The heavy metal door creaked open, revealing the interior of the welding shop. The shop stood on the family land, a few yards away from the house. It was lit by the flaming fires of the ovens and welding stations. Burnt grease, metal and oil coated the air. Sparks danced in the shadows, casting an eerie glow on the tools and machinery that lined the walls. In the center of the room, a forge glowed like a malevolent eye. Its fiery breath spawned dancing shadows on the weapons that hung from the ceiling – swords, axes, maces, each gleaming with a deadly promise.

  Jeffrey sat hunched over a workbench, his eyes focused as he scrutinized a sheaf of papers. The light from a bare bulb above cast harsh shadows on his face. The light accentuated the lines of worry around his eyes. Militantly, he looked up as Olt entered.

  Olt shuffled into the room. He felt a knot of unease tighten in his stomach as he approached Jeffrey. Anxiety amplified his nerves.

  "Jeff, I'm about to call Ganjo. I figured I'd let you know, in case there's anything you want me to say. You know he'll take your words more seriously than mine."

  Jeffrey's attention drifted away from Olt, a knot of worry tightening in his stomach. It was a familiar sensation. During his days as a spy, this feeling often crept up before embarking on a risky operation. Despite his ability to convincingly portray whatever character the operation required, the fear never quite dissipated. It always manifested as an uncomfortable churning in his gut, a constant reminder of his own vulnerability.

  A wry smile tugged at Jeffrey's lips as he recalled how this nervous habit had once earned him an unfortunate nickname among his peers: the crop duster. The memory brought a chuckle, a brief respite from the tension that squeezed within him.

  "You’re losing it," Olt said sarcastically.

  Jeffrey shifted in his seat. He focused on a magnificent Acinaces sword hanging on the wall behind Olt. The sword, with its short, straight blade and crescent-shaped hilt, was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, its gleaming surface reflecting the light from the forge.

  "It's only been a few hours since you dropped that bombshell. I haven't quite processed it all, yet."

  Silence settled between them for a brief moment. The only sound was the crackling of the forge. Jeffrey's eyes remained fixed on the sword.

  "Do you think you have what it takes to be merciless, violent and brutal?"

  Jeffrey's question caught Olt off guard. It wasn't the question itself that surprised him, but rather the timing.

  Olt's mind drifted back to his childhood. Growing up under Jeffrey, the strictest of his family members, was full of mixed emotions. Jeffrey had always pushed Olt to step outside his comfort zone. During puberty, when Olt found solace in books and history discussions with Omar, Jeffrey insisted he engage in physical activities. Washing cars, cleaning the shop, even standing in the sweltering heat as Jeffrey pounded away at metal – these were Jeffrey's methods to toughen him up.

  As Olt entered high school, the heavy housework ceased, replaced by rigorous training in physical combat. Now, in his mid-twenties, Olt realized the value of Jeffrey's methods. They had shaped him into a well-rounded man, capable of handling both physical and intellectual challenges.

  Jeffrey knew of Olt's shy and reclusive tendencies. But as Olt matured, Jeffrey took it upon himself to ensure that this predisposition didn't hinder him.

  "You calling me a fruitcake?" Olt retorted, a sly smirk playing on his lips.

  “You’re more of a sour candy, hard on the outside, squishy on the inside,” Ganjo playfully added.

  They exchanged a warm smile, allowing it to slowly fade away.

  "Just like you," Olt admitted, "I haven't had time to truly process what might be coming."

  He paused, his eyes wandering away.

  "For the past few days, I've just been reacting, doing what you taught me to do – handle the problem and find the solution."

  He glanced at the tools and machinery lining the walls, their sharp edges gleaming in the light.

  "Except the solution seems more and more desperate."

  Jeffrey nodded, his expression softening.

  "I understand. And I'm sorry if I've been a bit too much lately."

  He shifted in his seat, the metal chair creaking beneath him.

  "But I've reacted that way because my biggest fear is having to go back to a past I gladly left behind a long time ago. I've been in denial, thinking Hadic wouldn't come after people like me, Ganjo, and Rebecca."

  Troubled intensity filled Jeffrey’s eyes.

  "But the only way I'd be able to fight Hadic's fire is with more fire. I don’t want to put you and the family through that."

  Jeffrey pointed at the Acinaces sword hanging behind Olt.

  "Men like us, we use swords, axes, melee weapons to protect ourselves. But the Dasa Vech, Hadic's men-they don't play by the rules. They'll come at you with firearms, tanks, bombs – even though it's blasphemy across our society to use such technology."

