District II – Standard Living Area. Three blocks of flats up.
The scent of garlic and simmering tomato sauce filled the small but tidy apartment. Christopher moved between the stove and the counter with methodical ease, stirring spaghetti and checking on the meatballs browning in a pan. Classical music played softly in the background, blending with the TV's low murmur—another report about the train incident, about a rogue Retributor. He paused for a moment, letting the words soak in.
"...no official statement yet, but the casualties are rising..."
A loud bang snapped him back to reality. Not from the TV. From the hallway. He grabbed a compact weapon from under the sink. He wasn't expecting anyone.
He approached the door, careful. "Who is it?"
"It's Butch."
Christopher hesitated, then unlocked and opened the door.
Butch stepped in, looking like any middle-aged civil servant—plain suit, tired eyes, a face that gave nothing away. You wouldn't know he was the Commissioner of the City State Police. Christopher stood a little straighter. He hadn't expected this.
"Anyone here with you?" Butch asked.
"No. I'm alone."
Butch stepped in. Christopher's apartment was spotless, almost spartan. Butch glanced around approvingly. "Smells good."
Christopher nodded. "Spaghetti and meatballs. You want some?"
"Don't mind if I do."
They ate in silence at first, the clink of forks and the classical music filling the space. Butch broke it with a calm, probing tone.
"Murray James Glenn. That was your father's name."
Christopher looked up.
"I read up on him. Served at Sunny Side. Medal of Valor. Multiple commendations. Hell of a record. I'm impressed."
Christopher gave a stiff nod. "He was one of the best. I just wanted to follow his footsteps."
Butch didn't smile. "And how did he die?"
Christopher sighed. He hated the story. "Execution style. Shot in the back of the head. Responding to a domestic emergency. Never made it to the scene. They found his car abandoned. Engine still running."
Butch's expression darkened. "No investigation?"
"None that went anywhere. I tried. Gangs, syndicates—nobody knows a damn thing. Or they're not talking."
Butch leaned back. "Sounds familiar."
He stared at his plate, then spoke quietly. "I was taking my wife home. We had reservations at Mo and Hill's—great place, you should try it. Real moon-grown organics. Anyway... she wasn't done with work, wanted to finish up, so I waited, drove us home."
He paused.
"A Retributor was chasing some maniac. Wild gunfire. We nearly got hit. I cursed, kept driving, never stopped talking... didn't even look at her."
Another pause.
"No goodbye. Just... clean shot through the head. Like some animal."
Christopher said nothing. The silence hung heavy.
"I want them to pay," Butch growled. "All of them. Every damn one. They're a disease—rotting this city from the inside out. I want this city cleansed."
He leaned forward, intensity in his eyes.
"What you said yesterday—it made sense. We've been fighting puppets. Camouflage. The Council hides behind the Retributors. Bineth pulls their strings. I can't take on Bineth. Not yet. But the Council? They're not untouchable."
Butch dropped a folded note on the table. An address.
"I'm building a new unit. Off-the-record. No rules. No mercy. Full-scale action—against the Council and the Retributors. Shadow war. You want in, that's where you show up."
He stood.
"You're a good cook, kid. If the precinct ever falls apart, open a place up."
And with that, Butch left. The door clicked shut.
Christopher stared at the address for a long time. The music kept playing.