The floorboards groaned under Elias’s boots. They were old oaks. Dark and worn. The Palace had no windows. It was a box of stone. A box of silence.

"Is he here?" Elias asked.

He did not look up. He looked at his hands. They were rough. They were red. They were trembling.

The woman behind him did not answer. She stood in the doorway. She was small. She was pale. She held a clipboard. It was white. It was blank.

"Say it," she said.

"I said it."

"Say it again."

Elias closed his eyes. The air was thick. It smelled of dust. It smelled of fear. It smelled of sweat.

"He is here," he said.

The woman nodded. She stepped aside. She made a small gesture. It was a command. It was a permission.

Elias walked forward. The floorboards creaked. They sang a low note. A sad note. He had heard that note before. In the war. In the mud. In the dark.

He reached the center of the room. He stopped. He breathed in. He breathed out.

The room was empty.

There was no chair. There was no table. There was no man.

There was only the floor. The old, worn floor.

"Where is he?" Elias asked.

The woman shrugged. She looked bored. She looked tired.

"Who?"

"The prisoner."

"We do not keep prisoners here."

"Then who am I guarding?"

"You are guarding the room."

Elias frowned. He looked around. The walls were bare. The paint was peeling. The light was dim. It came from a single bulb. It flickered. It buzzed. A low, sick buzz.

"This is not a prison," he said.

"No," she said. "It is an office."

"An office?"

"Yes."

"For what?"

"For the process."

Elias laughed. It was a dry laugh. It cracked in his throat.

"What process?"

"The process of being here."

She turned away. She walked back to the door. She opened it. The hallway was dark. It was long. It stretched into nothing.

"Go," she said.

"Wait."

"Go."

Elias did not move. He looked at the floor. A crack ran across the wood. It was long. It was jagged. It looked like a vein. It looked like a root.

He knelt down. He touched the wood. It was cold. It was dry. It was hard.

He had served twenty years. He had shot men. He had saved men. He had broken bones. He had set them. He had known pain. He had known fear. He had known justice.

Justice was a weight. It sat on his chest. It pressed him down. It kept him grounded.

But this? This was nothing. This was air. This was smoke.

"Come back," he said.

The woman was gone. The door closed. The latch clicked. It was a soft sound. It was final.

Elias stood up. His knees popped. He felt old. He felt heavy.

He began to pace. Back and forth. Back and forth. His boots scuffed the floor. The sound was rhythmic. It was hypnotic.

He thought of his daughter. She was grown now. She lived in the city. She had a job. She had a husband. She had a life.

He thought of his wife. She had died. It was five years ago. The cancer took her. It took her slowly. It took her dignity. It took her voice.

He had held her hand. He had held it until it was cold. He had held it until the end.

He had promised her. He would not break. He would not fail. He would be the wall. He would be the shield.

But what is a shield if there is no enemy?

He looked at the crack in the floor. It seemed to grow. It seemed to move. It twisted in the dim light. It looked like a snake. It looked like a tongue.

He felt a pain in his side. It was sharp. It was hot. It was familiar.

He had taken a bullet once. In the elbow. It had missed the bone. It had missed the nerve. It had saved his life. Or so he thought.

Now, the pain was back. It was in his side. It was in his ribs. It was spreading.

He coughed. A small sound. A wet sound.

He wiped his mouth. There was blood. It was red. It was bright.

He looked at his hand. The blood stained the fabric of his sleeve. It spread. It bloomed.

He felt weak. He felt light. He felt far away.

He walked to the wall. He leaned on it. The stone was cold. It numbed his back. It soothed his skin.

He closed his eyes. He listened.

He heard the buzz of the light. He heard the creak of the floor. He heard the blood in his ears.

He heard nothing else.

There was no shouting. There was no screaming. There was no judgment.

There was only the silence.

The silence was loud. It was deafening. It was crushing.

He opened his eyes. The room was still empty. The floor was still worn. The crack was still there.

He looked at the door. It was closed. It was locked.

He knew it was locked. He could feel it. He could sense it.

He had been locked in before. In the bunker. In the cave. In the trench.

But those places had meaning. They had purpose. They had an enemy.

This place had nothing. It was a void. It was a mistake.

Or was it?

He thought of the woman. Her bored face. Her empty eyes. She had not been cruel. She had been indifferent.

Indifference was worse. Cruelty was a human thing. Indifference was a machine thing.

He was in a machine. He was a part of it. He was a gear. He was a wheel.

He turned. He walked to the center. He stood in the middle of the room.

He raised his hand. He raised it high. He clenched his fist.

He swung.

He hit the air.

He swung again.

He hit the air.

He swung again.

He hit the air.

He swung and swung. He hit and hit. He breathed and breathed.

The pain in his side flared. It blinded him. He gasped. He fell to one knee.

He coughed again. More blood. It sprayed onto the floor. It dripped onto the wood.

The wood drank it. It absorbed it. It turned dark. It turned black.

The crack in the floor seemed to widen. It seemed to drink the blood. It seemed to grow.

Elias watched it. He could not look away.

The crack was alive. It was hungry. It was part of him.

He realized then. The floor was not wood. It was skin. It was the skin of the world. It was the skin of the truth.

And he had broken it. He had broken the rule. He had broken the silence.

He had done his job.

He smiled. It was a sad smile. It was a true smile.

He lay down. He lay on his side. He pressed his ear to the floor.

He listened.

He heard a heartbeat. It was slow. It was steady. It was his own.

He heard another heartbeat. It was faster. It was louder. It was beneath him.

The floor was beating. The room was beating. The Palace was beating.

It was not a building. It was a body. And he was inside it.

He closed his eyes. He felt the rhythm. It matched his own. It slowed his breathing. It eased his pain.

He felt a strange peace. It washed over him. It washed away the fear. It washed away the anger.

He thought of his wife. She was not dead. She was here. She was in the floor. She was in the wood. She was in the crack.

She was waiting for him. She had been waiting for him for a long time.

He reached out. He touched the floor. He touched the crack.

It was warm. It was soft. It was real.

He whispered her name.

"Eleanor."

The name hung in the air. It did not echo. It dissolved.

He felt a hand touch his cheek. It was cool. It was gentle. It was not there.

He smiled. He let go.

He let go of the duty. He let go of the pain. He let go of the self.

He became the floor. He became the wood. He became the root.

The light flickered. It buzzed. It died.

The room went dark.

The silence returned. It was total. It was absolute.

And in the dark, the heartbeat continued.

It was strong. It was true. It was just.

Not the justice of men. Not the law of books.

The justice of the earth. The justice of the end.

Elias was gone.

The room was empty.

The floor was clean.

The crack was gone.

The wood was whole.

It waited.

It waited for the next one.

It waited for the next boot.

It waited for the next breath.

The Palace stood.

The Palace stood.

The Palace stood.