The Breach
They reached the top floor using the back elevator—the one used for hauling coal to the General's private fireplace. When the doors opened, they were in a plush hallway that smelled of expensive tobacco.
Two guards stood at the end of the hall, looking bored. Kniya didn't hesitate. He grabbed a heavy brass bust of some dead general from a pedestal and handed a heavy glass decanter to Malesh.
"Hit them hard, or we're dead," Kniya whispered.
They sprinted. The guards barely had time to turn their heads before Kniya slammed the brass bust into the first one's temple. CRACK. The man went down like a sack of bricks. Malesh followed up, smashing the decanter over the second guard's head in a spray of glass and cheap brandy.
Kniya didn't wait to see if they were breathing. He kicked the heavy mahogany doors open and stepped into the office.
----------------------
The Confrontation
Knorwin Klove was sitting behind a desk that probably cost more than a village. He was pouring a glass of amber liquid, looking out at the city he thought he owned. When the doors slammed, he jumped, his wine splashing onto his white silk sleeves.
"What the—" Klove stared at the two eleven-year-old boys standing in his office. They were covered in sewer grime, coal dust, and dried blood.
"Surprise, you fat piece of shit," Kniya said, his voice as sharp as a razor.
Klove's eyes went wide. "You... the brats from the woods? How the fuck did you get in here? GUARDS!"
"Shut the fuck up and sit down, Klove," Kniya barked. The sheer authority in his voice made the General actually freeze. "Your guards are taking a nap in the hallway. And if you call for more, I'll make sure the President has this on his desk before sunrise."
Kniya walked up and slammed the original bank transfer notes onto the desk.
Klove looked down. His face went from red with anger to a sickly, pale grey. He recognized the signature. He recognized the account numbers. "This... this is a forgery. You're lying."
"Is it?" Kniya leaned in, his face inches from the General's. "I've got a telegraph set up on a clockwork timer, you corrupt bastard. If I don't go back and reset it, this entire file—the 532 Crore theft, the 'Golden Trust' account, all of it—broadcasts to every station in the country. The President might be a prick, but he hates a thief who gets caught. He'll hang you just to keep his own hands looking clean. You're a military officer, Knorwin. You're replaceable. You're fucking nothing."
Klove looked at the boys, his mouth hanging open. He couldn't believe the words coming out of an eleven-year-old's mouth. The cussing, the coldness, the logic—it was like being stared down by a veteran assassin in a child's body.
"What... what do you want?" Klove whispered, his hands shaking as he reached for his drink.
"Now we're talking business," Kniya smirked, and it was a terrifying look. "I have conditions. And if you miss even one, I let the timer run out and watch you swing from a rope."
----------------------
Klove sat there, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. He looked at the two eleven-year-old boys, then at the whiskey in his hand, then back at the papers. He was a man who had ordered the execution of hundreds, but he had never been talked to like this—especially not by kids who still had the scent of the forest on them.
"You're insane," Klove whispered, though the tremor in his hands betrayed him. "You think you can just walk in here and dictate terms to me?"
"I'm not thinking, you fat fuck, I'm telling," Kniya said, slamming his hand on the desk. "Here are the conditions. If you miss even one decimal point, the telegraph starts screaming your secrets to every precinct in the Republic."
----------------------
The Conditions
Kniya leaned forward, his eyes cold and dead.
"First," Kniya began, "You call off every single soldier. Right now. You put out a broadcast stating the 'terrorist threat' has been neutralized. No more checkpoints, no more searchlights, and no more posters of our faces. If I see one grey-coat looking for us after tonight, I'll let the timer hit zero."
Klove swallowed hard, nodding slowly.
"Second," Kniya continued, "That officer we shot in the leg? The one you're calling a hero? You're going to bury that story. You'll issue a report saying he's a negligent dumbass who misfired his own weapon while cleaning it. He gets stripped of his rank, he gets fired, and he disappears. He doesn't get to be a martyr, and we don't get to be suspects."
"That will ruin his life," Klove muttered.
"Who gives a shit?" Kniya snapped. "Better his life than yours, right? Now, Third. My parents. And Malesh's parents. I know how you bastards work—you've probably got them in a dark room somewhere trying to squeeze information out of them. You are going to go down there, or send your highest-ranking lapdog, and tell them there was a massive 'clerical error'."
