“I want it done again.”

  The command booms through the near-empty room, its weight settling like a storm cloud over the already tense atmosphere.

  A timid professor flinches, his grip tightening on the edges of his rumpled lab coat, as if it were armor against the verbal onslaught.

  “Sir, I strongly advise against that,” The Professor says, his voice unsteady. “We’re down to our last F-15.” He adjusts his glasses, pressing them firmly against the bridge of his nose, as if bracing himself. “I don’t know where the hell that thing came from, but I can assure you—it was never meant to merge with human technology.”

  For a moment, silence. Then, the General spares him a glance, cold and indifferent, before repeating— “Again.”

  The professor’s restraint snaps. “That thing has obliterated every last piece of technology it’s touched!” He erupts. “I have tried my very best—”

  A single movement cuts him short. The General lunges, seizing him by the collar of his lab coat, lifting him nearly off the ground.

  “You’re not being paid to try,” the General growls, voice dangerously low. “You’re being paid to give us results.” His grip tightens. “Six months, Professor. We've been here six months, and we still have nothing to show for it.”

  The professor struggles, fingers clawing at the iron grip on his coat. “I—I’m trying—”

  “My patience thins by the second,” the General warns, his breath hot against the professor’s ear. “And when I run out of patience, I am a very ugly man.”

  A hesitant cough interrupts them. A sergeant approaches, stiff-backed, a sheet of paper clutched in her hand. She salutes, though uncertainty laces her voice.

  “Sir.”

  The General inhales deeply, blinking as if shaking off the fire behind his eyes. He releases the professor with a forceful shove, making an effort—however insincere—to straighten the man’s crumpled coat.

  “At ease.”

  The sergeant relaxes ever so slightly. “The reports you requested, sir.”

  The General snatches the paper with barely concealed irritation. “Update?”

  “It took some extra digging, sir, but it’s a perfect match.” Her voice carries a note of excitement, as if she herself cannot believe it.

  The General grunts. “I wish I could say I’m surprised.”

  “Also we’ve acquired the item." At this she nods emphatically. "It’s en route as we speak.”

  A slow, knowing smirk curls at the General’s lips. He turns toward the professor, holding up the paper like a final nail in a coffin.

  “Would you look at that?” His tone is almost mocking. “Good news all around.”

  The professor leans forward, peering at the document. His expression shifts—first to shock, then to something sharper. Skepticism.

  “That’s impossible.” He shakes his head, eyes scanning the paper again, as if reading it a second time might change what’s in front of him. “I know it’s been a while since first-year biology, but this is—”

  “Turns out ‘impossible’ is a lot more flexible than you think.” The General clasps a heavy hand on the professor’s shoulder, a deliberate gesture laced with threat. “And on that note, I expect nothing but good news from you this time.”

  The weight of the warning lingers as he strides away.

  The professor exhales, frustration twisting his features, before belatedly remembering the sergeant still at his side. He clears his throat. “Where exactly was this asset found?”

  She smiles, a glint of amusement in her eyes. “Funny enough? A coffee shop. California.”

