"You are dismissed."

The words hang in the air. They are cold. They are iron.

You look at the man. He sits behind a desk of polished mahogany. The wood is dark. It shines like wet stone. His name is Alder. He is the judge. He is the law. He is the shadow that falls across your life.

You are not a man anymore. You are a thing. You are a uniform. You are a badge. You are the cloth on your back. The wool is heavy. It smells of sweat. It smells of rain. It smells of the alley where you found the body.

Alder does not look at you. He looks at the clock. The hands move. Tick. Tick. Tick. Time is a thief. It takes your days. It takes your name. It takes your soul.

"Stand up," he says.

You do not move. Your legs are lead. Your knees are stone. The room is small. The walls are high. The light is grey. It comes from a window. The glass is dirty. Outside, the city breathes. It is a dirty breath. Coal smoke. Horse dung. The stench of the industrial age.

You touch your chest. There, under the shirt, is the medal. It is cold. It is small. It is a star. It is your life. It is your love. It is the cause. It is the only thing that matters. The justice of the world. The order of the state.

But the state is rotten. The state is a lie.

"Stand up," Alder says again. His voice is flat. He is bored. He is cruel. He is a beast in a suit.

You stand. Your body obeys. Your mind rebels. You look at the medal. It is hidden. It is safe. But it is broken. You feel it. A crack runs through the gold. A hairline fracture. It is invisible. It is real. It is you.

"Go," Alder says. "Leave."

You turn. Your back is to him. You walk to the door. The floor is wood. It creaks. It groans. It is old. It is tired. Like you.

You open the door. The hallway is long. It is dark. The shadows are deep. They are waiting for you. They are hungry.

You walk. Your boots make a sound. Thud. Thud. Thud. A heartbeat. A drum. A warning.

You reach the street. The air is cold. It bites your face. It cuts your lips. The sky is low. It is heavy. It is pressing down on the roofs. The buildings are tall. They are black. They are eyes. They watch you.

You are alone. You are free. You are damned.

You go to the bar. The door is heavy. You push it open. The smell hits you. Whiskey. Smoke. Urine. The sound of voices. They are low. They are rough. They are men.

You sit. You do not order. You wait. The bartender looks at you. He sees the uniform. He sees the badge. He sees the shame.

"Rough day?" he asks.

You say nothing. You touch the medal. It is there. It is solid. It is real.

The door opens. A man walks in. He is large. He is loud. He wears a coat of leather. It is brown. It is thick. He is not a soldier. He is a thug. He is a dog. He is the law of the street.

He sees you. He smiles. His teeth are yellow. His eyes are red.

"Hello, Captain," he says.

You do not answer. You look at your hands. They are shaking. They are dirty. They are stained with blood. It is not yours. It is the boy's. The boy in the alley. The boy who did not kill. The boy who was killed.

The man sits down. He is close. Too close. The smell of him is bad. It is stale. It is sour.

"I heard," the man says. "They fired you."

You look at him. Your eyes are hard. They are stone.

"Who told you?" you ask.

"Does it matter?" he asks. "The wind talks. The walls listen. The system works. The system is clean. The system is good."

You laugh. It is a dry sound. It is a crack in the wood.

"The system," you say. "It is a knife. It cuts the weak. It spares the strong. It is a beast. It eats the innocent. It swallows the truth."

The man leans back. He crosses his legs. He is comfortable. He is safe. He is part of it.

"You are a fool," the man says. "You played the game. You lost. That is all. That is how it works. That is how it has always worked."

You stand up. Your chair scrapes against the floor. The sound is sharp. It cuts the air.

"No," you say. "It is not how it works. It is how it is broken. It is how it is dead."

The man stands up. He is taller than you. He is stronger than you. He is the pressure. He is the weight. He is the enemy.

"Sit down," he says.

You do not sit.

"Sit down, or I will break you."

You look at him. You see the fear in his eyes. It is small. It is deep. It is the fear of the end.

"You will not break me," you say. "I am already broken. I am already gone. I am only the shell. I am only the cloth."

He steps forward. His hand moves. It is fast. It is strong.

You do not move. You wait. The instinct is there. It is primal. It is old. It is the animal in you. It wakes up. It growls. It bites.

You grab his wrist. Your grip is iron. Your muscles are steel. The pain is there. It is bright. It is hot.

He screams. It is a high sound. It is ugly. It is the sound of a dog.

You twist. Your arm moves. It is a dance. It is a ritual. It is the end.

You throw him. His body flies. It hits the wall. It is a dull thud. It is final.

He falls. He does not get up. He is still. He is quiet. He is dead.

The bar is silent. The people watch. They are frozen. They are statues. They are afraid.

You look at your hands. They are red. They are wet. The blood is on your fingers. It is warm. It is alive.

You look at the medal. It is in your hand. You must have taken it out. You do not remember. You do not care.

The crack is wider now. It runs down the star. It is deep. It is ugly. It is beautiful.

You throw the medal on the floor. It hits the wood. It spins. It stops. It is broken. It is two pieces. It is nothing.

You feel a lightness. It is strange. It is new. It is the air. It is the sky. It is the freedom.

The man is still on the floor. His eyes are open. They are empty. They see nothing. He is gone.

You walk out. The door is open. The street is there. The cold is there. The city is there.

You do not look back. You do not run. You walk. You are steady. You are calm. You are clear.

The sun is setting. It is red. It is low. It is dying. It is beautiful.

You walk into the dark. You walk into the night. You walk into the unknown.

You are not a captain. You are not a man. You are a ghost. You are a shadow. You are a breath.

The city sleeps. The city dreams. The city lies.

You are awake. You are real. You are free.

The pain is there. It is in your chest. It is in your soul. It is heavy. It is deep.

But it is yours. It is your truth. It is your justice.

You walk. You walk. You walk.

The stars come out. They are small. They are cold. They are far.

You look up. You see them. You see the light.

It is not hope. It is not despair. It is just light. It is just the end of the day.

You breathe. The air is cold. It is clean. It is yours.

You are alone. You are whole. You are broken. You are free.

The medal is on the floor. It is in the dark. It is in the dust. It is in the past.

You are in the present. You are in the now. You are in the life.

The city moves. The people move. The time moves.

You move. You walk. You live.

You are the wind. You are the rain. You are the stone.

You are the end. You are the beginning. You are the middle.

You are the story. You are the song. You are the silence.

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

The night is long. The road is long. The life is long.

You walk. You walk. You walk.

Into the dark. Into the light. Into the truth.

Into the end.

Into the start.

You are free.

You are free.

You are free.