Memory

  3 hours before, Reed meets Rowan.

  The grey clouds blanketed the sky, yet a sliver of sunlight pierced through the whitish veil. Reed stared out the office window, adjusting his collar. He holstered his pistol beneath his coat and stepped out of the office.

  Earlier this week, he’d been informed of an important figure requesting a meeting and an urgent delivery requiring his intervention. The company reached out again, requesting a meeting—someone important, they said.

  That “someone” wanted to meet one of Reed’s contractors through him, but he had never been told why.

  Reed walked through Silvercrest Street, the sparse evening traffic slicing through the air, leaving behind the sharp hiss of wind. When he arrived, the sun melted and dissolved into the radiant city view.

  The rendezvous point was an abandoned hotel on the highest hill—a decayed paradise, now a corpse overlooking the city. He climbed through the decaying hallways to the rooftop, where the client awaited.

  Reed stepped onto the rooftop; his eyes glanced around the remains of a once-grand paradise. Among the ruins sat Bishop, lounging on the crumbling edge, legs swinging idly as he gazed out at the horizon.

  ‘Took you long enough—I finished a book,' Bishop said without looking back.

  Reed was about to respond when Bishop continued, ‘A tale of a man rich in talent, yet cast aside by the world he once knew.’ He paused, lifting the book from his lap and setting it beside him.

  'He poured his soul into the company, only to be abandoned, drifting through life without purpose. His mind... drowning in its own sorrow.’ Bishop lay back, both hands behind his head. ‘It's a wonder, isn't it? The thing that makes us human. Too little, and we’re empty shells—walking corpses. Too much, and we lose ourselves, wandering blind, convinced we’re in control. But it’s all just an illusion.’

  The city lights flickered, swallowed by the thickening mist. The wind picked up, cool and damp. Bishop turned, his teashades catching the glow of neon reflections, blending with the chromatic skyline.

  ‘So… why am I here?’ Reed asked.

  ‘I need that guy. I need the one who was left behind,’ said Bishop, turning back to the skyline.

  ‘Who exactly?' Reed asked, standing still like a statue.

  ‘Rowan Voss… or whatever remains of him.’ He leaned forward and stood on the ledge. His coat waved as the city gale passed by.

  ‘I want someone loyal to the company,’ he said, his voice calm and steady.

  ‘Someone who doesn’t flinch at a little bloodshed. Straightforward. No hesitation. No second-guessing. Just... get the job done.

  Rowan?’ Reed asked, unable to hide his surprise. He had worked with him for a long time, yet Rowan’s past remained a mystery to him. The way Bishop spoke—as if Rowan were just a ghost of what he once was—made him question what he had overlooked. Who was Rowan Voss, really?

  Bishop exhaled, glancing at the skeletal remains of the rooftop. ‘This is where it all started, isn’t it?’ He picked up a piece of concrete, then let it fall. ‘But, well, it doesn’t matter anymore.’

  He turned back to Reed; he said with a smile, ‘I’ve got to say, I am genuinely impressed by your works.’ He pulled out two folders, one with a card stapled to it. 'Here, you might want to read it.' He handed the folder over. 'Give the contractor the one with my card stapled to it, and keep the other for yourself—and only for yourself,' he emphasised.

  Reed flipped through the folders, inspecting them with his usual calm. He was just about to open one when Bishop cleared his throat—a pointed stare locking onto him.

  ‘Ah—right.’ Reed shut it before even catching a single letter. ‘If I take this, you’re not going to send a hitman after me later, are you?’

  Bishop left without waiting for any more response. ‘That’s all. Good luck, Mister Reed.’ He turned and walked down the crumbled ruins, disappearing into the mist as drizzling rain began to fall, his figure fading into the grey haze.

  Reed slipped the folders into his coat and opened an umbrella. The low rumble of thunder fades, blending with the rhythm of the rain. With the wind picking up, he made his way down the hill, the city lights calling him back.

