BERLIN — 12:02 P.M.
Home smelled like onions and soap.
The smell hit Nico the moment he shut the door behind him, gentle and grounding. He closed it quietly, more out of habit than necessity, and slipped out of his shoes near the entrance. The apartment lights were on, warm and low, the way his mother liked them. Somewhere in the living room, the television murmured through an afternoon news segment, voices rising and falling without anyone truly listening.
The place felt lived in. Not tidy. Not messy. Just occupied.
Molly sat at the small dining table with her laptop open in front of her. It was an old thing, bulky and scuffed, its fan whining softly as if complaining about being awake. Stacks of books surrounded her like barricades. Notes were taped to the edges of the table, illustrations drawn in tight handwriting, pages marked and bent from repeated use.
She looked up when she heard him.
"You're early."
He shrugged, letting his old wornout jacket fall over the back of a chair.
"So you failed, huh?" she added, already half-smiling.
"Yeah," Nico said. "Bakery didn't work out."
She closed the laptop, "You okay?"
"Yeah," he replied automatically. Then, after a pause, "I got invited for another job, though."
Her eyebrows lifted. "That was fast."
"Strange fast."
She studied him for a moment longer than usual, her eyes flicking over his face as if checking for damage he hadn't mentioned. Then she nodded once.
"Well," she said, "at least you got something. Not a bad day, then."
He didn't correct her.
"I'll take a bath," he said, already moving toward the small hallway.
"Lunch after," she called. "It's Sunday. Lets make something good together!"
The shower ran hot, steam crawling up the tiled walls as Nico stood beneath the water longer than necessary. It beat against his shoulders and back, the sound loud enough to blur his thoughts. The noise in his head softened, settling into something manageable.
He rested his forehead against the wall once, then straightened.
When he stepped out, hair damp and skin warm, Molly was already in the kitchen.
"What for lunch?" she asked.
"You choose."
She grinned. "Good answer."
They weren't poor. But they counted. Middle-class counting. Enough food if you were careful. Enough comfort if you didn't waste it. No room for impulse. No room for mistakes that cost money.
"What do we have?" Nico asked.
Molly checked the pantry. "Some ground beef. Pasta. And—" she paused, pleased, "—some wine left."
She turned toward him. "Spaghetti Bolognese?"
Nico raised his thumb. "Perfect."
They cooked together.
Olive oil warmed slowly in the pan, shimmering when it was ready. Onions diced fine. Garlic crushed gently under the flat of a knife. The beef browned patiently, breaking apart under the wooden spoon. Salt. Pepper. Tomato paste stirred in until the smell deepened and filled the kitchen.
A splash of wine followed, sharp at first, then mellowing as it cooked down.
"Low heat," Molly reminded him.
"I know," Nico said. "Let it simmer."
The pasta boiled in salted water, steam fogging the small kitchen windows slightly as the sauce thickened.
Cooking felt peaceful.
It always had.
"I'll get Mom," Molly said.
Their mother spent most of her days resting in the bedroom. The apartment was modest but spacious enough. Three rooms.
One for their parents.
One that had belonged to their grandfather.
One Nico and Molly had shared when they were little.
Nico barely remembered his grandfather.
Only fragments remained. Dark skin. A deep voice. A large hand resting on his head once. African descent, his father had said. There were no photographs of him on the walls.
Only one frame hung in the hallway.
Five people.
Him.
Molly, a toddler clinging to his leg.
Their parents.
And a boy slightly older than Nico.
Samuel.
His brother.
Kind, his father had said. Strong in morals even as a child.
Molly stepped out of the bedroom with their mother.
Their mother looked weak.
The accident had happened years ago. A head injury. She had survived. But her memory fractured. Large parts of her past slipped away without warning. Her strength had also faded with time.
The woman in the photographs and the woman standing before him felt like two different people.
She wore a simple blue gown. Comfortable. Clean. Her black hair was tied into a bun streaked with gray. She was frail, but her posture remained upright. A scar traced her scalp, mostly hidden beneath her hair.
