The busy tone still screamed through the air, sharp and metallic, like an iron spike driven into John Creasy's skull—nailing shut the last faint echo of the "normal" world.
The children of the poor… born to be the toys of the rich.
Martha's words hooked into his mind like barbed wire, tearing at his nerves again and again.
He did not roar. He did not smash the room into pieces in a fit of rage.
Instead, something colder settled over him. Absolute zero.
The fiery panic that had threatened to consume him was smothered, replaced by a silence so glacial it made his very blood heavy. His face hardened into stone, and in the depths of his eyes, a storm gathered—compressed, focused—until it became something solid. A killing intent that hummed like steel drawn in the dark.
His gaze shifted away from the phone. Away from the white-shrouded furniture. Away from the suffocating stillness of this apartment.
And it landed on the old military rucksack by the door. Stained with dust from foreign deserts. Waiting.
It sat there like a beast in hibernation. Silent. Patient. Ready to be awakened.
Creasy moved toward it, his steps unnervingly steady for a man just gutted by grief. He crouched, fingertips brushing the coarse canvas. The texture carried the ghosts of Iraq—sunlight, sandstorms, blood, and fear—all trapped in its fibers.
The zipper rasped open, the sound jagged and loud in the stillness.
Inside, neatly arranged, were not clothes. Not family mementos.
But the "gifts" of war. The only language he had mastered, the only currency left to trade with this broken world.
On top lay a folded gray tactical vest, rigid with nylon and MOLLE straps. He pulled it free and laid it on the floor with a heavy thud.
Beneath it: weapons.
A Beretta 92FS pistol, polished, meticulously cared for, its metal glinting with a blue sheen under the dim light. He picked it up, hands moving automatically—checking the chamber, the slide, the safety—with the fluid precision of muscle memory. The gun wasn't just a tool. It was an extension of him.
Next to it, magazines. Fully loaded with 9mm rounds, their brass casings gleaming faintly like dull gold.
A combat knife. The M9 bayonet. Blackened blade, deep groove, the edge so sharp it seemed to slice the air itself. He unsheathed it, let the steel rest against his fingertips for a heartbeat, then slid it back with a crisp snap.
Oil-wrapped blocks. He unrolled one—revealing the pale, rubbery slabs of C4 explosive, and several small but merciless detonators. The air itself seemed to tighten.
At the very bottom, the hard curves of fragmentation grenades. Green shells, cool and deadly in his palm.
And not just weapons. A field medic kit. Rations. A water bladder. A multitool. A pair of night-vision goggles. Each item a relic of survival. Each one a piece of the soldier he had once been, sleeping until now.
Civilization? Laws? Those glossy documents, dressed up in gold seals and polite words about charity and donation?
Creasy's mouth twitched. It wasn't a smile. It was the silent baring of teeth before a predator strikes.
These rules were more fragile than the homemade bombs he had seen on the alleys of Baghdad. Easier to build. Easier to destroy.
He began to arm himself.
The ritual was slow, methodical, almost sacred. The tactical vest first, straps pulled tight across his shoulders and waist. The Beretta holstered at his ribs, magazines slotted neatly across his chest. Knife strapped against his calf, hidden beneath his pant leg. The C4 tucked away, the detonators secured. Two grenades chosen, pocketed with care.
Every motion was honed, practiced, burned into muscle memory. This wasn't a soldier coming home. This was a machine rebooting. A weapon calibrating itself back to war.
By the time he shoved the half-empty rucksack into a corner, John Creasy was gone.
What stood in his place was sharper, harder. A drawn blade, cold and merciless.
His eyes returned to the coffee table. To the silver folder. To the photograph of Lily, trapped in that ridiculous white dress, her terrified eyes shining with tears.
He lifted the photo carefully, his calloused fingers brushing her face as if she were still there. For a fleeting second, the storm inside him cracked, and the raw pain bled through.
Then, wordlessly, he slid the picture into the clear ID slot on his vest, pressed against his chest. Against his heart.
Where once his dog tags had hung, now rested his daughter. His whole world. And the proof of the world's betrayal.
He turned.
The apartment door opened. He didn't look back.
The hallway smelled of cheap food and frying oil, echoing with the hum of televisions and the faint chatter of neighbors—ordinary life, going on.
His boots struck the stairwell with quiet, steady weight.
Outside, the city blazed with neon. Cars surged through the avenues. Pedestrians laughed, hurried, gossiped. Civilization's mask.
He stepped into the flow of people, his presence a drop of black ink in a clear stream. Silent. Invisible. But destined to spread, to stain.
His objective was clear: the docks.
His mission: to find the man who could tell him the island's true name, and the way in.
And if money wasn't enough to open that man's mouth…
He still had another language to speak.
The night was falling.