We see you.
We see you.
Crest rose late, his head pounding. The room smelled of perfume and stale alcohol, the leftover haze of the night before. He pushed himself upright, rubbing his face with both hands. For a man who claimed control over everything, mornings like this always reminded him that he was enslaved to his own appetites.
He shuffled to the mirror. His eyes were red, his shirt still crumpled from when he tossed it to the floor. A bitter laugh escaped his lips. “General Crest,” he muttered at his reflection. “Hero, patriot, family man.” The irony stung.
As he straightened his uniform and pinned the medals to his chest, he tried to bury the taste of last night—the moans, the sweat, the faint sound of coins clinking on the table. But some things refused to be buried.
\---
The day began at Harland’s office. Harland was already at his desk, thick folders stacked neatly in front of him. The man thrived on order. Crest, on the other hand, thrived on bending order until it broke.
“You missed the morning meeting,” Harland said without looking up.
“I don’t sit around for chatter,” Crest replied smoothly. He walked in with the swagger of someone who had never been denied anything in his life. “Besides, I get things done.”
“Or undone,” Harland muttered under his breath.
Crest smirked. He leaned on the table, lowering his voice. “Relax, Harland. Our deals are moving as planned. The contracts will pass, and when the money flows, you’ll thank me.”
Harland’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. Crest had that effect—he could push, and most people stepped back instead of pushing back.
\---
By afternoon, Crest was restless. He never liked staying too long in one place; it gave people too much time to think about him. He slipped out of the building and into the city, where the real air of power lived—smoke-filled lounges, gambling dens, whispered negotiations in corners where the law never looked.
As he walked through the streets, he felt eyes on him. He’d felt it for days now. At first, he dismissed it as paranoia, but the weight of those invisible stares had grown heavier.
A beggar tugged at his sleeve near the alley. Crest shoved him away, but the man whispered something that froze him in place:
“They know you. They know what you do in the dark.”
Crest turned sharply. “What did you say?”
But the beggar was already limping away, disappearing into the crowd like smoke. Crest’s chest tightened. He hated riddles, especially when he wasn’t the one speaking them.
\---
That night, he went to the club. Music pounded, lights flashed, bodies moved without shame. This was Crest’s sanctuary—the place where sin had no consequences. He ordered whiskey, scanned the room, and picked a corner table where he could watch everyone without being seen too closely.
But the whispers followed him even here. Two men at the bar kept glancing his way. A woman in a red dress walked past and let her hand linger too long on his shoulder, whispering, “Careful, General. Eyes are everywhere.”
His temper flared. “Who sent you?”
She only smiled and drifted away.
For the first time, Crest realized something: the world he thought he controlled was slipping. Secrets he thought he had buried were rising like corpses from shallow graves.
\---
Later that night, alone in his quarters, Crest paced the floor. He poured himself another drink, but the burn of alcohol didn’t calm him. He replayed the beggar’s words, the woman’s whisper, the glances from strangers.
Was someone watching him? Or had he finally gone too far into his own filth, so far that even shadows had started speaking his sins out loud?
A knock at the door made him freeze. He reached for his gun before answering.
A messenger stood outside, a young soldier, nervous and sweating. “Sir… this was delivered for you.” He handed Crest a plain envelope, saluted awkwardly, and hurried off.
Crest tore it open. Inside was a single sheet of paper with three words scrawled in black ink:
WE SEE YOU.
His hand trembled—not from fear, he told himself, but from rage. He crushed the paper in his fist and cursed under his breath.
No one threatened General Crest. No one.
\---
Sleep did not come. He lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the words branded into his skull. We see you. Who? The government? Enemies? The very prostitutes he paid to stay silent?
By dawn, his decision was made. Whoever was watching him, whoever dared to whisper in corners about his sins, would regret it.
He would find them. He would crush them.
And as he closed his eyes for a brief moment of rest, a cold smile curved his lips. Because Crest knew one thing: his sins were not weaknesses. They were weapons.
And he was ready to use them.