She looked at Nico with her gray eyes. The same eyes that Nico and Molly inherited.
He held his breath.
"Nico," she said gently, "did you get your job today?"
"Yes," Nico said quickly, smiling. "I did."
Her face brightened.
"Oh good," she said. "It smells nice. What have my two chefs cooked today?"
"Spaghetti Bolognese," Molly announced proudly.
"Oh lovely," their mother replied. "Shall we? I'm hungry."
They ate together.
No rush. No tension. Just food, warmth, and quiet laughter. Their mother talked about things that didn't matter anymore. Molly listened anyway. Nico nodded where appropriate.
After lunch, Nico retreated to his room.
The evening passed quietly. They cooked again. Their mother helped. Their father didn't come home. Berlin still had him at work.
By the time Nico lay down, it was past one.
The ceiling stared back at him.
Tomorrow.
'Made for this.'
Sleep came slowly.
***
BERLIN — 08:27 A.M.
Nico was late.
Again.
He ran the last block, breath sharp in his chest, shoes slapping against wet pavement. Lindower Street came into view just as the clock on his phone ticked past the half hour.
"Damn it."
Bailey's Garden sat between a laundromat and a closed tailor shop. Its windows were wide and clean, framed with ivy and frost. Inside, flowers filled the space with color and order. Too much order.
Nico slowed.
The sign read OPEN.
He stepped inside.
The air inside the shop was alive in a way streets never were. Not loud. Not aggressive. Just present. Damp earth. Crushed stems. The faint bitterness of sap clinging to the back of the throat.
Morning light spilled through the front windows in pale sheets, catching glass vases and turning water into thin, trembling mirrors.
Flowers everywhere. Too many to count. Too many to pretend they were decoration alone.
Nico stood just inside the entrance, unsure whether to step forward or not.
A young woman stood behind the counter, trimming a bouquet with steady hands. Her movements were economical, practiced. Scissors whispered. Stems fell. She neither rushed nor fidgeted, as if time behaved differently around her.
She had black hair and dark eyes, both calm, observant. She wore fitted blue jeans and a white full-length sweater, crisp and well kept. Nothing loose. Nothing ornamental.
The contrast was subtle but striking, giving her an air that was quiet, composed, almost reverent. Someone who did not dress to be noticed, yet rarely went unseen.
She looked towards nico.
"Buongiorno," she said, smiling easily. "What can I get for you?"
The accent caught him off guard. Italian. Soft but precise.
"I—" Nico cleared his throat. "I was told to come here. For… a job."
The woman waited. Patient.
"Mr. Christovan," Nico added.
The smile didn't vanish.
It shifted. Just enough.
Her eyes flicked, briefly, toward the back of the shop. Not alarmed. Not curious. More like confirmation.
"You will hear it from him," she said gently.
She gestured to a chair near the counter.
"Please. Sit."
Nico hesitated, then obeyed.
"I'm Nicholas," he offered, mostly to fill the silence.
"Julienne," she replied, already turning back to her flowers. "Grace."
He nodded, even though he didn't know what the word 'Grace' meant here.
Time behaved strangely in Bailey's Garden.
Customers drifted in and out as if on a separate clock. A man bought roses with nervous hands. A woman argued softly over lilies. Julienne greeted each with warmth that never felt rehearsed. She trimmed, wrapped, replaced.
Petals fell. Were swept away. New ones took their place.
Nico sat with his hands clasped, watching the cycle repeat.
At 08:55 A.M., the bell above the door rang.
Peter entered.
Not the same man from the alley. Not entirely.
He wore a blue-and-beige suit that should have looked loud, but didn't. Over it hung a brown trench coat, tailored in a way that completed the silhouette rather than competing with it. Everything sat where it was meant to, as if the shop itself had been built with his arrival in mind.
As he stepped inside, he removed his beige paperboy hat in a small, courteous gesture.
Beneath it, blond hair was combed neatly into a disciplined side part, untouched by the morning. His eyes were blue. Steady. Focused. A scar on his left cheek, unnoticeable.
