"I'm sorry, sir. I didn't know it would be that hard for them, but I told them to contact me if they needed any more help."
"You told them to contact you from inside a building you knew doesn't allow outside connection?"
"No, sir, I mea— I... I didn't..."
"Does our dear commander call me a liar?"
"No, sir!"
"Then why didn't you get them? Hmm? Tell me, Commander. Why?"
"I'm truly sorry, sir."
"I know you are. But apologies won't get back what they took, now will they, Commander?"
"No, sir. They won't."
The glossy white-haired gentleman sat calmly across from the standing commander, who had led a squad out that night—and returned in failure. Sir Smith, also known as High Rule, questioned him with a tone that was calm but heavy. He wore his usual black-blue coat with matching trousers, his posture exuding quiet power.
Standing opposite him was Commander Richard—a blond with a jawline sharp enough to cut glass, dressed in a brown buttoned shirt that revealed a crystal necklace dangling to his chest, and worn brown cargo trousers paired with military boots.
"Alright, Commander," Smith continued, "who went into the building?"
"Silent, Astra, and Christan, sir."
"Christan?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then surely, we must know who the thieves are."
"Exactly, sir. But they're... at rest for now, sir. We also found audio footage from the building. It was the only evidence we recovered, but it seems tampered with. I'm not sure it'll play properly."
"Have you listened to it yet, Commander?"
"No, sir. Not yet."
"Then play it. We'll listen together."
"Yes, sir."
The commander inserted the device and pressed play. The audio that came through was faint, distorted—voices buried under static. They couldn't identify anyone... until one word came through clearly: Galliard.
Sir Smith leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, and laced his fingers together thoughtfully.
"Commander?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Are you certain this is the recording from last night?"
"Yes, sir. I'm positive. Is there a problem?"
"Yes, Commander. You see..."
---
The clock struck six.
Berry and Sasha were on their way to dinner. Inside the restaurant, Sasha eagerly listed off the dishes she wanted while Berry just listened, already knowing he'd be the one paying.
"May I take your order, sir?" the young waitress asked.
"We'll have... the rice and chicken," Berry said.
Sasha smiled at him but quickly tilted her head with suspicion.
"What?" he asked.
"Why'd you get rice and chicken?"
"Because you said it was your favorite the first time we met. Thought I'd remind you."
"Aww, that's sweet."
"It's called 'once-in-a-long-time opportunity,' not sweet."
"Of course you're sweet. Stop denying it."
"I am not."
"Yes, you are."
"No, I'm not."
"Yes, you are."
"I'm nice, not sweet."
She chuckled. "Fine—you're nice."
"Excuse me, what's funny?"
"Nothing. You just look cute when you argue. Is that why you do it so much?"
"I— I don't argue."
"Dude, you so do."
"I do not."
"Yes, you do."
"I do no— shut up."
"Careful now. You might die saying that."
"Oh please, you argue a lot too."
"Really? Then am I cute?"
"What?"
"And that's how you ruin a moment."
"Seriously?"
The waitress returned with their meal—rice garnished with fresh greens and prawns, topped with perfectly grilled chicken. Sasha looked at her plate and said, "I think I'll have rice for tea instead."
"Well, too bad," Berry muttered.
She pouted dramatically, resting her cheek on her palm in mock disappointment. He looked down to avoid her gaze.
"Why do you like rice so much anyway?" he asked. "Didn't get to eat it back home?"
"Back home? I ate rice all the time. That's why it's my favorite. You should try it."
"Riiiiiight. Sure."
The table went quiet until they finished eating and left the restaurant.
---
"You should get a bike, Berry," Sasha said as she sat on the back seat of his old bicycle, her eyes wandering across the city lights.
"What are we riding, then?"
"A bicycle—not a bike."
"Excuse me, this is a Yike-A model."
"No."
"What?"
"I will not excuse you. Give me one reason—besides being broke—why you won't get a real bike."
"I'm not broke."
"Then get one."
"I don't need it. My baby's priceless."
"If it were new, maybe. But this thing's so old, I doubt it's worth a dime."
"Well, I'll have you know—the older the merchandise, the higher the price."
"Really?"
"Yeah."
"Then this one must be from B.C. You could get a fortune for it—and a new house to match your new bike."
"That's not what I meant, and it's not that old."
"Sure, keep telling yourself that. The rust disagrees."
"Wow. Aren't you funny?"
"But am I wrong?"
"No."
The night sky stretched over them, stars glittering above colorful city lights. The cool breeze brushed through Sasha's short brown hair as the bicycle sped forward. She smiled at the breathtaking view—until Berry stopped suddenly.
"Ugh"
"if it's about the view, trust me—I hate it too."
"Why don't you move?"
"If I could, I would."
"Ah-ha! You admitted you're broke."
"Excuse me—I'm not broke. I just don't have enough money to rent a better place yet."
"Oh, someone's writing their own death sentence."
"Fine. I'm... kinda broke."
"Don't worry. I'll help with rent. Now that I've recovered my dad's account, I can get a job."
"You know you could've gotten a job before that, right?"
"Shhh. I'm helping you here. Who knows? Maybe three months from now, you'll finally buy that bike you've always wanted."
"I don't want a bike."