The dim light from the overcast sky barely penetrated the bar, casting long shadows that danced across the walls whenever someone passed by the window. The atmosphere was thick—half with the smell of stale beer, half with unspoken tension.

  "They’re gone?" Milan asked, taking another swig of his beer.

  Amir barely reacted, offering a curt nod, clearly uninterested in Milan’s prodding. His patience was wearing thin, and the flickering light only deepened the irritation etched on his face.

  “When will they arrive back in Oksj?? When does our car leave?” Milan pressed.

  Without a word, Amir lunged across the table, his hand gripping Milan’s collar. Their eyes locked, a tense moment hanging between them, before Amir shoved him back into his seat. The message was clear: stop talking.

  “Are you mad?” the barman snapped, his voice rising as he scrubbed a glass with unnecessary force. “I told you, we’re out! Don’t make me get the guards outside!”

  Jonathan, tipsy from a morning of drinking, waved the barman off, slurring his words. “Listen to yourself—who’re you kidding? I’m not asking for top-shelf. Just send over a bottle of Jack. I’ll drink that piss. Don’t tell me you’re out of whiskey.”

  From an old radio behind the bar, Warren Zevon’s “Lawyers, Guns, and Money” crackled through the static, its rebellious rhythm underscoring the tension in the room. The barman muttered something under his breath, the song’s lyrics ironically fitting the growing unease in the dimly lit space.

  The bar door creaked open, casting a shaft of pale light into the room. A tall, bearded figure stepped inside, pausing for a moment in the doorway like he was savoring the drama of his entrance.

  Jonathan and Amir exchanged glances. Neither needed to say it—the presence of the newcomer meant something was brewing. Jonathan’s hand instinctively brushed his jacket, feeling the reassuring weight of the pistol hidden within.

  “My compatriot giving you trouble, Steven?” the man asked with a grin as he shut the door behind him.

  “Can’t blame a guy for trying to find liquor that isn’t beer,” Jonathan replied, leaning back in his chair, his tone casual but watchful.

  The man smirked and pulled up a chair, sliding it smoothly into place before sitting down.

  “Want anything to drink, Emil?” the barman called, his annoyance giving way to familiarity.

  “Whiskey! Just kidding—bring me some ale,” Emil replied, lighting a cigarette as he leaned back.

  “Asher or Karim not around?” Amir asked, breaking his silence as he nursed his beer.

  “Pressing business,” Emil replied, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

  “Our task’s done. We got paid. Why are you here?” Amir asked bluntly, the alcohol loosening his tongue.

  “Fellow Danes don’t grow on trees,” Emil said with a grin. “Thought I’d take a good look at you lot—and say it’s been a pleasure doing business. If you ever need work, feel free to come back.” He added, this time in Danish.

  As the barman set a glass of ale on the table, Jonathan smirked. “You’re from Jutland, aren’t you?”

  “Guilty,” Emil chuckled, raising his glass. “Can’t hide the accent.”

  “Your friends here”—Emil motioned lazily at Amir and Milan—“have been staring at me like I’m a hieroglyph since the moment you walked in.”

  “Not everyone’s lucky enough to understand Danish,” Emil said, a grin tugging at his lips.

  Jonathan laughed, shaking his head. “Yeah, not like anyone here’s going to learn Danish for us.”

  "You a friend of Karim and Asher?" Jonathan asked. "No they helped me with business before, I don't know them personally as you lot do." Emil answered after wiping the foam from his moustache.

  “What brought you here?” Jonathan pressed, leaning forward.

  “You’re a conscript, right? A year ago, you’d have called me ‘sir,’” Emil said, chuckling. “Got out while evacuating VIPs and our guys to Greenland.”

  “Not all of our guys,” Jonathan shot back, his tone souring. “You left me and the rest of the Jutland Dragoon Regiment stranded in Copenhagen.”

  Emil hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, about that… Can’t explain it. They put me on a plane we did Stockholm, Talinn and Helsinki to pick up some other folks while you lot were fighting with your bayonetts.”

  “How’s Greenland?” Jonathan asked, pushing Emil’s buttons now, his voice almost mocking.

  Emil’s expression darkened. “If the cold doesn’t kill them, the starvation will. They shoved planes into the sea to make room for more landings. But now they’re realizing it’s a lot harder to grow food than they thought. Two hundred thousand people freezing in tents with nothing to eat—it’s a mess.”

  Jonathan stared at him for a moment before glancing at his watch, tapping the glass impatiently.

  “The others are dealing with the details,” Emil said, taking a slow sip of ale. “But I’m here on pressing business from high up. I have to recruit a few good men for a specific task.”

