Blackstone Code

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The sharp sting of a slap jolted the young man awake, though he didn't open his eyes right away. Instead, he strained to listen, letting his ears take in the world around him.

This was part of his training—opening his eyes too quickly would signal to interrogators that he was alert and strong, prompting them to escalate their methods. But if he delayed opening his eyes, appearing sluggish and weak, they might assume him was nearing his breaking point. In that case, they'd hold back on extreme measures for fear of killing him before extracting vital information.

Listening also gave him an edge; it allowed him to gauge the situation before exposing himself further.

Physical interrogation wasn't particularly unbearable—it was just pain, after all. Any spy sent abroad had undergone anti-interrogation courses, which included enduring beatings and forced confessions. The real challenge lay in psychological resilience. With proper preparation, one could face even the toughest scenarios with composure.

Another slap landed, and this time, the young man slowly opened his eyes as though every movement drained what little strength he had left.

He turned his head slightly and saw the "senior" playing the role of his father tied to a chair beside him. They exchanged a brief glance but said nothing—not a word about being wrongly arrested or any other foolish protestations. These people wouldn't have grabbed them without solid evidence, and even if they weren't spies, there was no chance these captors would let them go.

Instead of provoking their captors, both men braced themselves for what was coming next.

"To make things easier for you," the officer began, "only one of you gets to live. I'll leave the choice up to you. You have one minute."

He glanced at his watch, then turned his back to them. Armed soldiers stood silently in the corners of the room, while the only furniture consisted of the two chairs occupied by the prisoners.

With his hands clasped behind his back, the officer tapped the ball of his right foot rhythmically against the floor, as though keeping time for some unseen melody.

Through subtle eye contact, the older man and the younger shared a silent agreement: they wouldn't choose, nor would they speak.

They hadn't expected the Federation's interrogation tactics to be so direct—or efficient. Right out of the gate, they targeted psychological vulnerabilities. But thanks to Gevra's advanced training programs, such tricks barely registered as more than child's play.

Both men knew what came next. One of them would be taken from the room, led elsewhere, and soon afterward, gunshots would echo outside. Their captors would claim the absent prisoner had been executed, using the supposed death of a comrade to break their resolve. But they saw through the ruse. It wouldn't work.

Time crawled forward. A minute, usually fleeting and unnoticed, stretched into eternity under the weight of anticipation. Each second felt heavier than the last until finally, the officer lifted his wrist to check his watch again. Turning back to face them, he wore a faint, almost imperceptible smirk.

"Well, time's up. Make your choice. Who dies? Who lives?"

The two spies remained silent. This was likely the last time they'd see each other before deportation—or worse. Perhaps because deep down, they knew neither truly faced death, they appeared calm, composed. A flicker of mockery crossed the younger man's face, vanishing as quickly as it appeared.

"It seems you're not inclined to cooperate," the officer said coolly, unfazed by their silence. His gaze darted between the two before settling on the younger man.

"We always say youth represents the future, the hope of the nation. So…" He paused, his expression shifting to something far more menacing. "…I'll give the opportunity to the young."

Without hesitation, he drew his sidearm and fired a single shot into the older man's head. The entire exchange took less than two seconds.

A deafening crack echoed through the room. The younger man froze, his face splattered with warm liquid trickling down his skin. Slowly, disbelievingly, he turned his head. Gone was the mentor who had encouraged him, taught him life lessons. All that remained was a shattered skull.

The bullet had entered cleanly through the forehead, leaving a small hole, but the exit wound tore apart the back of the older man's head, creating a gaping cavity the size of a fist. Blood and fragments splattered the wall and floor.

This…was nothing like the training manuals or common sense suggested.

"Clean this up," the officer ordered. Two soldiers stepped forward, emotionless, untying the corpse. Without the support of ropes, the body slumped sideways, collapsing onto the younger man.

Throughout his career, the young man had contemplated sacrifice—his own and others'. He imagined it as a noble, inspiring moment, one that might even bring tears to his eyes. But now, there was no glory, no inspiration. Tears welled up, but not out of pride or patriotism. They stemmed from sheer terror.

He couldn't bear to look at the mutilated head resting on his shoulder. His whole body trembled uncontrollably.

The soldiers dragged the body away, leaving a trail of blood behind. Moments later, another soldier mopped up the mess and sprayed disinfectant. The sharp chemical scent filled the air.

"XXX (a random name), Cadet Class 194 of the Gevra Royal Military Academy…" The officer retrieved a file folder from a nearby soldier, opened it, and read aloud.

It contained the younger man's personal records—information he believed to be classified. Yet here it was, in enemy hands. As more details spilled forth, the young man lost control of his body entirely. His mental defenses crumbled.

"You have a lovely younger brother and sister. Oh, and a fiancée named Julia. Everyone looks up to you. They're waiting for you to return…"

The officer handed the document to a nearby soldier, smiling smugly. "We can arrange for them to join you, if you'd like. I'm sure they'd appreciate that."

"Now, you get one chance—and only one. You're not irreplaceable. If you fail to satisfy me, don't worry too much. Your family's ashes—your siblings', your fiancée's—will be buried alongside yours."

He paused, pulling over a freshly sanitized chair and sitting directly across from the young man. "Alright, let's talk about something interesting…"

….

Meanwhile, in a different room, a congressman on television shook his head vigorously, loose skin flapping beneath his jaw like the sagging cheeks of an old woman.

"Our priority shouldn't be flexing military muscle and provoking hostility from other nations. Restoring production and revitalizing the economy should be our focus."

The congressman spoke confidently, knowing full well that someone, somewhere, would agree with him. "Improving international relations is crucial for the Federation's future development, but we must be selective. We shouldn't 'buy' diplomatic victories just for appearances or political gain."

"That's an insult to our diplomats—and to the Federation itself."

The eager young host pressed further. "You used the word 'buy' earlier?"

The congressman nodded. "Yes, 'buy.' Our relationship with Nagalier is essentially purchased goodwill. Such ties are unsustainable and offer no real benefit. It's not healthy diplomacy. We should terminate it."

"I've reviewed the proposal. Every year, we send aid and build factories in Nagalier. If we redirected those funds domestically, we could create fifty to a hundred thousand jobs for our citizens."

"But our interim president insists on buying diplomatic favor to boost his reelection odds. Frankly, it's shameful."

"He's sacrificing the interests of every citizen for his own ambition."

The host feigned devastation. "And this relationship won't last?"

The congressman nodded again. These questions and answers had been rehearsed countless times. Both men had mastered the art of scripted debate.

"Once we stop funding Nagalier, those greedy, backward countries will abandon us in a heartbeat, seeking new alliances."

"This will go down as the most laughable joke in the Federation's diplomatic history—and its greatest humiliation."

The congressman's words resonated deeply with certain groups, especially the unemployed. To them, job creation mattered far more than distant diplomacy.

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