I stumbled through my apartment door, each step sending fresh waves of pain through my body. The adrenaline had worn off during the drive home, leaving behind an inventory of aches that demanded attention.

  The bathroom light flickered on, harsh fluorescent revealing the damage in my mirror's unforgiving reflection. Blood had dried in crusty patterns across my shirt, most of it thankfully not mine. My hands shook slightly as I peeled off the ruined clothes, dropping them in a heap on the tile floor.

  "Let's see what we've got here," I croaked, turning to examine the extent of my injuries. A spectacular bruise was blooming around my left eye, the skin already swollen and tender. Gentle probing at the back of my head found a goose egg-sized lump, souvenir of my first knockout of the evening. My split lip had mostly stopped bleeding, though it throbbed in time with my heartbeat.

  Dark bruises painted abstract patterns across my chest and back, but careful stretching and deep breaths - painful as they were - suggested nothing was broken. The steel-toed boots had left their marks, but I'd managed to curl up enough to protect my vital organs.

  "Could be worse," I told my reflection, watching a tired grin crack through the dried blood on my face. "At least I still have all my limbs."

  The absurdity of the situation hit me then - standing half-naked in my bathroom, battered but alive, while a dozen corpses cooled in a bar across town. A laugh bubbled up, immediately followed by a wince as my bruised body protested.

  "'Tis but a scratch!" I quoted at the mirror, affecting my best British accent. Monty Python's Black Knight's famous line seemed appropriate.

  I needed a shower, some painkillers, and probably a stiff drink.

  Half an hour later, though still aching, I was clean and pouring a generous measure of Jameson into a glass, hand still trembling slightly. Irish whiskey promised temporary relief from the symphony of pain playing across my body. Just as I raised it to my lips, my phone buzzed angrily on the coffee table.

  Boban's name flashed on the screen. My stomach dropped - this wouldn't be pleasant.

  "What the hell happened?" His voice crackled with barely contained fury. "I just got word Petar's dead. Dead, Aleksandar!"

  The glass clunked heavily against the table as I set it down. "Boban, listen-"

  "No, you listen! You got my man killed. Do you understand? He was one of our best undercover operatives, and now he's lying in a pool of his own blood because of your stupid game!"

  "They knew we were meeting!" I shouted back. "Someone tipped them off. They were waiting for us!"

  "Impossible." Boban's voice dropped dangerously low. "Only a handful of people even knew about Petar's existence, let alone this meeting."

  "Then one of that handful sold us out." The truth of it hit me harder than any boot had tonight. "They knew exactly who he was, even a stinking nerd boss guy confirmed he got the info from the police, they called him out as a rat before they..." I couldn't finish the sentence, the memory of Petar's screams still too fresh.

  "There's no way," Boban started, but his voice faltered. "Shit. He wouldn't..."

  The pause stretched between us, heavy with implication.

  "Better check if he really wouldn't," I said quietly, the anger draining from my voice. "Because someone did, and Petar paid the price."

  Silence filled the line for several long seconds. When Boban spoke again, his voice had lost its edge, replaced by something that sounded like defeat. "I'll look into it. "

  Just when I wanted to finish the call Boban continued.

  "Hold on for a minute," Boban said. "Just need to check something."

  "Sure," I rasped, opening freezer door and taking out ice pack.

  I settled on the couch, pressing the ice pack against my swollen eye while Boban's muffled voice carried on another conversation in the background. My phone felt warm against my ear - warmer than usual, actually.

  "You still there?" Boban's voice crackled back.

  "Yeah." I straightened up, grimacing. "What've you got?"

  "Just got the security footage from the sports center. The attackers, two of them, were driving Black BMW, license plate BG-847-XM. They drove off towards Dedinje. Than few minutes later you get out… hmmm…" He paused. "Thing is, there's something weird about the feed."

  I lowered the ice pack on the table and took a careful sip of whiskey. "Weird how?"

  "Well, I can see everything clear as day until after they drive off. Then it's like... like someone smeared Vaseline on the lens, but only in certain spots. Can't make out your car at all, and when you're walking to it, the image gets all distorted and fuzzy. Like one of those UFO videos, you know?"

  Thank God for Order's tech division. The protection spell woven into my phone's circuitry and car's electronics had done its job, creating a localized field of electromagnetic interference. To any digital recording device, I'd be about as clear as Bigfoot in a snowstorm.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  "Maybe it's just old equipment," I offered, trying to sound casual. "Those cameras have probably been there since the '90s."

  "Maybe." Boban didn't sound convinced. "But it's just that specific area, that specific time. Rest of the footage is crystal clear."

  I shifted uncomfortably on my couch, every muscle protesting. "Listen, about Petar-"

  "Don't." His voice turned hard again. "Just... don't. I'll handle that end. You focus on whatever got him killed. But Aleksandar?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Next time you need information, don't call me. I think this wipes clean whatever i owe you. Understood?"

  "Understood." I owed him that much, at least.

  The line went dead, and I slumped back, letting my phone drop onto the cushion beside me. The screen was still unusually warm, and a faint pattern of symbols flickered across it before fading - the spell's energy dispersing now that it wasn't needed.

  I fished the phone back up, checking for any damage from tonight's adventure. Surprisingly, it had survived intact - the hooligans hadn't even bothered to take it when they knocked us out. Amateur move, really. Though given how the night ended for them, their amateur status hadn't been their biggest problem.

  That thought sobered me up quick. Those guys with the Kalashnikovs hadn't been amateurs. They'd been professionals - the kind who clean up loose ends with extreme prejudice. The kind who don't leave witnesses.

  Except they had. They'd left me alive, sprawled under a dead hooligan.

  Why?