His posture was relaxed. Almost light.
He looked… awake.
"Good morning, Julienne," he said. "Grace."
She inclined her head slightly. "Grace."
Peter paused, then asked casually, "Is it peaceful today?"
Julianne smiled, the kind of smile that knew the question was never literal.
"As much as it ever is."
Peter nodded, satisfied.
Then he noticed Nico.
"Oh," he said mildly. "Our guest is here."
Nico stood fast. too fast. "Good morning, sir."
Peter replied. "Good morning Nicholas. Grace."
"Grace," Nico echoed, unsure why the word felt heavier this time.
Peter chuckled softly. "Grace... It is an old greeting."
He didn't explain.
Instead, he gestured toward the back of the shop. "Shall we?"
They moved past the counter, through a doorway Nico could have sworn hadn't been there a moment ago.
Behind it was not storage. It was a garden.
Small. Open to the sky. Hidden in plain impossibility behind a flower shop. Rows of flowers lined the walls. A central worktable held scissors of different shapes, each laid out with care. A large tub nearby held floral foam soaking in water, dark and patient.
Nico slowed.
'A garden behind a flower shop? That's… excessive.'
In the far right corner stood another door.
Old. Wooden. Unmarked.
It led into the closed tailor shop next door.
Peter turned his head toward Julienne. She met his gaze and nodded back. No words were exchanged.
Together with nico he walked towards the door.
With a smooth click the door opened.
Inside. The tailor shop was dark. Silent. Clean. Too clean to be exact.
Peter crossed the room and knelt, lifting a corner of the carpet.
A hidden door.
Nico's heartbeat quickened. Not fear. Excitement.
'Wait... is this what i think it is!'
Peter opened it.
No dust fell or lifted.
Peter pressed a switch, which was embedded on the wall near the second step. Lights hummed to life, revealing tiled steps descending into the earth.
They continued down the steps.
The air cooled with every level. The sound of the world above thinned until Nico could no longer tell whether it still existed.
Halfway down, he noticed it.
At the end of the corridor, embedded cleanly into the stone, stood a lift.
Peter stopped in front of it and pressed the call button.
The doors slid open without a sound.
Inside, the space was larger than Nico expected. Wide enough for a dozen people. The walls were brushed metal, warm under dim amber lighting. Not dark. Never dark. Just restrained. Purposeful. Like whoever built this understood that fear didn't need shadows to grow.
Peter stepped in.
Nico followed. Hiding his excitement.
The doors closed, sealing them inside with a soft, final hush.
Peter reached out and pressed a single button.
B.
The lift began to descend.
The hum was small and steady, vibrating faintly through the floor beneath Nico's shoes. Seconds passed. Then more. The number display didn't change. There was no sense of speed. Only depth.
A minute went by.
Nico swallowed.
They were going very far down.
"You don't have questions?" Peter asked, voice calm, almost curious.
Nico startled. "I—yes. I do."
Peter smiled faintly. "Good."
The lift continued its quiet fall.
"I know this is odd," Peter said, "This whole job thing is suspicious. But don't be scared."
'i am not!' nico exclaimed inside.
Peter glanced sideways, just briefly.
"This is not a shady Job. This is something which needs people like you."
"Someone who is calm in the face of danger."
"Someone who is curious..."
Nico's chest tightened. Pressure.
Peter straightened, hands clasped behind his back.
"My name is Peter Christovan," he said. "But many know me as CEPHAS."
The lift slowed.
"We work for an organization older than nations," Peter went on, voice steady. "Older than borders. Older than flags."
A soft ding echoed.
"We serve people," Peter said. "Also we don't."
The doors began to part.
"Our work is sustenance... Sustenance of the world."
A flood of light poured in.
White. Clean. Overwhelming.
Nico squinted, instinctively raising a hand. It felt like standing at the mouth of a cave after years underground, vision struggling to catch up with reality.
Beyond the threshold stretched something impossible.
Something that made nico roared inside.
'No way this is real!'