"It started as an order."
"Just another line to cross."
"But some debts are born in silence."
"And paid for in blood."
── ✧ 🌵 ✧ ──
The Killer
Afghanistan
Eight years ago
The order was placed in the morning.
It sounded just like the hundreds of orders that had come before. It was a routine reconnaissance mission in an insurgent-held area. Clear the area. Verifying enemy movements. Words repeated so often that they had lost their meaning.
We stood in line and listened. We are the reconnaissance unit. Although we belong to the same regiment, in the field we operate as scouts.
Dust clings to my boots and trousers, and coats the roof of my mouth. The air is heavy and hot, the kind that tires you out before you even move.
Captain Brooks speaks calmly. As always. He points at a few inconspicuous spots on the map that, for some of us, will eventually mean more than just lines on paper.
„The area is supposedly abandoned," he says. „But I don't want any surprises. Major Rourke made that clear. Reconnaissance and return."
No one asks any questions. No one ever has. Questions are a luxury afforded to those who have a choice.
I look at them. At the four of them. Our little group of five from Kansas, I am still a little surprised that we're not only from the same state, but also in the same reconnaissance unit.
As always, Pierce stands a step ahead. He is the commander of our unit. He communicates with headquarters and sets the direction and pace. He joined the army at around the age of twenty-two and has been active ever since. His first tour of duty in Afghanistan came early on, followed by other missions. By the age of forty, he was leading the reconnaissance unit with the confidence of a man accustomed to deciding what would happen next. He had the experience and tactical knowledge that kept us alive, and an authority that had never been questioned before. In the field, we went wherever he pointed us. But on this last mission, everything changed.
Cassidy rested his rifle on his shoulder, his calm demeanour never giving anything away. When someone needed to be taken out, he did it. He was our sharpshooter who never missed. This was reassuring as long as he wasn't standing across from you. Eliminating threats was his job, and he did it better than anyone else I knew. He had a steady hand, quick reflexes and an unflappable nature. While the others were still thinking, Cassidy already had his target in his sights.
Wagner had a radio clipped to his vest and, even before the briefing, could be found checking maps and coordinates, as if this could prevent mistakes that hadn't even been made yet. He was responsible for communications, navigation and all the technical equipment, areas of expertise that the rest of us mostly just nodded at and left to him. Anything with an antenna or a screen eventually ended up in his hands. He thought differently to us. He was analytical, paying attention to detail and always one step ahead. While we watched the terrain, he watched the coordinates, signals and numbers. He usually knew more than any of us, even if he didn't talk about it. We were just never sure how much he knew.
Miller is the last in line. His medical kit is always heavier than our other gear, and he carries it without complaint. He's the only one of us who knows how to save lives instead of take them. Having seen enough blood, nothing surprises him, and having experienced enough pain, he knows when to stay silent. He's the unit's medic. He treats injuries, stabilises the wounded and decides in a matter of seconds who has a chance of making it to evacuation and who doesn't. When someone is injured, Miller is the first to kneel beside them. He worked quickly and calmly, as if the gunfire and screams weren't even there. In war, you learn that some things are better left unseen. Miller wasn't the worst of us. But he was never the one to say enough is enough, either.
And then there's me: I'm a volunteer. I had a good track record in Iraq, and the commanders needed people who could take the lead. I'm neither a sniper like Cassidy nor a commander like Pierce. I don't have Wagner's technological expertise, nor can I patch up bodies like Miller. My job is simpler. I go ahead of them. I read the terrain, look for movement, estimate distances and I am the first to spot potential threats. I navigate us through the hills and ruins, and I cover the others until a decision is made on what to do next. When first contact was made, I was always the closest. It's a job for someone who volunteers. Who knows if they could handle it?
But this mission was different. Over the course of those few months, something in each of us quietly shifted in an irreversible way.
We all looked the same as always. Tired. Fed up. Yet we were strangely excited, as if the change of scenery promised something more than just another march in the heat.
