02 • first spin* •

Abandoned warehouses,

outskirts of the First Zone.

70 days to Zero Hour.

Abandoned Warehouses,
First District, near Sector 3.
33 Days Until Zero Hour.

“This has to be a bad joke,” she muttered under her breath as the guard slammed the door shut behind her.

She’d been led into yet another room, one that looked hastily repurposed from an old warehouse. To the left, barrels, boxes, and pallets were piled into a dangerously leaning tower. On the right, away from the chaos, stood… a row of school desks. And in front of them, a large interactive board.

This time, she wasn’t alone. Four pairs of eyes locked onto her the second she stepped in, and suddenly she felt like a sheep tossed into a den of wolves.

“Well, finally someone decided to show up!”

The first to speak was a redheaded guy with a freckled, upturned nose. But after giving her a better look, he slouched back into his wooden chair and sighed. “Nope. You don’t look like one of those stuck-up suits.”

“Did you get lost looking for the bathroom, or are you the next one they bagged?” another guy asked.
If she met him in an alley at night, she would run away immediately. Even from several meters away, he looked massive—built like a double-door wardrobe.

She realized they were all waiting for her to answer, while she stood frozen by the door.

“Second option,” she replied curtly, making no move to come closer. Four guys in one room? No way she was getting near them.

“Another sardine for the tin,” the redhead clapped his hands, then dropped his chin on the desk and turned toward the board, clearly done with her. “Wonder how many more they’ll cram in here before they let us out,” he mumbled, eyes half closed.

“I’d say she’s the last addition.”

Kelly almost had a heart attack when a guy with nearly white-blond hair appeared beside her. She hadn’t heard him approach—a clear reminder of how shitty her multitasking skills were.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” he said quickly, seeing her jump half a meter to the right.

“What gave it away, Einstein?”

Another voice chimed in. Kelly glanced over at the guy lounging in his chair like he owned the place. With that messy chestnut hair and scowling forehead, he looked like the kind of guy who punches first and maybe forgets the questions altogether.

Unbothered, “Einstein”, the white-haired huy gestured toward the desks.

“They’ve set up five single desks, which tells me they’re not expecting more guests,” he explained calmly, like he was speaking to a child. “So, welcome aboard.” He flashed a polite smile—like a flight attendant.

“Didn’t expect a girl in this lovely circus. Nice change of scenery,” muttered the walking wardrobe, rubbing his jaw with a thumb.

Thifer looked at him, then slowly scanned the rest. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep herself from screaming.
She had the urge to grab her head and slam it into the nearest hard surface.

“They zap your neck too?” asked the guy who had just earned the nickname Einstein—though to her, he looked more like Elsa. Or Snow White.

She nodded, eyes scanning the room for a potential escape route. Not even a lousy fan vent in sight—not that her fat ass would fit through it anyway.

“And did you also have the pleasure of chatting with Mr. I’ll-Punch-You-in-the-Face-in-Three-Seconds? I mean, Callean?” came the muffled voice of the redhead.

She nodded again, inwardly smirking at the nickname. It suited Callean. Along with Mr. Goddamn Blackmailer.

“So we’ve got a working theory for a potential serial killer,” said the white-haired guy as he returned to his desk.
“A cop locks five criminals in a room, then pulls off a group murder. Classic.”

Kelly found herself wondering how long they’d all been here. They looked like they’d gotten used to each other’s presence—but not enough to trust one another. Or like each other. She had just walked into thick, heavy tension.

“Nah, I think Callean would rather toss us all in prison first and then stage a mass suicide,” muttered the wardrobe guy. His dark, nearly black eyes landed on her. “You planting roots over there?” he asked dryly, nodding toward the only free desk by the wall.

After a short pause—and under the scrutiny of her new cellmates—Kelly crossed the room and sat down, pressing her back to the cold wall. She pulled one leg up to her chest and wrapped her arms around it.

Silence settled between them. No one felt like talking, and honestly, who could blame them? Lock five strangers in a room and expect cooperation? Yeah. Good luck with that.

Kelly decided to use the time to study her surroundings—and her fellow inmates. She was a good observer by nature. She had a knack for picking up on things others didn’t, which helped compensate for her terrible focus.