  When he arrived at his office, he placed one folder on his desk without a second thought, keeping the other close. But something nagged at him—a feeling, faint but persistent, urging him to open them. It lingered in the back of his mind, following him from his desk to the bustling taxi ride through the rain-slicked streets.

  He shook it off. No time for hesitation. With the downpour growing heavier, Reed adjusted his coat and set off to meet Rowan.

  _______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

  Present—Monday, 10:00 am.

  The morning sun warmed the city, drying out the rain-soaked streets and vanishing the last puddles. The dampness faded as dawn broke over the horizon.

  The company received a report warning that their property might be at risk, as a shipping trailer had crashed at the tunnel before the entrance. In response, they sent someone to inspect the site—someone who, as it happened, turned out to be Reed.

  'The truck crashed at the entrance? And the container vanished?' His voice sharpened, cutting through his grogginess with disbelief and frustration.

  On the other end, Reed's voice was laced with urgency and frustration. ‘Yeah, I’m here at the site with some of my men. The driver’s dead. I’m gathering clues and collecting evidence right now.’

  ‘Alright, stay put. I'm coming.’ Bishop grabbed his coat and teashades, then left the room.

  ‘You’re coming to the site? What about the contractor meeting—has he contacted you yet?’ Reed's voice became more steady despite the chaos around him.

  'My phone was silent all night until you called; no, he didn’t call. Just give me his number.’ Bishop answered as he stepped into the street, his voice commanding.

  Bishop shot his hand into the air, fingers splayed wide as if trying to grab the morning air. ‘Sent,’ Reed replied as the message notification appeared on Bishop’s phone. I’ll be there.’ Bishop hung up as a taxi pulled up.

  ‘Where to?’ the driver asked in a simple tone.

  ‘White Road, northern city’s edge,’ Bishop replied as he hopped into the cab.

  The driver nodded, switched on the taximeter, and the car engine hummed to life as it merged into the bustling road. Bishop leaned back against the cool leather seat and exhaled deeply. His thoughts remained sharp, fixed on the task ahead. And then there was Rowan Voss—wherever he was, Bishop had a task waiting for him.

  _______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

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  Across the city, within the crumbling palace, lay a man shaped by his past, surrounded by the remnants of human artistry—taken back by nature as humanity's presence faded. Amongst the ruins, Rowan stood from his rest. His gaze lingered with quiet wonder, reflecting on the filtered sunlight seeping through the grime-covered glass roof.

  ‘This place still holds its glory, even in death.’ His eyes traced the fractured walls, the past lingering in its cracks. ‘The past is breathing here, its echoes woven through these halls.’ He exhaled, inhaling the scent of damp stone and earth after fresh rain.

  Moss-cloaked white pillars stood solemnly in the luminous room. A shadow of its former self, a double staircase stretched upward, leading to an empty throne. The worn railings, adorned with carved stone rings, bore the weight of time—many broken, yet a few enduring, preserving a fragment of the palace’s forgotten beauty.

  The empty passage whispered with echoes of forgotten voices, their chant creeping through the halls. Yet, if one listened closely, they could hear the ethereal hum of morning insects, their delicate symphony weaving into an exquisite orchestra. Together, they created a haunting beauty—a divine harmony between nature and the past.

  A slight vibration pulsed beside him. He glanced down, saw the phone lying on his coat, and raised it to his ear without a word.

  ‘Good morning, Mister Rowan,’ a crackled voice came through the line, muffled yet clear enough to comprehend. ‘I’ve been waiting for your contact since last night, so I decided to call myself. About our meeting—unfortunately, we need to reschedule due to an incident last night.’

  Rowan’s eyes shifted from his surroundings to the emptiness in front of him. The golden-silver rays from the roof seemed to fade, leaving only a grey vision of the ruins.

  ‘About that…’ he murmured. He exhaled slowly, staring at the dust-covered floor. 'I’d like to pass on this job, regardless of how much it’s paid or what it’s about.' All he wanted was freedom from this life, a life bound by a vow he swore to keep regardless of the cost. Yet, memories crept in, the very ones he wished to forget.