  As he released a deep sigh, he stood up from his seat and crossed his arms.

  "The battle is not equal. It means men like you and me have to resort to utter cruelty to survive."

  Jeffrey stood up from his seat and walked up to Olt. He placed his hands on his shoulders. And looked at him firmly in the eyes.

  "It's obvious what our decision needs to be. But I need you to answer my question, yes or no. Do you think you have what it takes to fight?

  Jeffrey, though barely in his mid-forties, held the values and customs of an older generation. Men like Omar – men who believed in honor and word. Olt understood the weight of his answer, the gravity of the situation. In these circumstances, your word was all you had. It was a bond, a contract, a commitment as strong as any written agreement. The unfortunate truth, however, was that Olt did not have a choice. Although Jeffrey would understand if he said no, Olt would not allow himself to choose that option.

  “Yes Jeff,” Olt replied with unwavering eyes.

  Olt was dressed in grey sweat-resistant gym shorts and a faded t-shirt. He was barefoot, sweating, and struggling as he fought against another young man. They were in one of the several training facilities contained in Ganjo’s gym. A makeshift stage was constructed at the room’s center. The stage was circular, built upon a raised platform, and ringed by stacks of tires. Simple steps led up to the stage, where Olt and his opponent were engaged in an intense sparring session.

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  The building's interior was bathed in soft, ambient light streaming through a row of windows high on the left wall. The walls of the building were a muted gray, showing signs of wear and tear. The floor was concrete. Above them there was a high ceiling with exposed beams and rafters. Industrial lighting fixtures hung down. In the background, a mezzanine overlooked the main floor, accessible by a staircase.

  To the left of the stage, several benches were arranged. Towards the right side of the stage, there was a cluttered assortment of equipment and materials. This included exercise equipment, tools, and construction materials. A large banner hung on the back wall, depicting a female figure engaged in dynamic exercise poses.

  Ganjo observed them from the edge of the ring, his arms crossed. Another older gentleman, Martin Gijon, stood next to Ganjo. He analyzed Olt with a thoughtful expression.

  "He's got good form," Martin commented, his voice low and steady. "But he's not aggressive enough."

  "He's still learning," Ganjo replied, his eyes following Olt's every move. "He's got potential."

  Olt launched a high kick against his opponent, which was then used against him, as his opponent grabbed his leg and pulled it, causing Olt to lose his balance and land on the floor with a thud. The opponent then began to kick Olt against his rib cage. Although the pain radiated throughout Olt’s mid-section, he knew his opponent was holding back.

  "He needs to be more aware of his surroundings," Martin said, his eyes narrowed. "He's too focused on his own attacks."

  "He'll learn," Ganjo said again, a hint of pride in his voice.

  As Olt's opponent attempted the fourth kick, Olt rolled over, narrowly avoiding the blow. His opponent missed the kick but charged further and grabbed Olt, attempting to perform a suplex. But Olt successfully dodged it by drilling his knee into his opponent's stomach. This weakened his opponent. Using this to his advantage, Olt placed his opponent into a DDT, slamming his head towards the mat of the ring.

  "That's it!" Ganjo exclaimed, a grin spreading across his face. "He's starting to get it."

  Martin nodded silently in agreement.

  Olt stood over his fallen opponent, his chest heaving and his body slick with sweat. He looked up at Ganjo and Martin, a triumphant smile on his face.

  "How did I do?"

  "Your flow is getting much better. That’s the key. You don’t want to force it," Ganjo replied.

  Ganjo then called out.

  "Alright, that's enough for today.”

  He stepped onto the ring, the worn wooden planks groaning beneath his weight. The other young man, his chest heaving, looked at Ganjo exhausted, but relieved.

  "Help me organize the weights," Ganjo instructed, his tone firm but kind. "You can go once you're done."

  The young man nodded and went to work, his movements stiff and sore. Ganjo turned to Olt, a sly grin spreading across his face.

  "Martin wants a word with you. Don't worry, he doesn't bite."

  Olt glanced at Martin, who waved him over, as he made his way towards the benches. Olt approached the benches and shook hands with Martin. They sat down.

  "Jeffrey and Ganjo have told me you're about to finish your university studies," Martin said with a whisper.

  He continued.

  "Do you have any plans after you graduate?"

  Olt paused, catching his breath.

  "Well, pardon my bluntness sir, but Jeffrey told me you promised him a role for me at the Institute."

  Waving a dismissive hand, Martin chuckled.

