The first drag felt like coming home after a long journey. Smooth, familiar, comforting - and immediately followed by a wave of guilt. Five months and seventeen days down the drain. My lungs expanded, welcoming the poison while my conscience screamed in protest.

  "Shit," I inhaled, watching the smoke curl up into the painfully bright morning sky. I've been so proud when I quit, kept telling everybody I'm finally "getting my act together." Now here I was, leaning against the cold concrete wall of our office building, breaking promises like they were matchsticks.

  The spring breeze, carrying the scent of blooming linden trees from the nearby park, felt like it was mocking me. Everything was too bright, too fresh, too alive. The morning joggers bouncing past with their perfect postures and healthy life choices. Even the sun seemed to be trying too hard, casting everything in that golden morning light that usually made the city look beautiful.

  Today it just made my headache worse.

  I took another drag, longer this time. The familiar light-headed rush hit me harder than it used to - five months of clean living had reset my tolerance. At least something good came from quitting. Now each cigarette packed more punch, more relief from the chaos swirling in my head.

  "You know what?" I said to no one in particular, watching another perfect smoke ring dissolve in the annoyingly pleasant morning air. "Sometimes you need to break a promise to keep your sanity."

  A passing woman in a business suit gave me a concerned look. Great. Now I was talking to myself in public. Between the bruises, the limping, and the self-directed monologue, I must have looked like a prime candidate for a wellness check.

  In the cigarette smoke, a memory began to swirl. More than ten months ago, one of the major cases with magical artifacts. My hands trembled slightly as I took another drag, remembering how cocky I'd been.

  "Just some lowlifes playing with stolen tech," I'd told Goran back then. "Give me two days."

  What a joke. The case had involved a sophisticated magical-digital hybrid attack on several museums' security systems. Instead of careful investigation, I'd barged in like the hotshot detective I thought I was. Typed commands into terminals without understanding the magical resonance patterns, ignored Jovan's warnings about frequency profile.

  I'd tracked the hackers to an abandoned factory in Zemun. Found their setup - old laptops connected to crystals pulsing with ethereal light. they were in the middle of digitizing stolen relics. Should have waited for backup, should have consulted Ljiljana about proper containment procedures. But no, ex-Detective Raki? knew better.

  As soon as i entered thiefs scattered so I ran to stop the upload. The moment I pulled the power cables, the whole system went haywire. Magical energy backfired through the network, creating a cascade of failures across multiple servers and blowing up the originals. Three priceless artifacts, centuries-old tablets inscribed with encoded spells, reduced to dust, and their copies vanished into the digital void. Gone. Just like that.

  "Fuck," I sneered, crushing the cigarette under my heel. The shame still burned hot in my gut.

  After that disaster, I'd swallowed my pride. Spent weeks with Jovan, learning about magical encryption protocols and field anomalies. Hours listening to Ljiljana explain the fundamentals of artifact containment. Even suffered through Milenko's lengthy lectures about historical precedents.

  The worst part had been Goran's disappointment. Not anger - that would have been easier to handle. Just that quiet look of "I expected better." He'd given me a second chance, though. Let me stay on the team despite my monumental screwup.

  And now here I was again, charging ahead without thinking. Maybe I hadn't learned as much as I thought.

  But that case was far from my biggest blunder.

  The real wound wasn't the museum case. No, my biggest failure had a name: Mirko. My partner from before all this magical madness entered my life. Three years working side by side, sharing coffee and cigarettes, covering each other's backs.

  I pressed my fingers against forehead, trying to push back the memory that never really left. Mirko had been the steady one, the voice of reason. Always telling me to slow down, check the angles, follow procedure. "You're not Sherlock Holmes, kid," he'd say, lighting up his ever-present Drina cigarette. "Sometimes the boring way is the right way."

  We'd developed a rhythm, a partnership that worked despite - or maybe because of - our differences. He was methodical, I was impulsive. He liked classical music, I preferred punk rock. He took his coffee black, I drowned mine in sugar. But when it came to cases, we clicked. We were bloody real life Riggs and Murtaugh from the "Lethal Weapon".

  Until that last case. A series of warehouse robberies that seemed routine. I'd convinced myself I'd spotted a pattern, insisted we had to move fast. Mirko wanted to wait for backup, wanted to verify my "breakthrough."

