Jasmin cursed, staring at the spreading red stain on her jeans. "Looks like I'm having a period... of cadmium red!" The paint bucket incident had left her flustered and behind schedule. She needed to finish these replica handguns – realistic wooden ones, painted to perfection – before the Syndicate came calling. They needed to believe she was supplying them with real weapons, not cleverly disguised fakes, to buy David time to escape.
"Why don't you just take them off?" A sultry voice purred.
Jasmin spun around. Janina, shimmering faintly like heat haze, leaned against the workbench. "Janina? What's with the spectral visit? And why that dress? You haven't worn it in years."
"Doesn't matter. Listen, Jasmin, about Martin..."
"Oh, not this again," Jasmin groaned. "You think I have some secret crush on him because he's being all helpful with Walter and Sidel? Get over yourself."
"It's not me you need to get over, Jasmin. It's you. You're holding back. Tell him how you feel." Janina's form flickered. "Otherwise, you'll regret it."
"I don't feel anything!" Jasmin insisted, her voice rising. "He's a friend. A nice guy. End of story."
Janina laughed, a hollow sound that echoed in the garage. "Is it? Really? You're a terrible liar." She glided towards the door. "Think about it, Jasmin. Time's running out." With a final, taunting smile, Janina vanished, leaving the scent of old perfume hanging in the air.
Shaking her head, Jasmin peeled off her paint-soaked jeans and, impulsively, her underwear too. They were ruined anyway. "Focus," she muttered, grabbing a rag. She had a deadline. As she meticulously applied the final coat of paint to the replica Beretta, a shadow fell across the doorway.
"Ah!" Fred yelped, clapping his hands over his eyes. "What in the world... Jasmin!"
"What do you want?" she snapped, trying to subtly shield herself with a half-finished replica. "I'm saving David, remember? This is important!"
"I... I just forgot my wrench," Fred stammered, peering between his fingers. "Maybe I'll just... come back later."
"Don't be such a prude, Fred! I'm covered in paint anyway! Besides," she added, a wicked glint in her eye, "Maybe this is what you need to finally get over Fabienne. A little... perspective."
Fred choked. "That's... inappropriate. And I will win Fabienne back. You'll see." He grabbed his wrench and fled the garage, muttering about indecent exposure and the impending doom of the Syndicate.
Jasmin smirked. Maybe a little distraction was exactly what he needed. And maybe, just maybe, Janina had a point. But right now, she had a bigger fish to fry. Fake guns to finish, and a real rescue to plan. She just hoped her flimsy plan would work.
The apartment in Zurich hummed with warmth, the faint scent of chocolate-chip cookies mingling with the crisp autumn air seeping through the window. Sidel leaned against the couch, watching Anja's animated gestures as she recounted how they'd lied to their parents about a "school trip." Sarah giggled, her earlier ordeal—being kidnapped and rescued—already softening into a story of adventure. Marvin, ever the quiet observer, passed around a bowl of pretzels, his eyes flicking to Sidel, who sat apart, her gaze distant.
"Martel's a genius with lies," Sarah said, grinning at Marvin. "Though I'd rather they just told my mom the truth. She'd freak."
"She'd probably call the police," Anja added, snorting. "But I prefer our version. Less... drama."
Sidel's fingers traced the rim of her soda can, cold condensation pooling in her palm. She envied their ease, their shared laughter. Marvin's voice cut through the chatter. "Are you okay?"
She looked up. His brow was furrowed, the way it always was when he was trying to read her. "I'm fine," she said too quickly, the lie already souring on her tongue.
He sat beside her, the couch dipping under his weight. "Come on, Sidel. You've been quieter than a ghost."
She exhaled, the tension in her chest unraveling like a knot. "It's my dad," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "Or the lack of one."
Marvin's expression softened. "Your mom still won't talk about him?"
"She says I should 'ignore it.' That he's a ghost, a mistake." Sidel's jaw tightened. "But I'm tired of being a mistake. I just want to know... why."
He was silent for a moment, then said, "Maybe there's a reason she doesn't want you finding out."