  "There's no need to apologize. I did speak to Jeffrey about wanting fresh, young talent. We need people like you leading the future of Synoro."

  He paused, his eyes twinkling.

  "I wanted to take the chance to speak to you directly. Jeffrey told me much about you. And Ganjo sees promise in your fighting skills. But, what does Olt have to say?

  Olt frowned.

  "What do you mean?"

  Martin leaned closer.

  “A smart kid like you. Surely, you can think for yourself.”

  Olt had always wondered about the enigmatic Martin. The man was a figure who commanded respect and influence on par with Oliver Nader, yet chose to operate from the shadows. Jeffrey spoke of Martin with a curious reluctance, a subtle distrust. This revelation painted a picture of their relationship – one devoid of trust. The concept of leadership was replaced by the cold, transactional nature of handlers and their assets.

  Turning to meet Martin, Olt spoke with measured conviction.

  "If there's one thing I am certain of sir, it's my own choices. And right now, I choose to make them based on loyalty. I am loyal to my loved ones, especially after the sacrifices they’ve made for me. A man in your position understands that implicitly, I'm sure."

  Martin's interest in Olt deepened. This young man, with his unwavering principles and quiet defiance, intrigued him.

  "Indeed," Martin concurred, a subtle hint of admiration in his tone.

  Olt pressed further. His anxiety betrayed his boldness.

  "Since you've come all this way, I have to ask, what is it you want?"

  The question was a challenge veiled in respect. Olt was acutely aware that questioning a man of Martin's stature was a risky gambit, yet he couldn't silence his conscience.

  As the sun began its descent, the light streaming through the gym's windows took on a sharper, more intense quality. From across the room, Ganjo's voice vibrated.

  "Anyone need some water?"

  Martin declined, but Olt nodded his assent. With a subtle shift of his attention back to Olt, Martin continued.

  "After reviewing your marks and observing your fighting skills, I believe you'd be a valuable addition to the Factory."

  Olt couldn't help but feel a surge of surprise. Martin had personally retrieved his academic records from the university. While Olt was aware of the government's scouting efforts, he never imagined he'd be considered.

  Feigning composure, Olt inquired.

  "Why me?"

  A subtle smile played on Martin's lips as he replied.

  "From what I've gathered, you seem to be a man of purpose and meaning, a man who sees the bigger picture, the complexity of it all. All that at a young age, I might add."

  Martin assured him.

  "These qualities, combined with the fact that you've been trained by two of our former operatives, makes you the perfect candidate. You would be phenomenal in this role. Synoro needs a future, and the future looks like you.”

  Olt pondered Martin's words, acknowledging the truth in his assessment. He had never truly contemplated his own desires, allowing Jeffrey to mold him into the person he was today. After all, he was but a child. However, Martin's keen observation about Olt's studies struck a chord within him. Olt's passion for research and debate was undeniable. It was evidence of his intellectual curiosity and unwavering pursuit of knowledge.

  "I appreciate your offer, sir," Olt confessed. “But I don't qualify for the Factory. I haven't taken the potion. I have no access to the Aether."

  Martin smiled, placing a reassuring hand on Olt's shoulder.

  "Don't play dumb. For the role I have in mind, you don't need to abide by any of the classic protocols. That's the least of your worries."

  Olt attempted to interject, but Martin's unwavering determination silenced him. It was clear that Martin had a specific purpose in mind for Olt. For a fleeting moment, Olt entertained the offer. His heart skipped a beat at the prospect of something grander, something beyond the monotony of survival.

  However, Olt couldn't ignore the reasons behind Jeffrey's departure from that life. Jeffrey, despite his extensive involvement, was never part of the Factory. He was something else, although Olt did not know many details. Olt surmised that those truly entrenched in that world had witnessed things far beyond Jeffrey's experiences.

  As Ganjo approached, water bottle in hand, Olt felt a growing desire to conclude the conversation.

  "I appreciate the offer, sir, but I must decline. Jeffrey left that life behind for a reason, and it's clear that he doesn't want that for me."

  He paused, his eyes fixed on Martin.

  "I became a man in the years after Jeffrey stopped working for your people. He has never been the same man since. Besides, he’s my family. And my heart won’t let me betray him."

  To ensure he was being respectful, Olt offered his hand to Martin.

  "Thank you for your time, sir.”

  Martin shook his hand, a thoughtful expression crossing his face.

  "Understood. But, allow me to offer some parting advice… It wasn't the job that changed Jeffrey, it was choosing to do it when he never wanted to."