The town of Crestwood was a smear of distant, twinkling lights in Elijah's rearview mirror, a jeweled bracelet laid out on the horizon. Up here on the elevated highway, the world was mundane and safe, a river of asphalt and humming streetlights. But safety was an illusion, one he was leaving behind. His hands, tight on the wheel of the G-Wagon, guided the vehicle towards an exit that seemed to curl away from the modern world itself.
It was Junction 87, a concrete spur that sloped inexorably downward. The hum of the highway above became a fading echo as he descended, the city skyline swallowed by the rising earthworks. It felt like driving into a basin, leaving the present day behind on the high ground.
The world at the bottom of the ramp was one of forgotten industry. This was the buffer zone. The air that seeped through his vents carried the stale tang of diesel and rust. On either side, warehouses stood like sleeping metal giants, their corrugated skins stained and peeling. Faded logos for long-defunct trucking companies were ghostly murals in the dusk. The only light came from a few high-pressure sodium lamps, casting a sickly orange glow that created deep, shifting pools of shadow. He saw no one, but felt the weight of a thousand silent, dark windows. It was a place designed for anonymity, for things to be lost and never found.
The industrial graveyard eventually thinned out, giving way to a different kind of emptiness. A broken wooden fence line marked the beginning of the ranch lands. The asphalt under his tires grew rough, peppered with gravel. To his left, a vast field of overgrown grass rolled away into the gloom, and ahead, the silhouette of a barnyard emerged—a leaning barn with a caved-in roof, a skeleton of its former self. It was a perfect picture of rural decay, a stage set to convince any stray glance that there was nothing here of value.
Just past the barn, the road was crossed by a narrow, stone-built bridge, so old it seemed to have grown from the earth. And on it, standing perfectly still, was a figure. Elijah slowed the G-Wagon to a halt, the crunch of his tires on the gravel the only sound. The man was dressed in simple, dark work clothes, but his posture was that of a soldier. He didn't move as Elijah rolled down the window, letting in the chill, damp air of the creek below.
The man's eyes, pale and assessing, scanned the interior of the vehicle before settling on Elijah. His voice was calm, devoid of hostility or welcome, a simple instrument of protocol.
"What is above, and what is below?"
Elijah met his gaze, the coded phrase feeling both absurd and profoundly serious on his tongue. "The mind."
An almost imperceptible nod. The figure stepped back, melting into the shadows of the bridge's stone parapet. Permission granted. Elijah drove forward, the tires thumping softly on the ancient stone of the bridge.
Beyond it, almost swallowed by the weeping willows, was the gate. It was a stark, modern intrusion—tall, wrought-iron bars, topped with spikes. A single, dark camera lens was mounted on a post. He didn't stop, didn't even slow. As his bumper was a foot from the metal, the gate hummed to life and slid open with a smooth, silent efficiency that spoke of immense power and precision.
Inside, the world changed again. The overgrown wilderness was gone, replaced by a manicured clearing. And there they were—the sentinels. Two figures, clad in dark tactical gear, stood at the tree line, the sleek, black shapes of assault rifles held at a ready carry. Another was partially visible on the porch of the house itself. They didn't challenge him; his passage through the gate was his identification. They were simply there, grim and professional, the teeth of this hidden sanctuary.
And in the center of it all, bathed in the soft, golden light of a dozen lamps, was the house.
It was a relic, a beautiful, frozen moment from the 1940s. Its white clapboard siding gleamed in the twilight, clean and freshly painted. A wide, wraparound porch held two rocking chairs and a hanging swing that moved gently in the evening breeze. A large, multi-paned window offered a glimpse of a living room with a heavy, dark-wood radio and a floral-patterned armchair. It was a vision of post-war domestic bliss, a picture of home. Yet, the armed figures patrolling its perimeter created a dizzying, powerful dissonance. This was where the mind, above all else, found refuge. This was where the Unemployed Assassins waited.
Standing on the porch, highlighted by the warm glow from within the house, was an old man.
He looked to be in his seventies, perhaps older, with the kind of weathered face that spoke of decades spent working under sun and wind. His skin was deeply tanned and lined, each wrinkle a map of years lived hard and earned honestly. His hair was snow-white and thin, combed back from a high forehead, revealing a face that was all angles and hollows—sharp cheekbones, a prominent nose that had clearly been broken at least once, and a strong jaw that suggested stubborn determination even in advanced age.
His eyes were the most striking feature—pale blue, almost colorless in certain lights, but sharp and clear despite his years. They were the eyes of someone who missed nothing, who had seen too much to be surprised by anything the world might show him now.
He wore clothes that belonged to another era: denim overalls over a faded flannel shirt, the fabric worn soft from countless washings. Heavy work boots, scuffed and stained, completed the picture of an old country farmer. But the rifle cradled in his arms told a different story—a modern tactical weapon, well-maintained and held with the casual competence of someone intimately familiar with its use.
As Elijah's G-Wagon rolled to a stop in front of the house, the old man descended the porch steps with surprising agility for his age, his movements economical and purposeful.