Elsa, the guy with white-blond hair, sat rigidly at his desk, staring at his hands. Next to them lay a pair of round glasses. He was tall and wiry, with pale skin. He didn’t seem dangerous or difficult, just a quiet type. But she knew better than to judge too quickly.

Before he could catch her staring, she shifted her focus to the redhead.

He looked like he was peacefully napping, his head resting on the desk, completely ignoring the world. His freckled, upturned nose twitched now and then. Like Elsa, he didn’t seem threatening either. Both looked like the type of school nerds who only become scary when you take away their caffeine supply.

The same could not be said about the remaining two. Mr. Wardrobe and Mr. Winkled Nose looked like full-time MMA competitors. Both tall, muscular, with cold, unpleasant stares. She wondered how many guards it had taken to bring those two down. And how many volts they’d needed to drop them.

Since none of them even knew each other’s names, and she needed some kind of anchor, she gave them nicknames. The white-haired guy became Elsa. The redhead remained Red Nerd. The human wardrobe was now Amstaff and the guy with the eternally wrinkled forehead—he got dubbed Gargamel, mostly because he actually resembled him: constantly frowning and muttering to himself.

Satisfied with her little mental system, Kelly let out a quiet sigh and rested her forehead on her knee, giving her body a moment to settle. Not that “settled” was anywhere near what she felt. Her thoughts were a chaotic mess. Callean had roped in several other professional lawbreakers for this shady operation, yet even after she’d agreed to his proposal, he still hadn’t told her what the mission actually was. “You’ll find out in due time,” he’d said. She’d almost gone for his throat, but the idea of another forced nap by stun gun wasn’t appealing. Still, if he’d assembled a whole crew, something big was going down. What didn’t make sense was why he’d gathered a bunch of criminals. What was stopping them from screwing each other over?

That’s when it clicked. She looked at each guy again—Red and Elsa seemed about her age, the other two maybe a few years older. They could’ve had a normal life ahead of them but had chosen a path outside the law. Which likely meant Callean had blackmailed them, too. What were they risking? A girlfriend? A sibling? A beloved dog or car? Or maybe something even more personal. Something that explained why they were all sitting there quietly, instead of giving Callean a bullet to the head.

Her mind went straight to Estheim. Callean knew where the only person she truly cared about was. He knew exactly where to strike and what her weakest spot was. How long had he been watching her? How much effort had he put into gathering that kind of information? She didn’t even want to think about how he’d done it. He must’ve signed a deal with the devil—or maybe he was the one.

She jumped when the door creaked open. Great—speak of the devil, and he shall appear. Callean strolled into the room as if he didn’t feel the weight of everyone’s eyes on him. Behind him trailed a petite girl with black hair who looked completely out of place—like someone who accidentally wandered into the wrong genre. She radiated optimism and friendliness like it was contagious.

Callean tossed a stack of documents onto a small table, then stood with his hands in his pockets, waiting patiently while they all took their seats. The girl remained beside him like a shadow. 

“Nice to see no one’s killed each other yet,” he said casually, like this wasn’t a forced detainment but a fun little group meeting for recovering felons.

“We’d also find it nice if you explained why the hell you dragged us all here,” Amstaff said, taking on the role of unofficial spokesperson.

Callean didn’t flinch. “As I told each of you—this is simple. We need criminals… to take down other criminals.” he threw this information in their faces, like a professional rugby player.

Kelly sat up straight, nearly falling off her chair as she locked her eyes on the man. The others looked just as shocked and dumbfounded. Because even though criminals didn’t typically form tight bonds or lasting friendships—everyone looked out for their own ass—there was still an unspoken rule: you didn’t rat out your own kind. After all, they were all neck-deep in the same mess, and pulling someone deeper on purpose was seen as betrayal on par with dishonoring a Japanese family.

Sure, there were always a few who, for personal gain, agreed to become informants. But snitches never held their ground for long. Or kept their lives.

And now, they were being forced to play exactly that role.

*first spin --> a colloquial term for the first spin of the wheel or the first bet placed