  The night she confessed—the night he realised what he feared, what they had all kept hidden to protect something fragile. And that fragile trust shattered, leaving him in silent misery. She cupped his face, brushing away his tears. ‘I promise I will come back.’

  Bishop was surprised when Rowan declined the contract before he could even discuss it.

  ‘Oh? Well, I believe your broker told you how significant this job is, even if not in detail. I respect your decision, Mister Rowan. But are you sure this is what you want?’

  Rowan hesitated. He opened his mouth, then closed it, uncertain of what to say.

  ‘You are a skilled tracker—you've never failed a job, and you've even made what I’d call an “unofficial promise” to our company.’ Bishop continued. ‘But if that’s really your desire, then I won’t stop you.’ He leaned back, his voice hard and cold, like metal puncturing through the phone line. ‘Walking away isn’t the same as being free.’

  ‘Wait.’ Rowan hesitated, then said with quiet resolve, ‘I’ll accept the job—but only in exchange for my freedom.’

  ‘Mhm. I won’t promise you that—I may or may not be able to make it possible—but right now, you have two options, Mister Rowan.’ Bishop paused, a sigh escaping through the phone line. ‘Actually, I don’t force things to go my way.’ His voice softened, a hint of empathy in his tone.

  ‘I will do what I can to help you, but before that––’

  ‘The task... I’ll take it,’ Rowan’s voice interrupted; his resolve hardened. There was no turning back now. ‘I’ll take the job.' The words left his mouth before his thoughts could catch up. He told himself it was the only way out. He refused to wonder what lay behind the door—or why this man had chosen him to open it.

  ‘Very well. I’ll draft a new contract, effective within twenty-four hours. We’ll review the details later. And, due to the incident I mentioned, I’ll assign someone to assist you during this time.’ Bishop confirmed.

  Before Rowan could hang up, Bishop added, ‘If you want to start early, investigate Red Light Street. Find a man named Brass. The intel is in the folder. Best of luck, Mister Rowan.’

  Bishop hung up and glanced up from his phone. ‘Hey, are we there yet?’

  'The country roads aren’t so busy these days. Should take about fifteen minutes, sir.’ The driver answered, eyes locked on the road.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother, but can you make it ten? This is a bit urgent,’ Bishop said politely.

  The driver scratched his head. ‘I hate to say it, but... the place is pretty far. This is the fastest we can go, sir.’

  Bishop’s patience wore thin, but he nodded finally. ‘Alright, carry on then.’ He scrolled through his contacts slowly before dialling a number.

  ‘Good morning, sir, Bishop. What service do we owe you today?’ A warm, welcoming voice of a man came through the phone line.

  ‘Can you assign my student to a task at Site 1210 in the City of Light?’

  ‘What kind, sir?’ the voice asked.

  ‘I need an agent’s assistance.’ Bishop answered plainly.

  ‘Ah, it's quite busy there, isn't it? Would you like to provide details or instructions?

  'Look up the "City of Light" documents in the discovery category from my archive. Also, get her the city's print. Deliver both to her—and if you don’t mind, find her a fine white rose.’

  ‘Understood. We’ll send her the documents right away. The rose may take a day or two to arrange, so her arrival might be slightly delayed.’

  ‘That’s fine. Thank you.’

  As he ended the call, the car rolled to a stop.

  ‘Here we are,’ the driver said, glancing at Bishop through the rearview mirror.

  Bishop stepped out onto a passage paved with white bricks, each sculpted and engraved with intricate patterns. Some bore blooming lotuses; others twisted into knotted vines. The artistry stretched beneath his feet, worn yet elegant, telling silent stories of time and craftsmanship.

  Leaning against the car window, he asked, ‘How much?’

  ‘Forty bucks, sir,’ the driver replied, holding out the payment reader.

  Bishop tapped his phone against it. ‘That’s a hundred—the rest is yours.’

  He turned away, continuing down the passage as the car reversed and drove off, leaving him alone on the road.

  Bishop gazed into the distance. Nothing on either side—no life, no cars, only the ancient road stretching into silence. Occasional lamp posts stood idle; their glow was drowned out by the radiant sun, waiting for the night to return.