  The question nagged at me as I sipped my whiskey. Either they hadn't seen me in the chaos, which seemed unlikely for pros, or...

  Or they'd been told not to kill me.

  And that possibility was far more unsettling than any beating I'd taken tonight.

  I drained the last of my whiskey, wincing as the burn spreading down my throat. Goran's warning echoed in my head - "Don't go to that pub." Well, that ship had sailed spectacularly, leaving a trail of bodies in its wake.

  My fingers hovered over the phone's screen. Goran should be my first call, but the thought of that conversation made my headache worse. Besides, what I needed right now wasn't a lecture - I needed information.

  I pulled up Jovan's number instead. The guy was probably still at the office, knowing his workaholic tendencies. If I didn't see him in new clothes each day, I'd swear he lived there. The phone rang twice before his voice crackled through.

  "Do you have any idea what time it is?" Jovan's tone carried the familiar mix of caffeine and code-induced irritability.

  "Time to earn your paycheck," I said, trying to keep my voice light despite the pain. "Need you to look into something for me."

  "Hold on." I heard keyboard clicking pause for an instance. "Why do you sound like you got hit by a truck?"

  "More like eight skinheads with steel-toed boots, but who's counting?" I shifted on the couch, finding a less agonizing position. "Listen, I need everything you can find on a black BMW, plate number BG-847-XM. And I mean everything - registration, traffic cam footage, toll booth passes."

  "Aleksandar..." Jovan's typing stopped completely. "Please tell me you didn't go to that pub."

  "I won't tell you then." I touched my split lip gingerly. "But I will tell you it went a bit worse then i hoped for… Ok, a lot worse…."

  The silence on the other end stretched for several seconds, broken only by the soft hum of computer fans.

  "Shit," Jovan finally huffed. "Goran's going to kill you."

  "He won't if you don't tell him," I said, trying to sound casual.

  "I'll try my best, but..." Jovan sighed. "You know how terrible I am at keeping secrets."

  "One more thing," I said, shifting the phone to my other ear. "Need you to dig up everything you can on a United Force member. Goes by 'Trouble.'"

  "The skinny guy with glasses?" Jovan's keyboard clicking resumed. "Yeah, I've heard of him. Real tech head, supposedly runs their online operations. What specifically are you looking for?"

  "All connections to hacking groups, dark web activities." I pressed the empty whiskey glass against my throbbing temple. "And particularly interested in any magical ties, though I doubt we'll find any."

  "Shouldn't be too hard to track down. We already have a substantial file on him. Want his current location too?"

  "No need." I closed my eyes, the image of Trouble's body sprawled across the bar floor flashing unbidden behind my eyelids. "He's in the morgue. Along with about seven or eight of his friends."

  The typing stopped abruptly. "What?"

  "Yeah." I let out a slow breath. "Two guys with Kalashnikovs walked in and... redecorated the place. Very professional job. Quick, clean - well, as clean as automatic weapons fire gets."

  "Jesus Christ." Jovan's voice dropped to a whisper. "You were there when this happened?"

  "Had a front-row seat. Though I spent most of the show under a dead skinhead, so my view was a bit limited."

  "How did you..." He trailed off, then started again. "Why didn't they..."

  "Kill me?" I finished for him. "That's what I'm trying to figure out. Either I'm the luckiest bastard in Belgrade, or someone told them to leave me breathing."

  More keyboard clicking filled the silence. "This is bad, Aleksandar. Really bad. We're not dealing with amateur hour anymore."

  "No kidding." I walked up to my medicine cabinet slowly, every muscle protesting. "Those guys weren't local talent. The way they moved, the precision - this was a professional hit team. Before they came Trouble told me he'd delivered everything to their client."

  "So they cleaned house." Jovan whistled low. "Classic loose end elimination. But why leave you alive?"

  I dry-swallowed two pills, grimacing at the taste. "That's what's bothering me. Professional cleaners don't leave witnesses. Unless..."

  "Unless they were ordered not to," Jovan finished. "But who would-"

  "Let's focus on what we can actually find out," I cut him off. "Prepare whatever you dig up on Trouble and that BMW. I need to know who we're really dealing with here."

  "Will do." A pause. "You should really tell Goran about this."

  "I will. In the morning." Hopefully even later, I added silently. "Just try to get that info so we have something to work with tomorrow."

  After hanging up, I stood in my dark kitchen, the painkillers slowly taking edge off the worst aches.

  I shuffled toward my bedroom. The combination of whiskey and painkillers was already working its magic, turning my thoughts soft around the edges.

  Those shooters kept replaying in my mind - their fluid movements, the mechanical precision of their work. Professional killers don't make mistakes. They don't leave loose ends. They don't...

  My head hit the pillow, sending a dull throb through my skull. Maybe I was overthinking this. Hell, I probably looked like a roadkill anyway, crumpled under that hooligan's body. Between the blood, the bruises, and the general state of me, who'd bother checking for a pulse?

  "Lucky," I mumbled into my pillow. "Just got lucky."

  The ceiling fan spun lazy circles above me, its shadows dancing across my vision. Should probably text Goran... tell him what happened... but my phone felt like it weighed a ton now. Besides, morning would be soon enough for that particular conversation.

  My eyelids grew heavier with each rotation of the fan. The pain had receded to a distant hum, like background static on an old radio. Even my racing thoughts were slowing down, caught in the undertow of chemical-induced drowsiness.

  The last coherent thought I had before darkness claimed me was that I really should've crawled under the blanket. I was practically naked, lying only in my boxers that I put on after the shower. But that seemed like way too much effort now, as consciousness slipped away like water through cupped hands.

  Tomorrow's problems could wait for tomorrow's Aleksandar. Right now, blessed nothingness beckoned, and I didn't have the strength - or inclination - to resist its pull.