  "Something doesn't feel right," he'd said, studying the map I'd marked up with my theories. "These guys aren't amateurs, Aleks. We need to be smart about this."

  But I wouldn't listen. I was so sure I'd cracked it, so eager to prove myself. I sent him to watch the warehouse on Savska while I covered the one near the river. "They'll hit tonight," I'd insisted. "Trust me on this."

  The call came at 3:47 AM. Not from Mirko, but from dispatch. "Officer down." Two simple words that shattered my world.

  They'd been waiting for him. The whole thing had been a setup, and he'd walked right into it. No - I'd sent my partner walking into it, blind and alone, because I was too arrogant to consider I might be wrong.

  Hmm… sounds familiar…

  I found his cigarette pack at the scene later, almost empty. One last Drina he never got to smoke. The sight of it broke something in me that never really healed. Job offer soon after that came as a relief.

  The pattern was there, clear as day. Like a bad habit I couldn't kick, my recklessness kept coming back to bite me - and others. First Mirko, then the museum artifacts in addition to handful of minor fuckups, and now Petar. Different cases, same stupid mistakes. Same arrogant thinking that I knew better than everyone else.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  My fingers itched for another cigarette, but I forced them into fists instead. The morning sun had climbed higher, casting harsh shadows across the parking lot. Everything hurt - my ribs, my face, my pride. Especially my pride.

  The soft click of the building's side door pulled me from my thoughts. Ljiljana emerged, her flowing skirt catching the breeze, a thermos clutched in her weathered hands. She moved with that peculiar grace of hers, like someone who knew exactly where each step would land before taking it. Her silver hair caught the sunlight, creating a brief halo effect that made her look almost saintly.

  She didn't say anything as she approached, just offered that knowing smile - the kind that made you feel like she could see right through you but loved you anyway. Like a grandmother who caught you stealing cookies but decided to bake you a fresh batch instead of scolding.

  The silence stretched between us, not uncomfortable exactly, but heavy with unspoken words. She unscrewed the thermos cap with deliberate movements, and the sharp, familiar scent of homemade rakija hit my nostrils.

  "It's barely nine in the morning," I sighed, but accepted the cap-cup she offered.

  The rakija was ice cold - she must have refilled the thermos from the freezer this morning. Another one of her little traditions, serving it cold when emotions ran hot. The first sip burned going down, a welcome distraction from the ache in my chest that had nothing to do with last night's beating.

  We stood there, sharing space and silence, while early morning traffic hummed in the distance. Ljiljana didn't push, didn't pry, didn't offer platitudes or lectures. She just waited, steady as a mountain, while I wrestled with my demons. The cold rakija in my hand felt like an anchor, something solid to hold onto while my thoughts spiraled.

  I swirled the rakija, watching the clear liquid catch the morning light. My throat felt tight, not from the alcohol, but from words I couldn't quite form.

  "I didn't even know him," I finally managed. "Petar. Didn't know if he had family, kids, what kind of coffee he liked. Nothing." The words tasted bitter in my mouth. "Just another name to add to my list of fuck-ups."

  Ljiljana took a small sip from thermos, her eyes fixed on something distant. "Sometimes," she said softly, "the weight of not knowing is heavier than knowing."

  "It's not just that." The words started spilling out before I could stop them. "I keep doing this. Racing ahead, thinking I know better, dragging people into my messes. First Mirko, now Petar. Who's next?" I let out a shaky breath. "Maybe I'm not cut out for this."

  "You think you're the first person to carry such doubts?" Ljiljana's voice was gentle but firm. "Every keeper of secrets questions themselves. It's the ones who don't that worry me."

  "But-"

  "No." She turned to face me fully. "You made mistakes, yes. But awareness of our failures shapes us more than our successes ever could." Her weathered hand found my shoulder. "The question isn't whether you'll make mistakes, Aleksandar. It's what you learn from them."

  The morning breeze picked up, carrying the scent of her lavender perfume. I realized we were drifting into one of those profound movie moments, lacking only a dramatic Hans Zimmer score to complete the scene. An older colleague providing philosophical advice to the young hothead. I shook my head with a smile, but at the end she was right.

  I couldn't help but chuckle. "We're really having one of those mentor-student moments, aren't we?"