Kniya's voice softened just a fraction, but it was even scarier. "You tell them we did nothing wrong. You tell them we were actually helping with a 'special youth initiative' or some other bullshit lie you're good at. You clear our names completely. They need to believe their kids are still the 'perfect students' they sent to school this morning."
----------------------
The Final Blow
Klove looked at the paper, then at the boys. The silence in the room was heavy, broken only by the crackling of the fireplace.
"Is that all?" Klove asked, his voice cracking.
"Not quite," Kniya smirked, looking around the room at the gold-leaf frames and the silk rugs. "We're going to need a 'scholarship' for our silence. A monthly stipend, untraceable, sent to a private account we'll set up. Since you like stealing from the national fund so much, you won't mind sharing a little bit of that 532 Crore with the kids who saved your neck."
Malesh stepped forward, adjusting his tie even though it was covered in sewer grime. He looked at the General with pure, clinical disdain. "It's a fair trade, General. We get our lives back, and you get to keep your head attached to your shoulders. Honestly, you're getting the better end of the deal."
Klove slumped back in his chair, defeated. He realized he wasn't dealing with children. He was dealing with the monsters the Republic had created.
"Fine," Klove whispered. "I'll issue the orders. Just... stop the timer."
Kniya stood up, straight and tall. "I'll stop the timer once the radio broadcast hits the airwaves and I see my parents walking out of that precinct with an apology. Don't try to follow us. And don't try to find the telegraph station—it's rigged to blow if anyone but me touches it."
Kniya turned to Malesh. "Let's go, bro. We have school tomorrow. Wouldn't want to be late and ruin our perfect attendance."
----------------------
The Betrayal
Kniya and Malesh turned their backs on the General, walking toward the heavy mahogany doors with the swagger of winners.
"Don't forget, Klove," Kniya called out over his shoulder, his hand on the brass door handle. "Midnight. If I'm not back at that station to reset the gears, your life turns into a pile of shit."
Klove sat in the shadows, his face unreadable. He watched them reach the door. Just as Kniya's fingers gripped the handle, Klove's voice rang out, no longer trembling, but cold and sharp as a bayonet.
"You kids are smart," Klove said, leaning back and interlacing his fingers. "But you're still just kids. You think a timer is a shield? A timer is just a clock. And clocks can be stopped if you have the right key."
Kniya froze. He turned around, his eyes narrowing. "What the fuck are you talking about?"
Klove didn't answer. He simply pressed a hidden buzzer beneath his desk.
The doors didn't open for the boys to leave. Instead, they were kicked inward from the outside. Four massive guards—the General's personal "interrogators"—burst in. They weren't carrying rifles; they were carrying heavy rubber truncheons and jagged iron pliers.
"Kniya!" Malesh yelled, backing away, but a guard grabbed him by the throat, slamming him against the silk rug.
Kniya lunged for the guard, but Klove stood up, slamming his fist on the desk. "Hold him!"
Two guards pinned Kniya's arms behind his back, forcing him to his knees in front of Klove's desk. The General walked around the table, looking down at Kniya with pure, clinical cruelty.
"You have a 'Dead Man's Switch' at a telegraph station," Klove whispered, grabbing Kniya by the hair and tilting his head back. "Very clever. But the human body has its own switches, boy. And I am an expert at flipping them."
Klove looked at his lead interrogator. "He has until midnight to tell us the location of the station and the code to stop the transmission. Use the basement. Use the steam pipes if you have to. I don't care if they can't walk afterward, as long as they can still speak."
Kniya spat blood onto Klove's polished boots, his eyes burning with a feral rage. "You think... you think you can break me before the clock hits zero? Fuck you."
Klove leaned in, his voice a ghostly murmur. "We have four hours until midnight, Kniya. In this building, four hours is an eternity of pain. By the time the clock strikes eleven, you'll be begging me to let you tell the truth."
The guards began dragging the boys toward the service elevator that led to the sub-basement—the place where "enemies of the state" went to disappear. Malesh was screaming, but Kniya stayed silent, his teeth bared in a snarl.
As the elevator doors began to hiss shut, the journalist from the corner of the room stepped forward, pulling a small notebook and a pocket-watch from his coat. He looked at the General.
"And if they don't break in time, sir?" the journalist asked.
Klove looked at the clock on the wall, his face a mask of cold iron.
"Then the city burns," Klove whispered. "But they'll be the first ones into the fire."