"Like what? That he walked out? That she was some teenager who got scared?" Sidel's voice cracked. "Or maybe he's still out there, a real person, and I'm just... nothing to her?"
Marvin reached for her hand, his grip steady. "You're not nothing. You're Sidel."
She managed a weak smile. "Thanks, Marvin. But that doesn't fix the hole in my family tree."
He tilted his head, considering. "Zurich's a city of secrets. But maybe it's got an answer for you, too."
They wandered the cobblestone streets two days later, the carnival's lights blazing like a constellation. Sidel clutched Marvin's arm as they navigated the crowd, her heart fluttering with equal parts nerves and hope. He'd insisted on helping, and now here they were, standing before the city's small but bustling archive office.
"This is madness," Sidel muttered as Marvin paid the archivist. "If my mom finds out—"
"Let's focus on now," Marvin interrupted, steering her toward a dusty file cabinet.
Hours later, they left with a faded marriage certificate and a name: Lars Weber.
"He was a photographer," Marvin read aloud under the streetlamp's glow. "Moved to Zurich in '98, disappeared in '02. Your mom listed him as 'abandoned' on the form."
Sidel stared at the paper. "Weber... There's a gallery downtown with that name. Maybe it's his."
They found it on the edge of the Old Town, its windows displaying black-and-white photos of forgotten places. A man in his fifties, silver-haired and sharp-eyed, greeted them.
"Lars Weber's my uncle," he said, studying Sidel. "You look like him. Did your mother ever tell you about the Alps? About the way he used to say, 'Life's a photo—sometimes you've got to delete the pixels to see the picture'?"
Sidel's breath hitched. All her life, her mom had spoken of nothing but heartache. Yet here was a legacy, waiting.
"He died last year," the uncle continued gently. "Left everything to your mother. A letter, even. She never sent it."
Marvin handed Sidel an envelope, his eyes brimming with quiet pride. "You've got a dad, Sid."
She didn't cry. Not yet. But as they stepped back into the carnival's chaos, the letter trembling in her pocket, she felt the first flicker of a truth that was finally hers.
And Marvin was there, every step of the way.
At Find-Bodyguard Company, the hum of activity was punctuated by the sharp clang of steel—Christoph Rudev, at just seventeen, was demonstrating a fluid kata with a practice sword. Florentin, the company's lead trainer, watched with an approving grin. "You've just shown me one of your unbelievable talents," he said, his voice tinged with admiration. His eyes sparkled as he added, "You must've been trained to be a fighter. You could protect a person like that."
Christoph sheathed his sword, his confidence palpable. "My father was in the military. Discipline came with breakfast," he said, a smirk playing on his lips. His mind, however, lingered on the message he'd read earlier: David needs a third bodyguard. Meeting in Zurich. The thought of joining David's team stirred a mix of excitement and purpose. His mother's medical bills were a weight he couldn't ignore.
"Good, because David wants to see you," Florentin continued. "He's your next client."
Christoph nodded, already envisioning the Alpine terrain of Zurich.
The door creaked open, and Henrik Spitze stepped in, his muscles taut from a morning workout. "Hey—are you new here?" he asked, eyeing Christoph.
"Nope. I've been here since last week," Christoph replied. "Florentin's lucky to have me. Besides, my mom's in the hospital. I need this job."
Henrik's gaze softened. "Marvin Spitze? You his colleague?"
"Yes! I'm in his class. He's new there, though."
Henrik chuckled. "I'm Marvin's... and Tobias's dad. Good to meet you."
Christoph's eyes widened. "So you're the one working hard for Marvin and Tobias!"
Henrik nodded, then turned to Florentin. "Any new clients for me?"
"Just signed one," Florentin said. "You're welcome to the world of elite protection."
Two hours later, Sidel's fingers trembled as she typed on her laptop. The homepage of Find-Bodyguard.net glowed under her scrutiny. Marvin, seated beside her, leaned in. "Are you sure they'll have your dad listed?" he asked.
"Don't know," Sidel snapped. "But I'm not letting this slip away."
