"We will hand over his body so you may complete the final rites. There will be no media presence.
Of course, we cannot fully guarantee discretion. Even walls have ears.
Please refrain from revealing his identity, or any information linking him to the operation."
A few days after the incident,
General Romanoff arrived at Captain Kinoff's home.
The house was small. Smaller than most people would expect.
Calling it a house almost felt generous. It was more like a shelter made from old wood and patched metal, standing quietly at the edge of the settlement. A few clay pots rested near the wall. Some held water. Some were empty. No fence. No sign that a soldier lived here.
No one passing by would ever guess that a man from this place had once stood in full combat gear, leading missions meant to protect people he would never meet.
Sunlight slipped through a cracked window and fell across the face of an old woman sitting inside.
Lady Shane.
She looked to be in her early sixties, though life had aged her faster.
Her face was thin, worn down by years that had not been kind. She did not cry. She did not move much at all. Her expression was empty - not because she felt nothing, but because she had felt too much for too long.
"Excuse me... Miss Shane."
The General's voice broke the silence.
She lifted her eyes slowly, as if waking from a long, heavy thought. For a moment, she did not speak.
Perhaps she had already heard the news. Or perhaps she had been waiting for someone like him to arrive.
Lady Shane had been a widow for many years. She had raised two sons alone, in this quiet corner, away from attention.
Her husband had died early, leaving her with little more than responsibility and endurance.
She survived because she had to.
Life had taught her that weakness attracts eyes - sharp, watching eyes - like predators circling prey. So she learned to stand straight, even when bent inside.
There was a time when pride had lived in this house.
When her eldest son first returned home in uniform, standing tall in his gear, she believed her suffering had finally found meaning. She believed her days of fear were over.
It seemed true... until it wasn't.
"Yes," she said at last. "I understand."
Her voice did not shake.
"I will go with my son."
She sounded tired. Not just from grief - from years of fighting fate and losing pieces of herself along the way.
The General cleared his throat.
"Thank you, Miss Shane. His medal of bravery will be presented to you during the ceremony."
She looked at him then.
"What medal?" she asked.
Her voice rose, not loudly, but sharply.
"Why should I take a medal that took my son's life?"
She stood slowly.
"To whom did my son give his life?" she asked. "The nation? The government? Peace?"
Her eyes burned now.
"Does anyone remember who my son was? The news says he died - but not why. Not how. Just that he is gone."
She took a breath.
"He gave his life for people. For strangers. And all you offer me is a medal - barely made of gold - as if that is the price of a human life?"
Silence filled the room.
The General did not answer. There was nothing left to say.
He had fought wars. He had buried friends. Being a soldier meant learning how to stand even when the ground beneath you was gone.
Some losses cannot be explained. Only endured.
Nothing more could be done.
1337X was a specialist unit. Trained for missions that were never meant to exist publicly.
Speaking openly about the destruction of such a force would not bring comfort - it would bring fear. Panic. Opportunity for enemies.
The government understood that.
They could not think like a mother. They had to think like a system - cold, controlled, careful.
One crack in public confidence was enough to invite disaster.
The President of X Country, Wilson Petrovosk, knew this well.
An elite force had been wiped out.
And
that was not just a tragedy.
It was a threat.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A man in his thirties walked slowly through a long, silent corridor.
He wore a dark overcoat, a hat pulled low over his face. His footsteps were soft, almost respectful, as if the place itself demanded silence.
The ceiling lights glowed faintly above him, one after another, stretching into the distance like pearls resting at the bottom of a deep ocean.
This place did not belong to time.
He stopped in front of a door at the end of the corridor.
From inside his coat, he took out a key-old, worn, and clearly used many times before. The lock turned with a dull click.
The room beyond was small and quiet.
He removed his coat and placed it neatly on a chair.
Then, one by one, he lit several candles arranged across the room. Their flames flickered gently, fragile yet determined-breathing lives that would one day fade, just like all others.
Along one wall stood a tall shelf filled with books. Each book was different in size, in age, in condition. Some looked untouched. Others appeared worn, as if they had been opened many times... and never forgotten.
The man walked to the shelf and slowly ran his fingers along the spines.
Then he stopped.
He pulled out a book.
Its title read:
[1337X]
The man turned to face the unseen presence before him.
"So,"
he said calmly, his voice steady and composed,
"I can tell you are confused."
He held the book carefully, as if it carried weight far heavier than paper.
"You are wondering what this place is. Who I am. And what comes next."
A faint smile touched his lips-not kind, not cruel. Simply knowing.
"I am not here to interfere," he continued.
"Nor am I here to judge. I do not choose sides, and I do not change outcomes."
He looked down at the book in his hands.
"I am only the keeper of stories."
He raised his eyes again.
"They call me [The Curator]."
The candle flames trembled softly.
"This book," he said, tapping the cover,
"contains the account of a unit that officially never existed. Of people whose names were erased the moment they died.
Their faces, their thoughts, their fears-everything you have seen so far... has been preserved here."
He paused.
"And I will remain with you until its final page is turned."
The Curator took a slow step forward.
"But before we continue," he said, "there is something you must understand."
He walked toward the candles.
"Life," he began,
"is not shaped by fate alone.
It is shaped by [CHOICES]."
He held his hand above a flame, close enough to feel its warmth.
"Every choice creates a path. Some paths appear safe. Some appear dangerous. And some look harmless... until it is too late."
He withdrew his hand.
"Humans like to believe they can judge a decision only after seeing its result. By then, regret has already settled in. The option is gone. The moment has passed."
The Curator turned back to the book.
"On that night," he said quietly,
"a decision was made."
He did not speak names. He did not point fingers.
"One voice urged caution. Another urged action. Both sounded reasonable. Both carried risk."
He let the silence linger.
"To wait... or to continue."
His gaze hardened slightly.
"One choice led forward. And forward led to death."
The Curator closed the book slowly.
"Perhaps another choice could have changed everything. Perhaps not."
He looked directly ahead.
"That uncertainty," he said, "is the true burden of choice."
He stepped back toward the shelf.
"As this story unfolds," he continued,
"you will see decisions made under pressure. Some will save lives. Others will destroy them."
His voice dropped, almost to a whisper.
"And sometimes...
the most dangerous choice is believing there was ever a right one."
He returned the book to its place.
"Now," The Curator said calmly,
"you are ready."
The candles flickered once more.
"Let us continue."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~