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The room smells of mold and metal. A single UV lamp flickers on the wall, painting long shadows across the cracked floor. Hakon stands near the center, arms folded, trying not to show how much his nerves are eating him alive.
The man across from him smiles like a shark. Waltz doesn’t blink. He never does. The faint hum of machinery fills the silence between them, steady and low, like a heartbeat that doesn’t belong to either of them.
“You know why you’re here,” Waltz says finally, his tone soft, almost gentle. It makes it worse.
Hakon’s jaw tightens. “You want something. You always want something.”
Waltz’s grin widens. He steps closer, slow and deliberate. “The GRE key. Commander Lucas has it. You’re going to get it for me.”
Hakon laughs, short and bitter. “You think I can just walk into the PK headquarters and take it from him? The man’s guarded by a small army.”
“I know you can,” Waltz says. “You were a Nightrunner. You were trained to move unseen. You’ve done worse for less.”
Hakon’s fists clench. “Not like this.”
Waltz circles him, voice calm, almost fatherly. “I’ve read your file. Soldier. Taxi driver. Hero. Survivor. Always the man who does what he must. Even when it costs him.” He stops behind Hakon and lowers his voice. “You still visit the Bazaar sometimes, don’t you? The Fish Eye. I’ve seen your pattern. You keep to the rooftops, but you always look down. Always checking that they’re still breathing.”
Hakon turns to face him. “Leave them out of this.”
Waltz’s smile fades. “I don’t have to touch them. All I have to do is tell a few men where to go. You know how the Renegades like to play.” He glances toward the UV lamp, the shadows stretching like claws across the wall. “Lawan, for example. She’s a fighter, yes, but even fighters sleep sometimes. Would you like me to remind her how fragile the human body is?”
Hakon’s voice drops, quiet and shaking with rage. “You bastard.”
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Waltz says, unbothered. “You do this for me, and everyone you care about keeps breathing. You refuse, and Villedor starts bleeding before dawn. I can start at the Fish Eye, or maybe the Bazaar. Whichever breaks you faster.”
Hakon’s chest rises and falls, his throat tight. He wants to hit Waltz, to tear him apart, but nothing he strikes would change a thing. Waltz controls too many people, too many knives, and he’s far too unstable with all the experiments he runs on himself.
“You said it yourself once,” Waltz murmurs. “Heroes are just killers with better excuses. So find one. Bring me the key.”
The UV light sputters, dying for a heartbeat before flickering back on. Hakon’s face looks hollow in the glow, the soldier and the man at war beneath the surface.
He stares at Waltz for a long time, then nods once. Just once.
“Fine,” he says, voice barely more than a whisper. “But if you touch her, if you touch any of them, I’ll come for you.”
Waltz smiles again. “You already are.”
He steps past Hakon, his coat brushing the man’s arm as he leaves. The door shuts with a hollow metallic thud that echoes in the dark.
Hakon stands there for a long time, breathing hard. The UV lamp hums above him, throwing light across his scarred hands.
When he finally moves, it isn’t out of courage. It’s out of guilt.