The World, Unwritten

Captain Vale

Salt Lake City Police Department. First Team ready room.

Julian had tasted some sweetness from the Matsushita case—praise from Chief Elliot Vaughn, a bonus, a quiet promotion. But his status in the team hadn’t budged. Of the forty-five men in First Team, most treated him like he didn’t exist. Aside from Sebastian Crowe, Victor Hawthorne, and a few marginalized guys who warmed to him a little, the core group met him with cold faces.

If it was just outsiders, Julian could shrug it off. But the roommates he had to live with day in, day out played the same silent game. They didn’t pick fights, but they didn’t speak to him either. The moment he walked in, conversation died or the room emptied. The second he left, they returned—cards, chatter, everything back to normal.

It all boiled down to one thing: he’d crossed Dominic Sterling, acted like a thorn in everyone’s side, and snatched the big merit right out of the gate. Jealousy was natural.

Someone else might regret pissing off Dominic. Julian felt nothing of the sort. His nature was cool, guarded—not everyone got inside. And he refused to believe licking boots or bowing would ever earn real respect. Weakness only taught people they could take more. Dominic could push once, then a hundred times. Three extra night shifts today could become four tomorrow. Next thing, Julian would be washing their clothes and cleaning the dorm. That line he would never cross.

The cold shoulder didn’t wound him deeply, but living under the same roof with mutual disdain was wearing. Mood suffered.

The Matsushita case put three thousand in his pocket—unexpected windfall. The moment the bonus hit, Julian decided to rent his own place. If they couldn’t coexist, better to stay out of each other’s sight.

He didn’t know the local market, so he turned to Victor. Requirements were simple: cheap, electricity, livable.

Victor liked Julian’s backbone and straightforward style. They got along. He agreed without hesitation.

…

The next day.

Julian was about to head to the office for handover—his first official day on post—when someone outside shouted, “Julian! Captain Vale wants you in the cafeteria.”

Julian turned to ask who, but the messenger was already gone.

He smiled faintly, grabbed his coat, and headed out.

Department cafeteria.

Julian asked staff, then spotted Captain Marcus Vale at a window table.

Vale was about six-foot-one, lean build, fair skin, handsome in a sharp way. Peach-blossom eyes—inner corners slightly downturned like crescents, outer corners tilted up, giving the constant impression he was smiling. First impressions were warm.

“Captain Vale?” Julian approached.

“Hey—good to meet you.” Vale stood with a friendly grin and shook hands. “I should’ve picked you up the day you arrived, but I was out of town. Just got back from Las Vegas today.”

“I heard—capital meeting.”

“All settled in?”

“Paperwork’s done.”

“Good.” Vale poured Julian water himself, still smiling. “Heard about the k********g case. You put First Team on the map.”

“Luck. Right place, right time.”

“Came in this morning, talked with Chief Vaughn. He filled me in.” Vale leaned back, hands clasped. “Normally, dropping a target like Matsushita gets the lead officer an immediate bump. Below captain, at least one rank. Chief wanted you straight to squad leader, second-class officer. But you’d been here less than a day when it happened—looks too convenient. Push too fast, people talk. So we decided to wait. No rush—we’ve got time.”

“Chief mentioned it,” Julian said easily. “I’m in no hurry. Just getting my feet wet.”

“No problem. What’s yours, I’ll fight for.”

…

Staff brought food: two hot dishes, two cold, beef and pricey greens. Julian noted Vale’s generosity—open-handed, at least on the surface.

“No drinking on duty. Simple meal,” Vale said, refilling Julian’s water.

“This is plenty.”

“Eat while it’s hot.”

They dug in. Vale watched Julian sidelong. The kid from the wasteland wasn’t nervous—ate steadily, no awkwardness.

“Julian—head to Team Three,” Vale said after a pause. “The regular squad leader got canned for corruption. No one’s running it. You’ll be acting squad leader.”

Julian blinked. “Chief said deputy.”

“Acting leader is the same level. Chief planned second-class eventually. When the title clears, we drop the ‘acting.’” Vale smiled. “My team, my call.”

“Thank you for the opportunity, Captain.”

“This department isn’t my private kingdom, but the captain’s chair is earned by the men behind me. Without fifty brothers risking their necks, how do I talk to the chief?” Vale spoke plainly, with rough loyalty. “You’re here—you’re my guy. You back me, I back you. No need for thanks. Same pot, different roles. Goal’s the same: live a little better in this mess.”

Julian had expected trouble for crossing Dominic—a thorn in Vale’s side, at least a cold shoulder or petty punishment.

Instead, Vale was straight, no airs, no games. It warmed him.

“Captain—with water as wine, I toast you.” Julian raised his cup seriously. “In First Team, I’ll give everything.”

They drank.

Cups down, Vale wiped his mouth. “Friend talk done. Work talk now.”

“Go ahead.”

“Headquarters sent a bulletin this morning. Big wasteland runners in the district—likely surfacing in Ashmire. Case landed on First Team. I’m back to organize the net.” Vale frowned. “But I’ve got another priority case needing bodies. You’re new—no experience on high-profile targets yet. So I want you leading Team Three on a different job.”

“What case?”

“Drug trafficking.” Vale sipped water. “Lately Ashmire’s flooded with smuggled meds—fake and off-channel real. Normally nobody cares—demand creates supply, and we’re swamped with bigger cases. But two major pharma companies in Las Vegas leaned on the capital. Chaos means medicine has clout. Higher-ups can’t ignore it. Salt Lake City Pharma Bureau calls the hall daily; hall leans on Chief Vaughn. Ashmire’s the hotspot. Chief’s obsessed—three-month deadline to clean out every drug peddler in the district.”

“Real clean sweep or just talk for meetings?” Julian asked carefully.

“Real,” Vale said firmly. “No games.”

“Team Three got enough bodies?”

“Start digging leads. Once you find the main thread, First Team concentrates fire.” Vale lowered his voice. “Until then, we focus on the runners.”

“Got it.” Julian knew the rules: wear the uniform, follow orders. No choice yet.

“You know the joint government crackdown on fake meds is unprecedented—to protect the few companies still researching and the patients who need them. Smuggling—real or fake—over five kilos is death penalty.” Vale warned. “Be careful. Case must break, but keep your people—and yourself—safe.”

“Understood.”

“Files to Team Three this afternoon. Study them. Get to know your men fast. If needed, buy them dinner—bond. Young guys, easy to reach.” Vale stood to pay, then turned back. “Oh—forgot. Dominic’s got a temper, says things without thinking. Don’t stoop to his level. I’ll get you two together soon. Past stays past.”

“That’d be good.”

Vale smiled and headed to the register.

Julian watched his back, murmuring, “Guy’s got class.”

…

Afternoon.

Julian was heading to Team Three when Victor texted: new place found—8800 South Highland Drive, Ashmire District edge. Come quick.

Julian checked the time—plenty before shift. He headed out.

Fifteen-minute walk. He reached the compound gate at 8800 South Highland Drive. No Victor, but a voice behind him.

“Gender fluid or something?”

Julian turned.

Evelyn Moore stood on the steps below, in a fitted wool coat, smiling brightly. No trace of the previous day’s fear. Backlit by brilliant sun, she looked like she’d stepped out of a painting—stunning, radiant.