  With that, she turns, leaving him alone in the sterile, dimly lit room—staring after her, mind racing.

  ~~~

  Alex skids to a stop beside Chris, doubled over and panting for breath. She drags in one last gulp of air before straightening, only to meet his gaze—cool, assessing, unimpressed. Typical.

  She studies him in turn. The deep shadows beneath his eyes. The stubborn goatee he refuses to shave, despite her constant nagging. Mid-life crisis, Akio had called it. Except Chris was in fact not in his midlife, and was instead a 65 year old man.

  “It’s 3:32,” he notes, voice even, glancing at his watch like he hadn’t already committed the exact minute of her tardiness to memory.

  Alex immediately drops the breathless act, rolling her shoulders back in silent acceptance of being caught. “I know.”

  “You were supposed to be here at 3:20.” A mild scolding, more observation than reprimand.

  She pulls a slightly crumpled bouquet from behind her back, holding it out in offering. “Had to stop for flowers. And park the car.”

  Chris eyes the bouquet with faint suspicion. “And that explains why you’re breathing like you ran a marathon?”

  Alex exhales. “You threatened me, Chris.”

  He finally looks away, still not taking the flowers. “Not my fault your cardio’s shit.”

  She lifts a brow. “You're going to swear in front of Lilian?” She gestures toward the tombstone they stand before.

  LILIAN JORDAN. WIFE, MOTHER, FRIEND.

  If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

  Alex kneels, setting the flowers down with quiet reverence.

  “She’d make an exception,” Chris mutters, voice softer now, the edges dulled by something unreadable.

  Alex smiles—small, secret.

  “You okay?” she asks, eyes still on the headstone.

  “I’m fine.”

  He doesn’t sound as convincing as he thinks he does. She doesn’t call him on it, just watches him for a moment, seeing through his bullshit like always.

  A beat of silence. Then—

  “Want a hug?” she offers.

  Chris scoffs. “If you want a hug, Alex, all you gotta do is ask.”

  She nods, reading between the lines like only she knows how. “I’d like one, then.”

  They embrace, and as Chris exhales, a single tear that Alex pretends not to see slips down his cheek.

  Alex strides into the kitchen, the muffled beat of her music still thumping in her ears. Headphones snug over her head, she almost doesn’t notice the whirlwind of chaos unfolding in front of her. Lilian is elbow-deep in the top cabinets, rummaging through them with reckless determination. Alex yanks her headphones off just in time to see a pot teeter on the edge of a shelf, seconds from disaster.

  She lunges.

  “What are you doing?” she pants, barely catching the pot before it smacks Lilian square in the head.

  Lilian blinks up at her, entirely unfazed. “Pots. I can't find the pots.” She huffs, sweet as ever.

  Alex stares at the very pot she just rescued from becoming a murder weapon. Then she gestures toward the bottom left cupboard. “Try there.”

  Lilian tugs it open, her face lighting up at the sight of her long-lost quarry. “Oh. You are a lifesaver, Alexandria.”

  “Mm-hm,” Alex hums, arms folding. “What exactly do you need them for?”

  “For the dinner I’m making.” Lilian announces, already filling the biggest pot she can find with water.

  Alex freezes. A chill slithers down her spine. Lilian cooking? Bad idea. Zero stars. Would not recommend. Both your small and large intestines would appreciate the omission.

  “Um,” Alex starts, voice tight, “Gideon makes dinner.” A statement, not a suggestion. Her eyes flick around the kitchen, as if Gideon might be cowering behind the spice rack, waiting to be summoned. “Where is Gideon?”

  Lilian shrugs. “Called in sick. So, we’re making do with the next best thing—me.”

  She hauls the half-full pot onto the stove. Alex winces, already mourning the meal before it exists.

  How did one put this lightly?

  “Yeah, but … you can’t cook.”

  “I know.” Lilian grins, undeterred. “That’s why I have the YouTube.” She waves a ladle toward her phone, which is buried under an alarming mountain of spoons.

  Alex seizes. Absolutely not.

  “Okay.” She plucks the ladle from Lilian’s grip and switches the stove off with finality. “Perhaps I should cook dinner. It’s been a while, anyway.”

  Lilian blinks at her. “Do you even know how?”

  Alex smirks, rolling up her sleeves with exaggerated flair. “Fran?ois Massialot and I once prepared a feast so irresistible, Philippe I, Duke of Orléans, practically ate himself to death.”

  Beat.

  “I have no idea what that means.” Lilian blinks.

  “Yeah, you wouldn’t.”

  Lilian chuckles. “Is there anything you don’t know?”

  “Actually,” Alex muses, poking her head into the fridge, “emojis.”

  Lilian’s chuckle morphs into full-blown laughter.

  “Need any help?”

  “No, I think I’ll be fine.” Alex deposits an armful of vegetables straight from the fridge into the kitchen sink.

  Lilian backs away, hands raised in surrender. “Alright. Yell if you need any stew advice or—y’know—anything at all.”

  “I promise.”

  But just as Lilian reaches the doorway, Alex remembers something crucial.

  “Lilian?”

  “Yeah?”

