Morning Vow

Dawn broke like it always did, with a promise of familiarity laced in danger. The thin light slipping through the dusty window barely pierced the dark edges of the room, where Marcus lay tangled in the sheets with Rachel. For a moment, it all seemed quiet. Normal. But he knew better. A life like his—covert, shadowed, filled with half-truths and full lies—didn't allow for normal. His fingers brushed gently across Rachel’s sleeping face, tracing the soft line of her jaw. She didn’t stir, wrapped in her own dreams, unaware that soon he'd leave again. He always left. Her gilded eyes, closed for now, were the only thing in his world that offered any salvation, and yet, he knew they could just as easily be his downfall. The sun edged higher, its rays cutting across the small apartment like a blade through fog, casting light on the chaos of the room—half-empty bottles, scattered painting supplies, and the lingering scent of cheap cigarettes. The mess told stories that neither of them ever spoke aloud. His hand hovered for a moment before he pulled it back, sliding quietly out of bed, his mind already spinning ahead to the day and the deadly games it promised.

"One more week," he thought, as he slipped on his shirt. "Then I’m done with this. I can come back. We can finally start that family." A lie. Maybe. A promise he told himself as much as he told her. But promises in his world were fleeting, like the colors she splashed across her canvas—beautiful, vibrant, but never meant to last.

The kitchen came alive with the sizzle of bacon and eggs, the smells clinging to the stale air. He moved through the motions without thinking, his mind lost elsewhere—tracking movements, names, faces that blurred into the fog of a hundred missions. The plates clattered softly as he set them down on the counter. Rachel emerged from the bedroom, her gaze immediately catching the decurrent asters he'd pinned near the door. False flowers, hidden beauty, much like the life he led. Her arms snaked around his waist from behind, pulling him close. The warmth of her touch seeped through his skin, but it did nothing to calm the storm inside him. She was his anchor, and the weight of that truth was suffocating. The knowledge that he would never fully escape the life he lived, even if he wanted to, was a burden that had long since embedded itself in his bones.

“Promise me, Marcus,” she murmured, her voice soft, pleading, “this will be the last time.”

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Instead, he just turned, pressing a kiss to her forehead, and pulled away.

Outside, the city buzzed with its usual chaos—people rushing, cars belching steam, and the never-ending hum of progress. He kept his head low as he made his way down the narrow street, the cracks in the cobblestones echoing under his boots. There was nothing remarkable about Marcus in a crowd like this, and that’s how he liked it. The less people noticed him, the easier it was to slip between the cracks, to do what needed to be done without anyone asking questions. At a small flower stall, he found Daisy, the spirited flower girl who had more secrets buried beneath her cheerful exterior than most people could stomach.

“More asters this year?” he asked, his voice low. “For Rachel.”

Daisy nodded, eyes focused on her work. “You know she likes decurrent asters, not asters” Tying a small ribbon around a Dahlia, “You of all people know, they look nearly identical but are really different inside. Anyways, consider it done.”

He slipped a sealed envelope into her hands, the exchange as casual as breathing. “Pass this along to Wayne if you see him.” Another nod. No words needed. They all played their parts, roles scripted by shadows and necessity.

At the graveyard, the wind cut through the silence, stirring the dying leaves on the ground. Marcus stood before the weathered stone bearing his grandfather's name, the only person who had understood the weight of duty. A single dahlia lay atop the grave—vibrant, alive, but as fragile as anything could be in his world.

"Thank you for your sacrifice, Grandfather," he whispered, his voice barely audible against the wind. The weight of those who came before him was a constant companion, one that he carried as he navigated the treacherous game of espionage. He bent down, picking up an envelope left at the base of the headstone, opening it with practiced care. Inside, a map of the city marked with three locations, a single match tucked beside it. His lips pressed into a thin line as he muttered to himself.

"45 years of fighting... for nothing." The match struck with a flicker of light, casting a brief glow on the map before it was engulfed in flame. The ashes fell away, leaving nothing behind but the faint smell of burning paper and the weight of history etched in the lines on Marcus’ face.

The docks were quiet, eerie. His boots thudded against the damp wood as he walked, thoughts turning over the mission, the lines between right and wrong blurring as they always did. The elvish rebellion. H.E.A.T. Their war, the secrets behind the masks they wore. The iron grip of the Tribunal had done more damage than any of the elves’ raids. The question, though, the one that twisted in his gut, was whether anything could be salvaged from the wreckage they were creating. Whether he could still save something. Or if it was already too late.