  He leaned back, his gaze steady as he scanned the group. “If you’re interested, meet me here two weeks from now—Thursday morning. Should be an outing that shouldn't last longer than a week. Radio in two nights before. Use the code: ‘Looking for 200 catalytic converters.’ That way, I’ll know you’re serious and won’t waste my time sitting here.”

  Jonathan leaned toward Amir, lowering his voice. “I gotta be somewhere before we leave. Can you handle this guy?”

  Amir looked at him long and hard, considering his words.

  “Oh, don’t worry, I’ll be leaving soon too,” Emil interrupted with a sly grin.

  Jonathan glanced back at him, his tone flat. “I was talking about Milan.”

  Amir finally gave Jonathan a nod, his expression unreadable as always.

  Jonathan's hands trembled—whether on the boat ride back to Norrk?ping or in the car’s cabin on the journey home, the shaking wouldn’t stop. He sat quietly, his eyes fixed on the passing scenery as if scanning for threats, but it was a hollow pretense. His mind wandered, fragmented, replaying snippets of casual conversations, bits of laughter, or the faint echo of someone calling his name. Yet as soon as silence settled around him, the memories came flooding back, dragging him into the aftermath of what had happened.

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  Amir sat beside him, silent but watchful. He didn’t need to say anything to know where Jonathan’s mind was; the weight of shared guilt hung between them like an unspoken agreement. They both knew how fragile their composure was.

  The night before their departure had been a blur of reckless abandon. It was as though both of them were trying to outrun the inevitable. Amir had spent his night visiting an old drug-addicted ex-girlfriend, drowning himself in whatever substance or sin could dull the edges of his conscience. Across town, Jonathan had spiraled in his own way—raving at a party, pushing himself to the brink of overdose, uncaring about death as though it were just an old friend that always stuck around.

  Now, the aftermath hung heavy in the air between them. Jonathan’s trembling hands clenched and unclenched in his lap, his gaze darting toward the horizon, searching for anything to anchor himself. But no matter how far he looked, he couldn’t escape the one thing he feared the most—his own thoughts.

  The trip to Norrk?ping had been a material success—new trade tariffs, valuable connections, and the exploitation rights Oksj? had secured. Yet, for Jonathan, Amir, and Milan, the personal cost had been immense.

  Amir tried to hide it, but Jonathan noticed the signs. Whether he was tending to the two girls during the Zodiac trip back or packing his gear in the loft, Jonathan could see it in Amir’s eyes, his tone, and his overall demeanor—something was clearly wrong. Jonathan wanted to reach out to him, though not literally, to show that they were in this together. He struggled to find the right way to offer support. Amir avoided the topic, and while Jonathan didn’t push it, it was evident that Amir was struggling and needed to talk before the weight of it all drove him to breaking point.

  The moment they returned to Oksj?, Jonathan turned to alcohol for solace. He ignored Przemek and the rest of the crew, offering only vague and evasive responses to their questions. He had no intention of discussing what happened.

  Przemek saw through Jonathan’s facade. After receiving a curt third response, Przemek left abruptly, determined to find Sven and get to the bottom of things. Sven's only suggestion—to ask Amir and Milan—offered little reassurance, especially considering Sven had retreated to his room with a bottle of vodka in hand.

  Jonathan’s hands trembled as he struggled to open the vodka bottle, his gaze fixed on Skadi from his bedroom window. She had arrived in high spirits, eager to be at Oksj?, but her optimism faltered when she took in Jonathan’s disheveled state. As Skadi unloaded her bags from the car, Jonathan turned his attention to the box resting on his bed. There were two packages: one from Sofia, Nikolaj, and Ming, and another from Przemek, marked with a note.

  Jonathan downed the last of his drink and set the glass on his nightstand. He pushed the package from Sofia, Nikolaj, and Ming aside and picked up Przemek’s, intrigued by the note attached.

  “It takes two men to make a brother,” the note read. For the first time that day, a genuine smile flickered across his lips as he opened the package, which had clearly been fashioned from an old shoebox. Inside was a handmade ghillie suit, designed to cover his shoulders and upper back, complete with a hood. Jonathan couldn't guess how long it had taken Przemek to make the ghillie suit, but he already started thinking of how to thank him. It meant more than words could express as he grabbed the bag of white powder from in the box under his bed.

  Despite the electricity rationing, Jonathan turned on the Bluetooth speaker he had scammed from someone as he connected the old laptop he had found here when they first moved in. He queued up a Finnish punk rock album from a band named after an STD as he opened the pack of white powder he had graciously received a while back from the men occupying the police station in Trollhatan.

  It was still early, and he knew he had a few more hours to enjoy the music at this volume. Not that anyone would bother him right now—they all knew better. His only real concern was what he’d do once the vodka and coke ran out.

  In fact, for the rest of the weekend, Jonathan only left his room for this purpose. He didn’t step outside for fresh air or to meet with anyone, not even when a gunshot from Milan’s room shattered the silence, waking everyone in the house.

