redirect. Break.
He trapped Emil's arm, pivoted, and slammed the man into Helen, who was already sprinting toward him with a wire cord in her hands.
Helen dropped her wire. Emil fell.
Varkis didn't hesitate.
He lunged towards the falling duo and slashed their neck mid-motion.
Then, snatching the wire mid-fall, he looped it once around Emil's wrist, and pulled — sending him spinning toward Mary, who just recovered.
CRACK!
They both crashed against the far wall. Dust fell from the rafters.
Silence.
Only Steve remained — blood in his mouth, eyes wild.
He charged again — like a rhino with nothing to lose.
Varkis didn't run.
He opened his arms.
Inviting the grapple.
They crashed — like two continents meeting.
Varkis stumbled — then slid beneath Steve's weight, twisting the big man's limbs like silk cords.
A knife appeared in Varkis' hand. No one saw where from.
He placed it gently — barely a whisper — against Steve's throat.
Not a cut. Not yet. But close enough for Steve to freeze.
"Checkmate,"
Varkis murmured, stepping back.
Helen coughed. Emil groaned. Mary just laid back on the floor, laughing.
"You're a bastard," she grinned.
"And you all are out of practice,"
Varkis replied, brushing blood off his shoulder.
Match over.
"As expected of the Silentfang, you really are hard to handle."
Steve buckled to the floor.
Varkis chuckled, going back to the bathroom.
The door to the bathroom opened as Varkis stepped out, dressed in black.
The squad rose, their faces no longer holding the playfulness from before.
"Take care,"
Helen spoke softly.
"Umm…," Mary stared at Varkis,
"Take care."
Varkis nodded. A hand tapped his shoulder. Emil.
"Write to me if you need anything, mate."
Lastly Steve wrapped around Varkis,
"You have my condolences, stay safe."
Varkis stepped into the balcony,
"Bye,"
Just as he was about to the touch the railing, a voice stopped him.
"Where did you transfer to?"
Varkis turned for the last time,
"The army."
"Ohh…. WHAT!!"
The squad shrieked, but Varkis was nowhere to be seen.
The squad shrieked in unison — but Varkis was already gone.
LOCATION- WESTRY STATION
Heads turned as a lone figure stepped onto the platform —
Black trousers tucked into scuffed cavalry boots; a double-breasted overcoat draped like a shadow over his broad shoulders.
Beneath it, a sable shirt hugged his frame like a mourning shroud.
He walked like a monolith chiselled from grief — solid, slow, but with a tremor in the stone.
Today, Torren Etskald looked less like a fortress, more like a ruin with breath in it.
"Torren Etskald!"
A familiar voice cut through the murmuring station.
A man in Royal Marines uniform strode forward — coat crisp, hair parted with military precision.
"Chuck!"
Torren's expression cracked into something fragile but warm as he pulled the man into a tight embrace.
Chuck pulled back and eyed him, tone sharpening.
"Are you going to a funeral?"
Torren inhaled deeply, the kind of breath that doesn't bring air, only memory.
"Yes."
Chuck's jaw tensed. His eyes scanned the tension in Torren's stance, the dark edge in his silence.
"Whose?"
Torren didn't answer immediately. When he did, his voice rasped like a rusted hinge.
"My mother's."
Chuck's posture shifted. Shoulders drooped, mouth slackened — as if a weight had quietly been added to his back.
He lowered his gaze, brows furrowed in hesitation, as though wrestling with whether to speak at all.
Then softly:
"Etskald…"
He leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper.
"Two at your three o'clock. One behind. Six sharp."
Torren didn't flinch. He merely opened the side of his coat with the casualness of stretching a sore arm.
A LeMat revolver nestled in a custom leather holster shimmered under the morning light — its hybrid barrel hinting at unsaid intentions.
"I know."
His voice was calm. Dangerous.
Chuck let out a single breath of a laugh. A sound tinged more with respect than amusement.
"You're always prepared."
Torren's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.
More like a scar remembering what it used to be.
"Maybe."
CHLNK!
The train jerked to a halt — the grinding of iron against iron shrieking through the early haze. Steam bled from the undercarriage, cloaking the platform in a veil of white. For a moment, it looked less like a station and more like a battlefield wreathed in smoke.
Chuck and Torren stepped onto the footboard, boots thudding against steel. They entered the compartment — one of those older, mahogany-lined carriages with rust-flecked grilles and the scent of oil and dust in the air.
Torren cracked his knuckles, each pop echoing like a low warning.
"Who do you think they are?"
Chuck didn't answer right away. His eyes were fixed to the fogged window, squinting at shadowy silhouettes along the platform's edge.
"I suspect they're Cymrian pirates. They are here for my head."
"Why?"
"I am in-charge of the joint sting operation on the Frestia Waters."
He leaned forward, voice hushed beneath the clatter of settling luggage overhead.
"They've been nosing around treaty waters again."
Torren raised an eyebrow, the corner of his lip twitching in disbelief.
"Why would second-rate sea-rats breach a joint-protected zone? Government surveillance, two nations' flags flying — they'd have to be suicidal."
Chuck shifted in his seat, his fingers tapping an arrhythmic beat on his thigh.
"The Deputy Commander believes they're not acting alone anymore."
Torren's brow furrowed.
"Meaning?"
Chuck looked directly at him now, his face stripped of humor.
"Meaning they're in bed with the Cymrian government. Or a faction of it."
Torren's eyes narrowed.
"And we're just watching?"
Chuck exhaled.
"Among the cargo they looted last month, eighty percent was Crown property. Naval ammunition, encrypted communiqués, even medicine meant for the border camps."
Torren's gaze sharpened.
"And the Cymrian twenty percent?"
Chuck nodded grimly.
"They're negotiating with the pirates — unofficially, of course. Likely in exchange for leverage. Our eighty is the cost of their silence."
Torren leaned back, arms folded. The leather of his coat groaned.
"Well… I've resigned from such matters."
Chuck's head snapped toward him.
"What?"
"I handed in my notice yesterday."
"You... you resigned?!"
Chuck leaned closer, whisper now laced with urgency.
"Torren, they're going to make a move. Soon. This train might not even reach its next station. I need your help, Etskald."
Torren didn't answer. Not immediately.
His eyes scanned the compartment — four other passengers, all quiet, all wrong. A man reading the same page for the last ten minutes. A woman with gloves on in the summer heat. A boy too stiff to be a boy.
Chuck noticed his glance and began to count.
"Okay…" he muttered,
"One…"
Torren's hand lowered toward his coat.
"Two…"
Chuck's breath halted. The woman across the aisle shifted slightly.
"Three."
BANG!
The compartment erupted.
The window behind Chuck exploded inwards as a slug tore through it. Glass and sunlight screamed into the carriage.
Torren was already in motion — a blur of black as he yanked Chuck down and flipped the table with one leg. The table crashed sideways just as two more bullets drilled through where Chuck's skull had been.
"Ambush."
Chuck hissed.
Torren unfastened his coat, revealing the LeMat revolver, its twin barrels gleaming — one for bullets, the other for a shotgun round resting silently beneath.
"You ready to come out of retirement, soldier?"
Torren cocked the hammer.
"Just for today."