The cold breeze reached me before consciousness did.
Salt.
Ocean.
A different air entirely.
My eyes opened slowly, unsure when sleep had taken me. The rhythm of the train still hummed beneath us, steady and indifferent.
I turned.
Victoria lay awkwardly against the window, her cheek pressed to the glass, breath fogging a small oval that faded and reappeared with each exhale. The position could not have been comfortable.
Outside, cliffs rose sharply from the water — high, dark sentries overlooking a restless ocean. White foam struck their bases in violent devotion.
Carefully, I shifted and guided Victoria's head onto my lap. She mumbled but did not wake. I adjusted her slightly so her neck would not protest later.
The sun had tilted redder now — second afternoon light, warmer but tired. The sky carried that stretched hue that comes before evening decides to descend.
Opening the boxed lunch, I unwrapped what I now recognized as an egg sandwich. Aunt Hazel's care lingered in the seasoning.
I had just taken a bite when—
"Hmm mm—nm."
Victoria stirred.
Her brows knit together before her eyes fluttered open.
"Are we there yet?" she asked, wiping the corner of her mouth before I could comment on the drool.
I handed her a pear.
"I think so," I replied, taking a drink of water.
She sat up too quickly and winced. "My neck hurts."
"That would be the window."
She ignored me, peering outside — and then her eyes widened.
"It has a port."
"Yes."
"And a black sand beach—"
"Well, they are in the same region," I murmured.
"We could go to the beach," she added, stretching dramatically as though she hadn't just slept through half the journey.
We were arriving.
The train slowed with a metallic sigh, wheels grinding gently against track. Soon enough, we stepped onto the platform.
The station was alive.
Not chaotic — but alive in the way port cities are. Cargo calls. Laughter. The distant cry of seabirds. Merchants negotiating with theatrical intensity. The air smelled of brine, coal, citrus oil, and warm iron.
"Where are we supposed to go from here?" Victoria asked, dragging her travel box behind her.
"Let's ask."
I approached the security office near the station entrance.
"Good morning, sir," I greeted.
He looked up, tail swaying lazily behind him.
"Sorry to trouble you, but could you direct us to the Concord Liaison Office?"
"The Liaison Office?" he repeated thoughtfully. "Government district. Just across the canal."
He gestured outward, and I followed the direction of his arm — stone bridges arching over a narrow waterway, beyond it a rise of pale buildings set with deliberate spacing.
"Actually," he added with a friendly smile, "let me get you a taxi."
He hailed one with a casual wave.
"Can you take them to the Concord Liaison Office?"
After thanking him, we climbed in.
"New to Hǎi'àn?" the driver asked as the vehicle merged into motion.
"Yes," I answered.
Victoria pressed her face to the window like a child.
Hǎi'àn was busy without being frantic. The buildings bore the confidence of permanence — stone façades, wrought iron balconies, banners strung between lamp posts. Ships rested in the harbor like patient beasts.
"Welcome to Hǎi'àn," the driver said.
"Thank you," I replied quietly.
And then—
We arrived.
It was larger than I expected.
The Concord Liaison Office did not simply exist. It asserted itself.
Grand scale. Strict symmetry. Geometric precision. Classical columns rising in disciplined alignment. Pale stone. Iron gates. Brass that caught light like a warning.
"It's… huge," I murmured.
"Grand scale, strict symmetry, geometric forms, classical columns," Victoria said automatically as we crossed the street. "Institutional intimidation through architecture."
"Please don't analyze it while we're walking into it."
We greeted the guard at the gate. After inspection and verification of documents, we were allowed through.
The interior stole my breath.
Marble floors polished to reflection. High ceilings that made voices echo back smaller than they felt. Long corridors that seemed to measure you as much as you measured them. The staircase alone — wide stone, deliberate and ceremonial — felt like it expected history to be made upon it.
Despite it being the weekend, the building functioned with weekday precision. People moved with purpose. No idle chatter. No wandering.
We were directed to:
Senior Clerk, Intake Division
I inhaled once before knocking.
Inside, the clerk took our documents without visible reaction. She retrieved a ledger — massive, thick-spined, its pages worn at the edges. She scanned entries with methodical efficiency.
No wasted movement.
After a moment, she handed us the first document.
FORM K-01
Provisional Entry and Acknowledgment of Jurisdiction
You are entering Concord service voluntarily.
Concord authority supersedes local law while on assignment.
Disclosure of internal information is punishable by imprisonment.
You consent to psychological evaluation.
You acknowledge possible exposure to existential hazard.
At the bottom:
Failure to disclose relevant ability, oath, pact, or prior allegiance constitutes breach.
"Your sign," she said calmly.
Victoria noted her ability.
I declared myself a gold core cultivator.
The clerk's eyes flicked up — just once — before she passed us the next form.
Psychological Baseline Declaration
Have you killed before?
Have you enjoyed killing?
Do you believe some lives are worth more than others?
Do you fear death?
Do you fear obscurity?
Would you sacrifice one to save ten?
Would you sacrifice ten to save one you love?
The questions did not rush.
They waited.
I answered carefully. Paused at some. Looked up once to find the clerk observing — not curious. Measuring.
When we finished, we were handed over to a security officer.
He escorted us past a door marked Archives.
Past a staircase guarded by a man who did not blink.
Past a locked corridor that hummed faintly — like something behind it breathed.
Finally, we reached a fitting room.
Measurements were taken.
We were issued:
Plain white shirts. Black pleated skirts — though alternatives were listed. Mid-calf boots. A dark coat with no insignia. A leather ID wallet.
The ID read:
EF-ARIS-1895-025 Provisional Status Clearance Tier 3
Victoria examined hers.
"No rank displayed," she murmured — and she sounded almost pleased.
Mine read:
EF-ARIS-1895-026
"What does EF mean?" she asked.
"Eastern Front," I replied. "Same as… home."
The clerk cleared her throat gently.
She handed us a key. An address. A stipend ledger.
"Reporting time for orientation: two days hence at 0700 by the first sun."
She paused.
"Do not explore the building."
Another pause.
"If you find a door unlocked, assume it is a test." In this building, nothing was accidental.
A final glance.
"You are dismissed."
We exited through an inner courtyard.
"Five blouses, three shirts, pleated options," Victoria muttered, already calculating wardrobe rotation as though that was the priority.
The sun slipped briefly behind a cloud.
And that was when I saw them.
On the balcony above.
A figure reading a newspaper.
Upside down.
Not pretending.
Watching.
We had been observed the entire time.
I did not look back again.
We stepped through the gates, hailed another taxi, and were swallowed by the city once more.
Dépaysement.
The land unfamiliar. The air different. The rules rewritten.
And yet — our names now written into a ledger that would not forget us.
The ocean wind followed us down the street.
No longer shrine girls.
Not yet operatives.
Suspended between who we were — and what the Concord intended to make of us.