Her jaw tightened at the memory of her mother's cryptic words: Your father was a gunman. She'd spent years parsing that phrase for clues. Now, with her mother evasive and distant, the internet was her only lead.
Clicking "List of Bodyguards," her breath caught.
*Rudev, Christoph 17 years old.
Sidel's chair screeched as she stood. "He's here! Christoph Rudev is a bodyguard!"
Marvin squinted. "Wait—he's seventeen? How did they even hire him?"
"He's the youngest ever," she muttered, her mind racing. "But... this isn't about him. Look further."
They scanned the list:
*Albrecht, Ruffine 33
*Russow, Raffela 29
*Spitze, Henrik 28
"No one matches the age," Marvin said. "Your mom must be 28 now. Even if your dad is the same age, he can't be listed as a bodyguard and be your parent."
Sidel groaned. "Then who the hell was he?!"
Martel, Anja, and Sarah returned from the cinema, their laughter fading as they noticed Sidel's tension. "You're not here for a movie night, are you?" Martel asked.
"This is bigger than a movie," Sidel shot back. "I'm finding my dad."
Anja's smile faltered. "You're... serious?"
"Of course," Sidel said, her voice cracking. "I can't trust my mom to answer. I'll do this myself."
"Two weeks," Martel interjected. "You've got two weeks before we leave for Zurich. What happens after?"
"I'll find him," Sidel said fiercely.
That night, Sidel navigated Facebook, clicking into Jasmin Hoppe's profile. Her mother had hinted the bodyguard was connected to Jasmin's circle.
Henrik Spitze—one mutual friend: Marvin Spitze.
Sidel's pulse quickened. Could Henrik be a link? But scrolling through friends and suggestions yielded nothing. She ended up at Celine Seifert (1 mutual friend), Alody Mae Santos (2 mutual friends), Fred Wenzel...
Nothing.
"Useless," Sidel growled, slamming her laptop shut.
Marvin hesitated, then said, "Your mom... she might've been protecting you. If your dad really was a 'gunman,' maybe there's danger in finding him."
Sidel stared at him. "You think I care? If he's out there, he has a right to know he has a daughter."
Her phone buzzed. A notification from Find-Bodyguard: Christoph Rudev has accepted a Zurich assignment. Details pending.
Her finger hovered over the message. Zurich. Where her mom had once lived before "moving on."
A path was forming, faint but real.
Across town, Christoph packed his gear, his mind on the mission ahead. David's family would be guarded soon, but beneath his resolve, doubt lingered. A whisper of memory surfaced: a woman with Sidel's eyes, standing in the shadows of a snowy Zurich alley.
He shook his head. Coincidence, he told himself.
But the past had a way of reaching out, even to those who tried to bury it.
And for Sidel, the hunt was only beginning.
The guesthouse reeked of mildew and regret. Jasmin zipped the black briefcase shut, her fingers trembling as she double-checked the false bottom. The replica 9mm pistol nestled beside the C4 explosives, its cold metal a poor substitute for the real thing. She'd spent hours perfecting the illusion—artistic prodigy, Martin had called it earlier, his voice syrup-sweet. Don't let him see you sweat, she reminded herself. The mission was David. Always David.
She stripped off her tactical gear, slipping into a simple white underwear set, then her plain black pants. The fabric felt wrong—too rigid. Remembering the thinner she'd forgotten to spray on the seams, she scowled. The chemical would've softened the material, made her movements less mechanical. But now? She rolled her shoulders, forcing the pants down her hips. Let him think I'm careless. Let him think anything.
Outside, the courtyard's flickering streetlamp cast long shadows as she approached the guesthouse door. Then—"Jasmin!"
Martin leaned against the wall, his suit jacket draped over one shoulder. He looked like a magazine cover, all easy charm and hidden edges. She slowed her pace.
"I'm glad you're done," he said, smiling that smile that made her skin crawl. "That was... impressive. Almost beautiful."
"Just part of the job." She stepped around him, but his hand clamped her wrist.
"Listen. You've got free time now. Let's talk."