The city always moved forward, but at what cost? As he slipped back into the rhythm of the street, Marcus felt the weight of his duty pressing down harder than ever. With a cigarette between his lips and a map of uncertainty in his mind, he steeled himself for the work ahead. This city, with all its progress and pain, wasn't his to save. But maybe, just maybe, it was his to survive.

Marcus sat on the bench, watching the ships drift across the water like ghosts, their sails cutting through the fading light of the late afternoon. The world around him moved in slow motion, but his mind raced, tangled in thoughts that always seemed to come back to the same thing: the weight of history and the ever-present need to keep pushing forward. He hated how the past crept in, like a fog that refused to lift.

“This land was never ours,” he murmured, eyes locked on the horizon. “But it’s our future now, and we’ve got to defend it.” His voice was low, heavy with the kind of certainty that comes from years of fighting for something intangible. Politics, struggles, rights, and wrongs—it all paled in comparison to the need to hold onto the only home they had left. An old man, leaning heavily on a cane, approached. His steps were slow, each one a battle with time and age. He gestured toward the bench with a silent request, and Marcus nodded, welcoming the stranger without a word.

“Please,” Marcus said, “have a seat. Plenty of aches and pains still haunt me too.” The old man sat with a groan, his cane tapping the ground as if it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. For a moment, they shared a quiet understanding, two lives worn down by the years and whatever had been thrown at them.

The man spoke, his voice laced with nostalgia. “Used to work those docks,” he said, pointing his cane toward the ships. “If I was fifteen years younger, you’d see me on one of those boats. Eloquence Company’s vessels, I’d bet. Fine ships. Finest I’ve ever seen.”

Marcus nodded, allowing the conversation to fill the silence. “Dreams never fade, do they?”

“No,” the old man chuckled. “They don’t. Even if you can’t chase them anymore.”

Marcus stood, offering the old man a faint smile. “Thanks for the company.” He resumed his walk, the weight of duty pressing back down on his shoulders as he moved through the streets.

The city stretched out before him, a maze of brick and steel, worn by time but still standing tall. The stink of the gutter rose from the streets, a mix of oil, smoke, and the rot of forgotten things. The evening sun was dipping below the horizon, casting long shadows as Marcus walked, his mind already drifting to the pile of paperwork waiting for him. He sighed. The job wasn’t all action, not all the time. Some days it was just forms, reports, names on lists. He was good at it, but that didn’t mean he liked it. The world of espionage had its mundane side, just like everything else. With any luck, he'd finish the grind before dinner.

As he turned a corner, the streets narrowed, and the familiar sign of a whale loomed above the door of a dive bar he frequented. The place was a relic, the kind of establishment where the walls whispered of things better left unsaid. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of spilled whiskey and the grit of the world outside. Marcus found a seat at a small table near the stage, where a trumpeter was blowing out slow jazz that hung in the air like cigarette smoke. Two cigarettes lay on the table, and Marcus lit one, the flame warming the letters just enough to be visible before they burned away forever the message written in invisible ink: “Fifth and Everbloom, North side, in the shadow of giants.” He leaned back in his chair, letting the music carry him for a moment before standing and tossing a coin onto the bar. A quick nod to the bartender confirmed that his path was set for the night.

Fifth and Everbloom was an intersection like any other in the city, marked by the same worn-down streets and tired buildings. To the right, a jazz bar pumped out rhythms into the night air, while a towering hotel loomed over the block like a giant in its final breath. Between the two, an alley stretched into darkness. Marcus stepped into it, the shadows closing in around him. The night had a way of creeping up like that, like it knew you were looking for something you shouldn’t find.

He waited.

The sound of footsteps echoed behind him, the faint shuffling of feet catching his attention. Marcus scanned the alley, his eyes adjusting to the dim light, but there was no sign of his informant. Not yet. A group of elves passed by the mouth of the alley, minding their own business. It wasn’t long before two cops, steam pistols holstered, stepped in their path. Even from a distance, Marcus could see what was coming. The elves were about to get harassed—maybe worse. The cops had that swagger, the kind that came from knowing no one would stop them. No one cared about the elves. Not in this part of the city.

Marcus felt the familiar burn of frustration rise in his chest. It was always the same. The cops, smug and brutal, dragged one of the elves away, their smirks broadening as the others shrank back, helpless. Marcus’ focus shifted as a shadow detached itself from the wall in front of him. His informant. She moved quickly, slipping into the alley like she was born from the darkness itself.

“They’re moving fast,” she whispered, her voice a low rasp. “HEAT’s got a new plan in motion. The elves they’ve been picking up? They’re being sent somewhere... permanent. You’re biting the hand that feeds you, Marcus. Be careful.”

