You eat the bread. It is stale. The crust cracks under your teeth. You chew. You swallow. The taste is dust.

This is the morning after the gala. The hall is empty. The tables are stripped. The chairs are stacked. You are alone in the center. You are the last one. The lights are off. Only the streetlamps cast long, thin shadows through the windows. They look like bars.

You are a Sergeant. Your badge is heavy on your chest. It feels like a stone. It feels like a heart that has stopped beating. You do not take it off. You never take it off.

The town is asleep. Or pretending to be. The air is cold. It bites your skin. You are wearing your dress uniform. The buttons are tight. They squeeze your ribs. You need air. You need water. You need silence. But the silence is loud.

You walk to the back of the room. There is a table there. It is small. It is wooden. On it sits a plate. On the plate is a single roll of bread. It is dry. It is brown. It is the same bread from the start.

You did not eat it then. You were too busy. You were too busy smiling. You were too busy shaking hands. You were too busy drinking the wine that tasted like iron. You were too busy being the man they needed.

Now you are here.

You look at the bread. It looks at you. It is a mirror. It shows you what you are. It shows you what you have become. It is a thing that is used up. It is a thing that is gone.

You remember your wife. Her name was Claire. She is not here. She is never here. She left. Or she died. It does not matter. The result is the same. The space where she was is empty. The space is cold.

You touch the plate. It is smooth. It is cool. You remember the night she packed her bags. She did not cry. She did not yell. She just looked at you. Her eyes were clear. They were like glass. They were like the surface of a frozen lake.

You said nothing. You could not say anything. You were a machine. You were a tool. You were a Sergeant. You did not have feelings. Or you thought you did not.

Now you have a mouth. Now you have a hunger.

You pick up the bread. You break it. It crumbles. The crumbs fall to the floor. They are small. They are insignificant. You eat a piece. It is bitter.

The door opens.

You freeze. Your hand holds the half-eaten roll. Your heart hammers against your ribs. It sounds like a drum. It sounds like a war.

A figure steps in. It is a man. He is tall. He is wearing a suit. The suit is dark. The suit is expensive. It is a uniform of a different kind. It is the uniform of power.

It is Captain Halloway.

He does not look at you. He looks at the empty room. He looks at the stacked chairs. He looks at the long shadows. He smiles. It is a small smile. It is a thin smile. It is a smile that does not reach his eyes.

"Sergeant," he says. His voice is soft. It is like silk. It is like ice.

You do not answer. You cannot. Your throat is dry. Your mouth is full of dust.

"Are you enjoying the view?" he asks.

You nod. You do not trust your voice. If you speak, it will break. It will shatter.

He walks closer. His shoes click on the floor. Click. Click. Click. It is a rhythm. It is a countdown.

"You did a good job last night," he says. "The presentation was perfect. The numbers were correct. The public was satisfied."

You look down. You look at the bread in your hand. The bread is a weapon. It is a shield. It is your truth.

"The public was hungry," you say. Your voice is low. It is rough. It is real.

Halloway stops. He looks at you. His face is pale. His face is smooth. He has no lines. He has no wrinkles. He is a mask.

"Hunger is a state," he says. "We provide the solution. We provide the structure. We provide the order. That is our duty."

"Order is a lie," you say.

Halloway raises an eyebrow. He does not move. He does not blink. He is a statue. He is a god.

"Careful, Sergeant," he says. "Order is the only thing that keeps the chaos at bay. Without it, we are animals. We are nothing."

"We are men," you say.

"Men are weak," he says. "Men are flawed. Men are dangerous. We are the system. The system is perfect. The system is clean."

You look at the bread. You look at Halloway. You see your own reflection in his eyes. It is a dark reflection. It is a twisted reflection. It is a monster.

You want to hit him. You want to punch him. You want to break his perfect face. You want to break his perfect suit. You want to break his perfect words.

You do not move. Your body is heavy. Your body is tired. Your body is a prison.