  He walked on, but then in the distance the wreckage appeared in his eyesight. Reed and his men scattered around, carefully collecting evidence. As he got closer, the smell of smoke hit his nose, along with the smell of rusted metal. Reed noticed Bishop on the trail; he waved a leather-covered notebook at him.

  From a closer view, he saw a trailer cab slammed into a barricade beside the tunnel, the windshield shattered. Glass scattered on the dust-covered ground. The fender was demolished against the concrete; thick smoke billowed from the burning engine. A white cloth veiled the body slumped behind the wheel.

  ‘As you can see, the driver’s dead, the transport vehicle is heavily damaged, and the container is missing.’ said Reed, tucking a pen inside his coat, his hand gripping tight on the book.

  ‘Bad news for Mister Manager, isn’t it?’ Bishop chuckled. ‘But anyway, is the GPS on?’ He asked Reed, walking toward the roadside and looking down at the hillside. The empty trailer detached from the head and fell to the side of the road. A long trace of it sliding down the slope, but the container is nowhere to be found.

  ‘Yeah, my men are working on it,’ Reed replied.

  The starkness of the situation began to sink in as he examined the wreckage of the trailer. Bishop put on his teashades and glanced back. ‘If you don’t find it soon—’ he smiled, bright and unreadable. ‘Mister Manager, I can guarantee we’ll be in serious trouble.’

  Reed frowned and came up with a forced, stiff smile. ‘You say that like it’s anything new.’

  Bishop glanced up; his teashades reflected the clouds threatening rain. ‘I thought you were the calm one—don’t be a hothead just now; we’ve got work to do.’

  ‘I’d be calm if this mess hadn't left my job hanging in the air. But isn’t this your problem?’ said Reed, scratching his head. ‘A higher-up showing humility—now that’s a rare sight.’

  Bishop scoffs. ‘Tch, I’ll take that as a compliment. But more importantly—what’s in the book?’

  As they spoke, one of Reed’s men drifted toward the woods, eyes locked on a GPS locator. The device had been quiet until now—then, a sharp, mechanical beep shattered the silence. The sound grew quicker, pulsing faster and louder as he ran through the trees.

  Then, in the middle of the river, he saw it. A blue metal container sat half-submerged in the water.

  Bishop remained smiling as he glanced at the treeline behind the wreckage. ‘Yeah, as I said, you shouldn't be worried—’

  ‘Hey, you guys wanna see this!’ The shouting voice interrupted. He urgently waved them over to see what he had found. Instantly they looked at each other and both walked toward the other side of the road, climbed over the barricade, and made their way down to meet him.

  When they got to the shore, the man was sitting on a rock, pointing at the cargo container. Without hesitation, Bishop forded across the river. As he reached the container, to his surprise, the cargo door was unlocked. A circuit board had been hastily rigged to the security reader.

  He yanked the cargo door open. The water inside gushed between his feet. Inside—nothing but water.

  Reed had followed him silently from the shore and now stood behind him, peering into the container. ‘Stolen?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah, stolen.’ Bishop exhaled before moving back to the shore. He sat back on a log, legs shaking with thoughts.

  ‘Do you have a name in mind?’

  ‘I think I should ask you that. Anyone in mind?’

  Reed stood in silence, looking at the river-cast pebbles on the shore. ‘Maybe’, he said.

  ‘Let's head back to the road first.’ said Bishop; he finally moved from the log, tapped on Reed's shoulder, and so they climbed their way back to the road, followed by Reed's men.

  As they got back to the road, Reed walked to his field desk inside the tunnel, fingers tapping against the smooth plastic surface before taking his seat and running through folders. It didn't make sense. Neither was the timing. He exhaled through his nose, calmly turning to draft the reports.

  Bishop stood still, staring at the clouds like they had something to say. The wind curled through the tunnel, tugging at the edges of his coat. He could hear Reed’s men talking in the distance, but the words felt weightless. His fingers traced the barricade. Just waiting.