  Ljiljana burst into laughter, the sound carrying across the empty parking lot. "Complete with dramatic pauses and life lessons." She wiped a tear from her eye. "Though I must say, you make a terrible student. Too stubborn by half."

  "And you're not exactly the wise old master either," I grinned, then winced as the motion pulled at my split lip. "More like the crazy aunt who teaches you how to pick locks and mix explosives."

  Her expression sobered slightly. "Speaking of explosives, this situation with Goran..." She took another sip of rakija directly from thermos. "You both handled it like a pair of teenage boys fighting over a PlayStation."

  "He kept me in the dark-"

  "And you went behind his back," she cut me off. "Yes, yes, you're both idiots. But here's the thing about Goran - he's not just protecting the mission, he's protecting all of us. Including you, though you're making it damn difficult."

  I leaned back against the wall, feeling the rough concrete through my shirt. "I get that. But if he'd just given me some warning about the attack..."

  "Oh, absolutely. He screwed up there." Ljiljana nodded emphatically. "Should have at least dropped a hint. But you?" She pointed at me with her cup. "You should have told him your plans. Given him a chance to set up backup, create a cover story, something. When things go sideways - and they always do - it helps to have someone watching your back who actually knows what you're doing."

  "Politics," I groaned.

  "Politics," she agreed. "Like it or not, we're part of an organization. That means playing the game sometimes. Covering your ass isn't just about saving yourself - it's about protecting the team, the case, everything we work for."

  "So basically, we both acted like idiots?"

  "Pretty much." She finished her rakija with a flourish. "Though I'd say Goran was being an overprotective idiot, while you were being a reckless idiot. Different flavors of the same stupidity."

  I couldn't argue with that assessment. "Think he'll get over it?"

  "Eventually. Just try not to get yourself killed before then. The paperwork would be hell."

  The whir of bicycle gears announced Jovan's arrival. He nearly dropped his laptop bag when he saw my face, bike clattering against the wall.

  "Holy shit, Aleksandar! You look like… well, shit…" He caught himself, fidgeting with his messenger bag strap. "I mean, when you called last night, you sounded hurt, but this is..."

  "Yeah, well, as I said, you should see the other guys." I tried to smirk but my rearranged face made it more of a grimace. "Speaking of last night, want to explain why Goran knew everything before I even got to the office?"

  Jovan's face flushed red. He started stammering, hands moving in that nervous dance they did when he was caught out. "I... well... you see..."

  "Spit it out, Jovan."

  "Goran called me like thirty minutes after you did." He wouldn't meet my eyes, focusing instead on adjusting his bike lock with unnecessary precision. "You know I'm terrible at keeping secrets, especially when he already knew most of it anyway."

  My eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Most of it?"

  "Yeah, he asked about the plate number you gave me, mentioned something about United Force and a shooting." Jovan finally looked up. "He seemed pretty well-informed already."

  "That's not good at all." I took another sip of Ljiljana's rakija. "This whole operation was off the books. Only my contact in the police knew about the meet."

  Ljiljana's eyebrows rose slightly. "Your friend Boban?"

  "Yeah. Not friend anymore it seems… Anyway, the security cameras were also covered by our protection spells." I ran a hand through my hair, wincing as I hit a tender spot. "So if police didn't know I was there and I didn't tell him than how did Goran know?"

  "Maybe through regular police channels, someone called it in and he picked it up?" Jovan suggested, still fidgeting. "We have other contacts-"

  "In the middle of the night? That's just it." I cut him off. "There was no trace of me so no magical activities should have triggered anyone to report to Goran. The whole thing was kept quiet, at least initially."

  The implications started stacking up like dominoes in my mind. Either Goran had sources I didn't know about - which was likely - or something bigger was at play. The professional hit team, the carefully manufactured evidence pointing to United Force, Goran's advance knowledge...

  "We're missing something," I mumbled, more to myself than the others. "This whole thing feels too neat, too arranged."

  Jovan looked at me, confusion clear on his face. "Should we... should we talk to Goran about this?"

  "No," Ljiljana and I said simultaneously.

  "At least not yet," I added. "First, we need to understand what we're dealing with. Jovan, what did you find about that license plate?"

  He perked up, eager to move into more comfortable territory. "Oh! Right, I should probably show you what I found inside. It's... interesting."

  The way he said 'interesting' made me think our morning was about to get a lot more complicated.