She wrenched free. "I need to rest. This work—"
"I love you," he blurted, dropping to one knee.
The ring was a platinum band, minimalist and absurd. Jasmin froze.
"Are you insane?" she hissed.
Martin's grin faltered. "I thought—"
"You proposed. Proposed. After everything?" Her voice cracked. "You were supposed to be with Janina."
His face darkened. "Janina's gone. And she never loved me, Jasmin. You know that."
"Stop." The word was a growl. "You don't get to say her name like that. Not after—"
"After she died? After you became a ghost hunter?" He lunged, gripping her arms. "I'm trying to save you!"
The ring glinted in the dim light. Jasmin recoiled. Janina's laugh echoed in her skull—Jazz, don't fall for the pretty ones. Her best friend's voice, sharp and alive, had haunted her for three years. Three years since the car crash. Three years since Martin's eyes stopped looking at Jasmin and started fixating on the ghost of the woman he'd lost.
"You can't love me," she said softly. "You're in love with a memory."
Martin's hold tightened. "I'm in love with you! With the way you—"
"Stop." She shoved him. "You know what's crazy? You think this changes anything? I've got a briefcase full of explosives and a target's name. Your stupid ring isn't going to—"
Her words died as his expression shifted. The desperation gave way to something colder.
"Go ahead," he murmured. "Walk away. But when your 'mission' goes south—and it will—I'll be the one who knows how to fix it. How to save you."
She didn't wait for the threat to solidify. Jasmin fled, the briefcase heavy at her side. In her room, she stared at the streetlamp through the grimy window. Martin's words clung to her like the thinner's acrid scent—I love you.
The dorm room was a tangle of shadows and half-untangled earphones when Martel finally cracked. Anja's snores, loud and unrelenting, had transformed the space into a torture chamber. Martel glared at the digital clock: 2:47 a.m. She'd counted every snore—123 so far—and her brain, sleep-deprived and volatile, latched onto a single solution: revenge.
Her eyes landed on the neon-pink wig draped over Anja's desk chair. A relic from last Halloween, it had sprouted fangs and fake scars, a garish homage to a vampire. Martel snatched it, her pulse a mix of mischief and adrenaline. This would be a harmless prank. Just enough to make Anja shut up for five minutes.
She tiptoed to Anja's bed, crouching like a ninj—
Thwack.
Anja's eyelid fluttered open. No, wait—her entire eye rolled open, staring at Martel with the vacant, half-awake terror of a sleepwalker. Martel froze, the wig halfway to her head. Then Anja's gaze locked onto the fangs.
A shriek tore through the room, high-pitched and primal. Anja bolted upright, her fist connecting with Martel's cheek before either could react. The snap of skin against skin echoed off the walls.
"Ugh...please! Don't you see I'm sleeping here?" Anja hissed, her voice frayed with irritation. She clutched her chest like Martel had tried to kill her.
Martel winced, rubbing her cheek, but her lips twitched. "I can't sleep right now, you keep snoring like you never stop. Be grateful I don't do that every Halloween." She bit back a giggle, rocking on her heels. "You're welcome, really."
Anja's eye twitched. "Still, you were super annoying!"
Marvin, sprawled on his stomach in the top bunk, groaned. "You should apologize for that."
"Oh, come on, I was joking. Sometimes you need a little sense of humor," Martel shot back.
"Sometimes, it's too much!" Anja yelled, hurling a pillow at Martel's head. The feathers exploded around her like a burst of white static.
Sidel, who'd been pretending to sleep in the bottom bunk, now sat up, rubbing his eyes. "Okay, I heard enough. Can we go back to sleep, or I will hear a lot of your drama?" His voice was thick with exhaustion, but the edge in it warned they'd crossed a line.
Martel opened her mouth to retort, but Anja's glare cut her off. "Alright," Anja said, her voice suddenly measured, "I guess you're right. But I need you to hear things from me, Martel. You're buying us an ice cream and beer tomorrow. And we won't spend any money. Got that?" She punctuated this with a finger jab at Martel's chest, her face still flushed with mortification.