We suited up in full gear. We put on helmets with attached goggles, heavy bulletproof vests with magazines, and radios and knives at our thighs. Our weapons are slung automatically, like extensions of our own hands. Everything sits exactly where it should. Routine. These are movements we have learned and no longer think about.
The helicopter is waiting for us, ready. The rotor spins up, kicking up a cloud of dust that stings our eyes and clings to our skin. We climb in without saying a word. Inside, the noise is so loud that we can't hear our own thoughts; we can only feel the vibrations in our chests and bones.
The flight didn't take long. The landscape below us slowly changed, the colours blending into a single shade of parched earth. We left the base behind, along with the feeling that we were still being watched. The further we travelled, the more the space seemed to open up and close in simultaneously.
They dropped us off at the edge of the controlled zone. Beyond that, there were no roads, no patrols and no certainties. Just terrain that could swallow us whole if we made a mistake. The helicopter took off and disappeared faster than expected.
We were left alone. From that moment on, we had to continue on foot. Everything that was to happen was now entirely up to us. At the time, I had no idea that I would carry this major's order with me for the rest of my life.
I didn't know that they – those four – would walk away from it with their pockets full.
While I would be left lying there.
── ✧ 🌵 ✧ ──
The Killer
Texas
Present Day
Karsten was easy to find.
He thought that adopting a new identity would provide sufficient cover. But he was never cautious; he was a coward. He was always drawn to things that shouldn't be seen in the light of day. Money that didn't go through a bank. Shops that didn't ask where it came from. Karsten was the one who came up with the idea of looting back then. But that's nothing compared to the lieutenant who commanded our reconnaissance unit.
„No one will care," Karsten said. „They're too scared to say anything." And who would they tell? Who would do anything about it? The army? Hardly.
All I had to do was follow the trail of items they'd taken from there. To them, it was just merchandise, but to me it was evidence that allowed me to track them all down one by one.
While they lived lives of luxury, I had time. Years. Long, quiet years during which I learned to live with what I had left. I had enough time to see patterns where others never looked for them. Maybe it was just apophenia. Then again, maybe not.
I don't deny that what happened back then left a mark on my psyche. It's true. But I try to see the bright side. My PTSD gave me the strength to throw myself wholeheartedly into this task and finally catch them all. While some people with that disorder go to therapy, I chose to work with it.
I waited for the right moment. I didn't want to rush it. I watched them and waited for them to forget. Karsten forgot the fastest. He left the past behind and started living as Karlos Weber.
I'm watching him. I'm wearing black clothes, a baseball cap and a face mask.
He always takes the same route. Every other day at three in the morning, he leaves the house and goes to a small 24-hour convenience store a few blocks away. He buys almost the same things every time — coffee, cigarettes and something to eat — pays in cash, and disappears again a few minutes later. This is the only time he regularly goes out among people. Otherwise, he stays home with the curtains closed and works on his computer through the night.
He always goes out looking smart, sometimes to a fault. He wears an expensive suit and clean shoes, and carries a phone that costs more than my entire monthly rent. He looks like someone who has just come home from work or a late meeting, not a man trying to disappear. And that's exactly why no one remembers him.
Over the years, I found out more about him than he would have expected. He came to America with his parents as a child and joined the military later than the rest of us, after finishing his studies. He was deployed to Afghanistan twice and always saw more than the others. He intercepted communications, jammed signals and worked with satellite connections. Even back then, he was good at tracking people — today he's even better at it.
After returning to civilian life, he became a man who built his life on lies, manipulation and the ability to disappear before responsibility caught up with him. New names. New identities. New beginnings. But he's still the same man. Ironically, today he helps others do exactly the same thing. Fake identities, anonymous transfers and vanished records. Those who don't want to be found know where to go.
He thought that if he changed his name, his past would disappear with it. But some things can be traced.
He's the first of the four people on my list that I have to kill. The first one is always the easiest. He'll pay for what he did to me all those years ago. He'll pay for leaving me for dead.