When he spoke, his voice carried the distinctive cadence of old country speech—vowels drawn out, consonants softened, a musical lilt that spoke of rural roots and a lifetime spent far from urban centers.
"Well now, welcome to the Unemployed Assassin Bureau's specialized hidden zone." He pronounced it "zown," the word stretching out in his mouth. "Name's Shimmen, been keepin' watch over this place for nigh on thirty years now." He shifted the rifle slightly, the barrel pointing safely downward. "And who might I be addressin' this evenin'?"
His tone was polite but cautious, the greeting of someone who'd seen too many strangers arrive with bad intentions to take anyone at face value.
Elijah opened the door of the G-Wagon and stepped out, his movements slow and deliberate, keeping his hands visible. The fatigue still weighed on him, but something about this place, about the ritual of passwords and gates and armed sentries, had sharpened his awareness.
Without speaking, he reached into his jacket pocket. The armed figures around the clearing tensed visibly, weapons shifting fractionally, readiness increasing.
Shimmen's pale eyes narrowed, tracking Elijah's hand as it emerged holding something that caught the lamplight and threw it back in a warm, golden glow.
It was a badge—or more accurately, a seal. The craftsmanship was exquisite, clearly ancient, made from gold that had been worked by master artisans. The design was complex: a lion in profile, rampant, with one paw raised. And atop the lion, a human figure stood with perfect balance, one arm raised high, holding a sword pointed toward the sky. The details were intricate—individual strands in the lion's mane, the figure's facial features, even the pattern on the sword's hilt. Around the edge, inscribed in letters so small they were almost illegible, was text in a language that might have been Latin or something older.
Elijah held it out, the seal resting in his palm, the gold warm from his body heat.
The reaction was immediate and dramatic.
Shimmen's weathered face went through a rapid transformation—his eyes widened until white was visible all around the pale blue irises, his mouth fell open, his grip on the rifle faltering as his arms went momentarily slack. The color drained from his face, leaving him looking gray despite his tan.
The other armed figures had similar reactions—weapons lowering fractionally, postures shifting from ready alertness to shocked recognition. One of the tactical-gear-clad sentinels actually took a step backward, as if pushed by an invisible force.
"Wait..." Shimmen's voice came out strangled, higher-pitched than before. "That's... that's the Keeper's seal. For the Unemployed Assassin Bureau. Only the Keeper who manages and controls the entire Bureau owns that. There ain't but one in the whole world, passed down through... through..."
He trailed off, his pale eyes moving from the seal to Elijah's face, then back to the seal, then back to Elijah's face again, as if his mind was trying and failing to reconcile what he was seeing with what he knew to be possible.
"That means you... you..."
His arm came up, finger pointing at Elijah with a trembling hand, the gesture almost accusatory in its shock.
"You... you... you are..."
The words wouldn't come, stuttering on his tongue, his country drawl fragmenting under the weight of his surprise. His finger wavered in the air, his whole body seemed to be having trouble deciding whether to stand rigid or collapse entirely.
Something shifted in Elijah then. The fatigue was still there—he could feel it like a weight pressing down on every muscle—but underneath it, something else rose to the surface. A calm that wasn't quite calm, a certainty that didn't come from conscious thought but from somewhere deeper.
His posture straightened, shoulders pulling back, spine lengthening. His head lifted, chin rising fractionally, his gaze becoming more direct, more commanding. His expression, which had been tight with stress and confusion, smoothed into something cooler, more controlled. Not quite cold, but definitely distant, carrying an authority that transformed his entire presence.
It was a subtle shift, but profound—the difference between someone seeking help and someone who knew, bone-deep, that help would be given because they had the absolute right to demand it.
He didn't speak. Didn't confirm or deny. Just stood there, holding the golden seal, allowing its presence to speak for him, his entire bearing radiating quiet, unshakeable authority.
Shimmen's mouth worked soundlessly for another moment, then his body moved before his mind could fully catch up with what was happening. His knees bent, his back curved, and he sank into a deep, respectful bow—not the casual nod of greeting, but the full, formal bow of a subordinate acknowledging a superior.
"Keeper," he said, his voice now steady despite the shock clearly still reverberating through him. "Forgive me for not recognizin' you immediately. It's been... well, it's been many years since the last Keeper visited this outpost."
The other armed figures followed suit immediately, dropping to one knee or bowing deeply, weapons held across their bodies in formal salute. The sentinels on the porch, the figures at the tree line, even the one partially concealed by the house's corner—all of them acknowledged Elijah's revealed status with synchronized precision.
Elijah stood at the center of this display, the G-Wagon behind him, the 1940s farmhouse ahead, surrounded by bowing figures, holding a golden seal that apparently commanded instant and complete obedience from an organization he barely understood.
And despite the exhaustion, despite the confusion, despite not fully comprehending what he'd just walked into, he maintained that calm, authoritative presence, because something deep in his instincts told him that showing weakness now—showing uncertainty—would be the wrong move.
The Keeper had returned to the Unemployed Assassin Bureau.
Whether he truly was the Keeper, whether he had any right to that title, whether this was all some elaborate trap or test—none of that mattered in this moment.