  Milan’s only parting message was a letter, outlining cold, practical instructions: who owed Oksj? and what debts Oksj? had to settle, along with details on where he'd stashed essential supplies.

  It didn’t surprise Jonathan as him and Amir felt no sympathy towards him. It had worried the rest of the people in Oksj? quite allot, as the trip to N?rrkoping had raised more answers than questions. Milan was dead, Sven, Amir and Jonathan were all out of commission. No one could get through them. Amir and even Sven were borderline violent when anyone disturbed them, Jonathan on the other hand remained silent as a tomb whenever anyone tried to get him to talk. It worried Sofia and Przemek immensely. After the news of Milan, Przemek barely ate or slept. The thought of confiscating Jonathan weapons even crossed his mind. Despite that, Przemek knew it wasn’t his to take, he had no right to hover over Jonathan. He had reached out to him and now the ball was in Jonathan’s court. Do the powerless feeling of what his best friend of a year was going through gnawed at him. Despite the difference, be it cultural, upbringing or even age. He missed Jonathan.

  One by one, they emerged from their rooms. Some came out to eat proper food, others to grab a book or lend a hand with a task. Sven and Amir joined the rhythm, stepping out quietly. Their presence offered a sense of calm, a small comfort amidst the lingering unease.

  But Jonathan didn't and his state weighed heavily on everyone’s minds. His eyes, distant and unfocused, seemed locked in a perpetual state of fresh terror. Time didn’t ease the haunting expression on his face, as though he were caught in a storm only he could see.

  Christy, stationed at the long-range trading radio that day, glanced down at the note Jonathan had handed her earlier. The scribbled message made little sense to her, but she shrugged, pulling the microphone closer.

  “Norrk?ping, Norrk?ping, this is Oksj?,” she said, her tone steady but unenthused. “I have a buyer who’s looking for 200 catalytic converters. He’ll be in town in two days to receive the goods.”

  A burst of static followed, quickly broken by an irritated voice cutting through the airwaves.

  “Oksj?, Oksj?, get the fuck off the airwaves if it’s to say dumb shit like that!” a trader barked, his tone seething. Christy couldn’t place where he was from, but his frustration was unmistakable.

  Before she could respond, another voice chimed in, interrupting the first with calm authority and a heavy Danish accent.

  “Oksj?, Oksj?, this is Norrk?ping West. I got your message, and we’ll be here for the trade.”

  The air went silent again, the hum of the radio filling the space. Christy released the microphone and leaned back in her chair, letting out a quiet sigh. It wasn’t her business to understand the cryptic messages or who responded to them—she was just the messenger.

  When he finally announced his decision to leave for Norrk?ping again, the news hit like a thunderclap. Przemek’s frustration boiled over, and he erupted in a one-sided shouting match, demanding to know why Jonathan was leaving so soon. His words were sharp, laced with anger, but they barely scratched the surface. Not even Sofia’s calming voice or her gentle reassurances could reach him.

  Jonathan’s mind was somewhere else—distant, unreachable, and entirely consumed by the need to keep himself occupied.

  Whether it was like a father urging his son to stay or a brother pleading with a promise to return, Przemek’s emotions eventually got the better of him. But instead of offering a hug or soft words, he let his feelings show by helping Jonathan pack.

  They shared a few fleeting glances as Jonathan meticulously went through his packing list—a necessity for any young fighter grappling with an attention disorder. Przemek quietly handed over magazines, adjusted Jonathan’s backpack and plate carrier, and ensured he had enough dried food to last. His actions spoke louder than any words could, each movement an unspoken plea for Jonathan’s safety.

  Jonathan handed the keys to his room to Skadi, his fingers lingering just a moment too long on hers. Though he had neglected even basic hygiene for weeks, he had spent the better part of the day meticulously cleaning his room in preparation. Their hands touched longer than the gesture required, and his eyes locked with hers, searching for something unspoken, something that neither of them could quite bring themselves to say.

  Without a word, she stepped forward and hugged him. He held her close, the scars on her face from shrapnel fading into insignificance in his eyes. Even if he would never see her again, his only wish at this time was that that spark in her eye would never leave.

  Przemek stood by the manor steps, lighting a cigarette as the wind carried away the first tendrils of smoke. Jonathan climbed into the van without looking back, his bags landing heavily atop the crates bound for Norrk?ping. The engine growled to life, the headlights carving a path into the encroaching dusk.

  Skadi remained at the doorway, her hand still clutching the keys, as the van disappeared down the long drive. Przemek exhaled a plume of smoke, watching the taillights vanish into the distance.

  The manor grew quiet again, but the weight of Jonathan’s absence hung heavily in the air.