  Alex nods toward the pile of spoons. “Don’t forget ‘the YouTube.’”

  Chris breaks the hug. His hand still lingering on Alex’s shoulder, his gaze sweeps over her in meticulous scrutiny.

  She rolls her eyes. “I’m good.”

  He grins, wide and unfiltered, squeezing her shoulder with a warmth that never seems to wane. “I know. I just—this? I will never not be excited about this.”

  The smile slips from his face as something catches his eye—a shadow under the oak tree. He stiffens, shoulders going taut.

  Alex notices immediately. “What?”

  Chris doesn’t answer at first, just tilts his head toward the tree. “We’ve got company.”

  Alex follows his gaze, squinting. “I didn’t know you invited friends.”

  “I didn’t.” His voice is clipped. “Stay here.”

  “I’m not a child, Chris.” She bristles.

  “Alex.” His patience frays at the edges. “Please, just give me a minute.”

  “That’s sixty seconds, and I’m counting!” she calls after him as he strides away.

  The closer he gets, the clearer the unwelcome figures become.

  The General stands at parade rest, exuding quiet authority, stood beside him is a younger, jittery man that Chris recalls as a Professor the army poached from his prospective hires a couple of years ago. He’d been impressed by the young man’s theses and overachieving accomplishments, hardly getting a chance to meet him before he was whisked away by the army.

  The man is clutching a very pretentious bouquet of flowers in hand, colors and arrangement exceptionally wrong for the occasion. It almost distracts Chris from his irritation. Almost.

  Chris stops in front of them, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his black pants. His voice is low and unimpressed. “Let me get this straight. You followed me to a goddamn cemetery?”

  The General offers a slow, deliberate shrug, amusement barely veiled beneath his stoic demeanor. “You’re a hard man to reach.”

  Chris exhales sharply through his nose. “What do you want?”

  “You know what we want.” The General’s tone is laced with unspoken intent.

  Chris frowns. “I told you—I’m retired. Not that I’d help you even if I wasn’t. But, unfortunately for you, I am.”

  The General barely seems to register his words, eyes drifting past Chris to where Alex stands in the distance. “Your children,” he muses, “seem to be talented in some of the most extraordinary ways.” His voice turns almost wistful, and Chris’ jaw locks. Fists clenching inside his pockets.

  Without another word, he turns on his heel. “We’re done here.”

  “That’s a shame,” the General calls after him, the severe smugness of his tone halting Chris. “I was hoping we’d have a civil discussion.” He nods. A silent command. The Professor fumbles into his briefcase, pulling out a crisp sheet of paper and thrusting it forward.

  Chris glances at it warily. “What is this?”

  “Something you definitely need to look at.”

  Chris' lips press into a thin line. With a begrudging sigh, he snatches the paper from the man’s trembling hands, patting his pockets for his reading glasses—only to come up empty.

  Irritated, he reaches out and plucks the pair off the Professor’s nose instead.

  The man squeaks. “That’s mine—okay.”

  Chris skims the document, his expression unreadable, save for the slow, bitter smile curling at the edges of his mouth. He pulls off the glasses, dangling them between two fingers.

  “Really now?”

  “I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this. But we need your help.” The General’s voice drips with insincere regret.

  Chris lets out a low, humorless chuckle. “So blackmail as a last resort?”

  “This is happening one way or another, Mr. Jordan.” The General’s gaze flickers once more to Alex. “I’d suggest you take the path of least resistance.”

  Chris follows his eyes, his gut twisting at the silent, looming threat.

  One last, hard look at the General, and he tosses both the letter and the Professor’s glasses straight into the trash before turning away.

  The smaller man winces at the act. “It's alright I have a spare.“

  “We’ll see you bright and early Monday morning,” the General calls after him.

  Chris doesn’t look back.

  Behind him, a sleek black SUV with tinted windows rolls up to the curb. The General practically man-handles the Professor inside before sliding in himself, his smirk firmly in place as the vehicle pulls away.

  Chris stands there a moment longer, jaw tight, before finally heading back to Alex.

  She greets him with an unimpressed stare. “That was way more than sixty seconds.” Her eyes scan his face, cataloging the tension, the furrowed brows. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, they couldn’t stay.” He lies, shaking off his despondent demeanor. “By the way, I'm going to need a lift home.”

  Her gaze narrows. “Uh-huh. And where’s your car?”

  Chris purses his lips.

  Alex looks around, brow furrowing. “Wait—how the hell did you even get here?”

  A slow, almost amused smirk tugs at his lips, never one to turn down an opportunity to mystify Alex. “You know… now that I think about it, I have no idea.” He turns, heading toward her car like nothing happened.

  Alex trails behind, exhaling sharply through her nose, the embodiment of done.