Marcus barely acknowledged the warning. His eyes flicked to the officers again. He had to act. He excused himself from the informant, walking casually toward the cops with his hands in his coat pockets. His movements were slow, deliberate, like a man with nowhere to be, yet every step carried a weight of intent.

“Evening, officers,” Marcus called out, voice calm, measured. “Seems like these gentlemen haven’t done a thing to bother you.”

The closest cop glared at Marcus, his face twisting into a snarl. “Buzz off! This ain't your concern.”

Marcus sighed, shaking his head. “I’d rethink that.”

Before the cop could respond, Marcus’ fist connected with his jaw, a clean, swift motion that sent the man stumbling. The elf dropped to the ground, freed from the cop’s grip. The other officer swung a billy club, but Marcus ducked, spinning on his heel, delivering a bone-cracking right hook that sent the man sprawling into the gutter. The first cop, dazed but angry, reached for his pistol. Marcus didn’t give him the chance. In one smooth move, he grabbed the cop’s wrist and twisted, sending the man flying over his shoulder and slamming into the ground with a thud. The second officer fumbled for his whistle, but Marcus’ uppercut shattered the man’s teeth, the whistle breaking in his mouth.

“Well, someone had to take out the trash today,” Marcus muttered, straightening his coat. The two men lay slumped against the wall, groaning.

As Marcus approached the flower stall, Daisy was already there, her hands busy arranging a bouquet of white asters. She didn’t even glance up as he arrived, but a knowing smile curled at the edges of her lips.

“Right on time,” she teased, her voice carrying that familiar warmth. “Impeccable flowers, just like you ordered.”

Marcus nodded, his gratitude evident in the soft tone of his voice. “You always come through, Daisy.”

She finally looked up, her sharp green eyes sparkling, equal parts fondness and mischief. “They weren’t easy to get, you know. But for you two, I always make it work.” She paused, leaning in slightly with that playful glint she often had. “But seriously, when are you gonna stop messing around and marry that poor girl? She deserves better than your half-in, half-out routine.” Daisy’s words carried the weight of genuine concern beneath the teasing. She’d been on his case about Rachel for months now, like a nosy older sister, but it wasn’t something he could easily explain. Not in his world.

"Soon, soon,” he said, flashing a grin. “Got a few things to sort out first.”

Daisy rolled her eyes, clearly unimpressed with his vague answer. “You better mean it this time, Marcus. Rachel’s a keeper. You know that, right?”

He nodded, brushing off the topic before it got too heavy. “Any messages?”

With a dramatic sigh, Daisy reached under the counter, pulling out a small box, her expression exaggerated for effect. “I swear, you and your people treat me like a postal service. One of these days, I’m gonna start charging extra.” Her tone was light, but Marcus knew Daisy’s importance went far beyond flowers and deliveries. She was a trusted point of contact, someone who helped bridge the gap between the visible and invisible parts of his world, and he was grateful for her unwavering support.

He gave her a small smile and slipped a few coins onto the counter. “Appreciate it, Daisy. As always.”

She waved him off, her usual playful smirk back in place. “Get going, lover boy. You don’t want to keep her waiting.”

Marcus stepped through the threshold of his apartment, greeted by the rich aroma of dinner wafting through the air. It felt like a haven, this little space away from the shadows and the lies. For a moment, he let himself breathe.

“Something smells good,” he called out, making his presence known as he closed the door behind him.

Rachel stood by the kitchen, turning just enough to shoot him a mock scowl, her hands on her hips. “You almost let dinner get cold. What kept you?”

Her voice was light, affectionate, but Marcus could feel the edge of worry beneath it. He walked over to the vase by the window, swapping out the tired, wilting flowers with the fresh ones he’d just picked up. It was a small ritual—one that had grown between them over the years.

“Sorry for keeping you waiting,” he said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of more than just the evening’s delay.

Rachel softened, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “You’re here now. That’s what matters.”

The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows that stretched across the apartment. Marcus stepped to the window, his eyes following the last traces of light as the sky turned a deep, bruised orange. There was something about sunsets that made him reflective, made the weight of the day feel both lighter and heavier at the same time.

In a low whisper to himself, he recited a few lines of a poem that had been rattling in his head.

“Iron will, broken soul,

Haunted by the past he fought,

The soldier endures.”

Each word hung in the air like an unfinished thought, a testament to the trials he’d endured and the scars he carried. The city below hummed, full of life and secrets, and yet in this quiet moment, with Rachel nearby and the evening settling into night, Marcus found a strange sense of solace.

For now, the shadows could wait.