Martel gasped, hands flying to her temples in mock distress. "Why are you making it a big deal now?"
"So you learn to stop messing with me next time!"
"You can be such a drama queen," Sidel muttered, flopping back down. "What if she doesn't have money for that?"
Anja crossed her arms, her snark undeterred. "Well, that's her problem now. I don't care if she doesn't."
Martel's eyes narrowed. "Oh yeah," she said sweetly. "Until I cry and spend all my money because you wanted me to. You'll be carrying me out of the ice cream shop, sobbing over your 'generosity.'"
"Ugh!" Anja flopped back onto her pillow, covering her face with a wad of hair.
The room slowly settled into its post-argument stillness—Marvin muttering something about "stupid midnight theatrics," Sidel's soft snore resuming within minutes. Martel, however, lingered, replaying the fight in her head.
She couldn't deny Anja was annoyed, but the punishment felt disproportionate. Still, as she lay there, a new idea sparked: maybe tomorrow, she'd return the favor. A whoopee cushion? A whoopee cushion at the ice cream shop? Martel smirked, until she remembered the slap.
Martin woke before dawn, the faint blush of sunlight seeping through the curtains of his empty apartment. The silence was thick, broken only by the hum of the refrigerator downstairs. He sat up, staring at the wedding band on his nightstand, its cool edge gleaming in the half-light. He'd taken it off last night, a quiet admission that the marriage—and the life he'd built—was over. Jasmin's rejection still tasted like rust in his throat. She said the word "never" like a gunshot, he thought, the memory of her cold gaze cutting deeper than her words.
Four years earlier, the Find-Bodyguard headquarters had been a place of controlled chaos—grunts of exertion, the clang of steel, the sharp bark of instructors. Martin had been mid-set during his routine training when Janina appeared, her presence as jarring as a siren's wail. She'd grabbed his arm, yanking him away from the weights.
"I knew it. Why are you being so distant?!" Her voice had been a mix of anger and betrayal, loud enough that heads turned.
"Don't make a scene," he'd muttered, glancing over her shoulder at the trainees, his face burning.
But Janina wasn't done. "You think I'm blind? You've been flirting with Jasmin since we got married. Just say it—your heart's already with her!"
Martin had flinched at the truth in her words. He hadn't meant for it to unravel like this. Their marriage had been a transactional tangle from the start—Janina's family money securing his father's debts, his charm and loyalty meant to keep her pliant. But then Jasmin had entered their world, earnest and unguarded, her laughter a salve to the rot of his double life.
"I'm not like you, Janina," he'd said, his voice tight. "I didn't marry you for money. My father... he's drowning. I've been trying to save him."
She'd laughed then—a sharp, hollow sound. "Now you're blaming him? Here—take your 'alimony.'" She'd fished a bundle of cash from her clutch and tossed it at his chest. The bills fluttered to the floor like dead birds.
Martin had recoiled, not from the money, but from the finality of her departure. The door had slammed so hard the glass in the training room rattled.
Now, in the stillness of his current morning, Martin traced the rim of his empty coffee mug. He'd tried to convince himself that leaving Janina was a rescue—for both of them. Yet here he was, alone again, Jasmin's "never" echoing in the void.
He'd thought love was a choice, a strategy to outmaneuver his father's shadow. But Jasmin had seen through his careful calculations. "You're still playing someone else's game, Martin," she'd said, her voice trembling. "And I'm not a prize to win."
His phone buzzed—a text from his father: Need funds. Urgent. Martin closed his eyes. The cycle never ended. Janina had been right about the money. He'd been right about loving Jasmin. Too late, he realized the bitter truth: some debts couldn't be paid, and some hearts couldn't be mended with words or money.
At the Find-Bodyguard office, he'd trained to protect others, but he'd never learned how to shield himself from the consequences of his own choices.
Martin stood, the wedding ring finally slipping into his palm. He left it there, a weight he'd carry into the day—a reminder that the past was a ghost you couldn't fight, only face.
For the first time in years, he didn't know what to do next. And maybe, just maybe, that was the beginning of something real.