"Why are you here?" you ask.

"I am here to check on you," he says. "You are a valuable asset. I want to make sure you are functioning."

"I am functioning," you say.

"Are you?" he asks. "You look tired. You look hollow. You look like you are dying."

"I am alive," you say.

"Alive is a relative term," he says. "It depends on what you are doing. It depends on what you are serving."

He steps closer. He is now within arm's reach. You can smell him. He smells like soap. He smells like money. He smells like death.

"Eat," he says.

You look at the bread. You look at him.

"Eat," he repeats. "It is part of the ritual. It is part of the bond. You share the burden. You share the cost."

You do not want to eat. You want to throw it. You want to throw it at his face. You want to show him the dust. You want to show him the rot.

But you are a Sergeant. You are a soldier. You follow orders.

You lift the bread to your mouth. You bite. You chew. You swallow.

It tastes like betrayal. It tastes like fear. It tastes like the end.

Halloway watches you. He is satisfied. He is pleased. He is a predator.

"Good," he says. "Now, go home. Rest. Tomorrow, we start again. The town needs us. The town needs its protectors."

He turns. He walks away. His shoes click on the floor. Click. Click. Click. The sound fades. The door closes.

You are alone again.

The room is silent. The shadows are still there. The lights are still off. The streetlamps are still burning.

You stand in the center. You hold the empty plate. The crumbs are on your lips. The dust is in your mouth.

You feel the weight of the badge. It is heavier now. It is crushing you. It is sinking you.

You look at your hands. They are shaking. They are dirty. They are stained with the bread. They are stained with the dust.

You are a man. You are a tool. You are a machine.

You are free.

You are not free.

You are a prisoner in your own skin. You are a prisoner in your own uniform. You are a prisoner in your own town.

You walk to the door. You open it. You step outside.

The air is cold. The night is dark. The town is sleeping.

You walk down the street. Your steps are slow. Your steps are heavy.

You pass the bakery. It is closed. The lights are off. The windows are dark.

You pass the police station. It is lit. The windows are bright. The sign glows in the dark.

You pass your house. It is dark. The curtains are drawn.

You stop. You look at the house. You look at the door.

You remember Claire. You remember her eyes. You remember her silence.

You did not see her. You did not see the pain. You did not see the hunger.

You saw only the duty. You saw only the order.

You were blind. You were deaf. You were dumb.

You are still blind. You are still deaf. You are still dumb.

You turn away. You walk on.

You walk to the edge of town. You walk to the fields. The fields are black. The fields are empty.

You stop. You look up. The stars are out. They are small. They are far. They are cold.

You feel a tear on your cheek. You wipe it away. It is wet. It is warm.

You feel a pain in your chest. It is sharp. It is deep. It is real.

You are not a machine. You are not a tool. You are not a man.

You are a ghost.

You are a memory.

You are a thing that is worn out.

You are a thing that is gone.

You stand in the field. The wind blows. It pulls at your coat. It pulls at your hair.

You are alone. You are truly alone.

You look at the sky. You look at the stars.

You do not see freedom. You see the cost. You see the price. You see the truth.

The truth is that there is no freedom. The truth is that there is only duty. The truth is that there is only pain.

You close your eyes. You open your mouth. You breathe in. You breathe out.

You are here. You are now. You are real.

You are a Sergeant. You are a man. You are a ghost.

You walk back to town. You walk back to the station. You walk back to the light.

The door opens. You step in. The heat hits you. The light hits you.

Halloway is there. He is sitting at his desk. He is reading a file. He does not look up.

"Welcome back," he says.

You say nothing. You sit down. You put your feet on the floor. You put your hands in your lap.

You are still. You are quiet. You are empty.

The day begins. The town wakes. The people come. The noise returns. The life returns.

You are part of it. You are part of the machine. You are part of the order.

You are safe. You are secure. You are free.

You eat the bread. It is fresh. It is soft. It is sweet.

You chew. You swallow. You live.