He turns the corner and takes a shortcut through the alley. This is exactly where I thought I'd find him. I slowly creep up behind him, my hands tucked in my pockets. The ringtone of an incoming call echoes through the alley. Karsten picks up the phone and starts arguing frantically with someone on the other end of the line, which works in my favour because he won't pay attention to me after having watched him for a few minutes. Despite my efforts to move carefully, the occasional clack of a shoe against the concrete echoes through the space.
We reach the spot where I've decided to carry out my plan. It's far from both entrances to the alley. No one will hear the shot from the unregistered gun that I'll use to shoot him in the head; I've made sure of that by attaching a silencer. He won't even know what's happening until I press the barrel against the back of his head. He should have been dead a long time ago. I'm just finishing what should have been done years ago.
I draw my gun with my gloved hand and quicken my pace to catch up with him. The alley is covered in graffiti; I'll just add another splash of red to the scrawled and spray-painted wall.
I stand right behind him, and he still has no idea what is coming. I press the gun barrel against the back of his head and fire the single bullet that will instantly end his life with a single pull of the trigger. The bullet pierces the back of his head, jerking his head forward, passes through his brain and exits through the top of his forehead.
Karsten's legs give way and he collapses to the ground, falling backwards onto the concrete and dropping his iPhone. The impact causes a spiderweb-like crack to appear on the touchscreen.
I stow the gun and scan the area one last time. I quickly find the shell casing that flew out of his head after the shot and landed a short distance away. It takes only a few seconds to pick it up, and it disappears into my pocket among the other things that must not be left behind.
I bend down towards his still-warm body, from which life has already fled. Now it will just slowly grow cold. I search his suit and feel for his wallet. I leave it where it is, simply opening it to briefly scan the contents. Cash and an ID card. No credit cards, no receipts, nothing personal. No traces of everyday life. Exactly as I expected.
I close it and slip it back into the pocket.
Identifying him won't be easy anyway. I took care of that, and it took me a while. Pulling out teeth and cutting off fingertips isn't quick.
Still wearing my gloves, I straighten up and pull a business card from a local strip club out of my pocket. I place it next to his body as a final detail to divert attention elsewhere. People need a story, so I gave them one. They'll figure it out eventually, but by then everyone will be dead.
„The past has caught up with you, Karsten. You've been judged for your sins," I whisper into the silence. I adjust my cap and walk away.
The alley has one more advantage.
The dumpster is right under the fire escape that leads to the apartments above the restaurant. The metal structure is rusty but sturdy. Unlike others, I always scout my escape route ahead of time.
I jump onto the dumpster lid. The metal makes a muffled thud under my shoes, but at this hour it won't wake anyone. From here, I can reach the bottom rung of the staircase.
I pull myself up.
The metal feels cold against my palms. I move slowly and carefully. I consider every step until I reach the roof. I jump over the ledge and run to the door that leads to the apartment complex, going through it. I had secured the door earlier and no one had noticed.
I go down the stairs and see that there is no one at the front desk. I step out onto the dark street.
── ✧ 🌵 ✧ ──
The police arrived sooner than I expected. I'm standing on the roof of the building opposite, looking down at the police cars, the white van and the crowd of people behind the police tape.
From up here, the crime scene looks different and everything makes more sense. It's smaller. More manageable. The people look like pieces someone has placed on a chessboard.
I rest my elbows on the concrete ledge and see two detectives arriving. One of them is limping, just like me, but almost imperceptibly. If you hadn't been watching him for a while, you wouldn't have noticed. The other moves more fluidly, but he's too tense. He's scanning the area. Instinct.
I take a few photos.
I watch Bodhi - as I later found out was his name - longer than the other one. There's something familiar about his movements. Not weakness. More like residual tension. It's as if he's been left lying down once before but still got back up.
I packed the camera into its black case, took off my gloves and left the building as quietly as I had entered it.
A block away, I'm just another man in a dark sweatshirt lost in the crowd.
── ✧ 🌵 ✧ ──
*Apophenia – the tendency to see patterns and connections even where none exist
── ✧ 🌵 ✧ ──
JUDGEMENT OF THE BURIED
𝓜𝒊𝒓𝒂𝒆 𝒀𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒏, 2026