What mattered was the seal, the recognition, and the absolute certainty with which these hardened, armed professionals had surrendered their deference to him.
---
**Crestwood Police Department Headquarters**
**Front Steps**
**1:47 AM**
The night air had taken on that particular quality it only achieved in the small hours—cold enough to be uncomfortable, quiet enough that every sound seemed amplified, and empty enough to make the activity happening on the police headquarters steps feel urgent and significant.
Chief Genevieve Gray stood at the top of the steps, positioned under the security lights that illuminated the building's entrance. Her uniform was immaculate despite the late hour, every button polished, every crease sharp, her bearing suggesting she'd been awake and active for hours despite most of the city being asleep.
Before her, arranged in neat rows extending down the steps, stood approximately thirty police officers. Some were in standard uniform, others in tactical gear suggesting they'd been pulled from SWAT or special response units. All stood at attention, their faces showing that particular alertness that came from being called to urgent duty in the middle of the night—a mixture of readiness and uncertainty about what they were about to be asked to do.
Genevieve held something in her hands—a large photograph, printed on glossy paper, the kind used for official wanted posters. She held it up, ensuring everyone could see it clearly, the image catching the harsh overhead lights.
Elijah's face stared out from the photograph—his employee ID photo from Lare Biogenics, professional and neutral, giving no indication of the crimes he was now accused of committing.
"This individual right here," Genevieve's voice carried clearly in the quiet night, pitched to reach everyone without shouting, commanding attention through tone and cadence rather than volume, "has stolen a very important weapon—one that is believed to wield unbelievable power."
She paused, letting that sink in, her eyes scanning the assembled officers, ensuring she had their complete focus.
"This isn't just theft of property. This isn't just corporate espionage. This is a matter of public safety, of national security. If this weapon falls into the wrong hands, if this individual decides to sell it to hostile parties or use it for purposes we can only speculate about, the consequences could be catastrophic."
Her expression hardened, her voice taking on an edge of absolute seriousness.
"We must find him at all costs before he makes the blunder of sending this weapon to people who would use it against innocent civilians. Am I understood?"
"Yes, Chief!" The response came in unison, thirty voices speaking as one, sharp and disciplined.
Genevieve lowered the photograph slightly but kept it visible. "The last confirmed location of this individual was in the Rimen Junction area, which means he's likely heading south—away from the city, toward rural areas where he thinks he can disappear."
She gestured with her free hand, encompassing the officers before her.
"I'm authorizing overtime, resources, and cooperation with state police and federal agencies if necessary. Any officer who can locate this individual and bring him in safely will be awarded commendation and consideration for advancement. This is your chance to distinguish yourselves, to prove your value to this department."
The officers' postures straightened further, interest clearly piqued. Awards, commendations, advancement—these were powerful motivators for career-minded law enforcement.
"You have your assignments. Team leaders have been briefed on search grids and coordination protocols. Move out and bring me results."
"Yes, Chief!" Again in unison, followed by the synchronized movement of thirty people turning and heading to their assigned vehicles, the steps becoming a river of blue uniforms flowing down toward the parking lot.
Genevieve watched them go, her expression unreadable, until the last officer had disappeared from view. Then she lowered the photograph, her shoulders relaxing fractionally, her public face sliding away to reveal something more calculating underneath.
A figure emerged from the shadows near the building's entrance—a woman who'd apparently been standing there the entire time, unnoticed by the departing officers, waiting for this exact moment when she and Genevieve would be alone.
Detective Nia Halloway stepped into the light, her plain-clothes detective attire making her blend into the shadows more easily than the uniformed officers. She was in her early thirties, with sharp features and dark hair pulled back in a practical ponytail. Her expression was neutral, professional, but her eyes showed intelligence and curiosity about why she'd been specifically asked to remain behind.
"Miss Halloway," Genevieve said, her tone shifting to something more personal, more conspiratorial, though still maintaining the authority of her position. "I want you to do a favor for me—one that will be of great merit if you can accomplish it successfully."
Nia's posture remained respectfully formal, but something in her eyes sharpened with interest. "Any service that will be of the greater good, I'm willing to perform it, Chief."
The response was immediate, earnest, carrying that particular idealism that still existed in some officers despite years of seeing the worst humanity had to offer. Nia clearly believed in serving the public good, in protecting and serving, in all the principles that were supposed to guide law enforcement.
Genevieve's lips curved into a smile—not warm, not friendly, but satisfied. It was the smile of someone who'd just heard exactly what they wanted to hear, who'd identified the perfect tool for a particular job.
The smile carried an edge of something darker, something that suggested the "greater good" Nia believed she was serving might not align perfectly with the actual good that would result from whatever task Genevieve was about to assign.
It was a smile that promised secrets, that hinted at agendas within agendas, that suggested this conversation was only the beginning of something far more complex than a simple manhunt for a corporate thief.
Genevieve stepped closer to Nia, her voice dropping lower, more intimate, ensuring their conversation remained private even though the steps were now empty.
And in the cold, quiet night, under the harsh security lights of the Crestwood Police Department headquarters, a new piece was moved into position on a board whose full scope neither woman fully understood.