A man and a woman stepped out of Room 100. The man was holding a folded newspaper up to his face, a pair of round spectacles perched on his wrinkled nose. The couple seemed to be in their late sixties, if not early seventies. Neither of them paid attention to me as I just stood in front of Room 104.

The old man cleared his throat and pointed at a boldfaced headline on the front page of the newspaper he was holding. "You see, dear? 'Anarchists strike again, mayor says. Calls freedom fighters an extended arm of the Communist party'."

The woman beside the old man looked aghast. She said. "Another one? Again? How many does that make; twenty attacks in one month?"

"It's all insanity," the old man replied, shaking his head. "How could anyone not see that these people are tearing apart our state?"

I could feel the fringes of my ears begin to burn, my breath becoming deeper. I straightened my shoulders and gritted my teeth, turning to the older couple.

I said, "Perhaps they are fighting an oppressive hierarchy that is naturally tyrannical?"

The old couple looked at me, finally acknowledging my presence. The aged gentleman adjusted his spectacles, squinting at me. Glanced at his wife, then back at me.

The old man chuckled, "What's your take in all this, then?" The woman beside him touched his arm, shaking her head. She said, "Thomas, no need to get political. It's almost bedtime."

Thomas shook his head in return, replying, "If the boy wants to make statements, I'll hear him out, Marge. Now. . ." The old man turned his gaze on me. "I don't want to assume your stance, but what exactly did you mean?"

"I meant that-" I cleared my throat. My ears burned more fierce, and I could feel my heart racing. "We're living in a corrupt system filled with corrupt officials, and if we don't do anything, they're going to trod all over us."

The old man named Thomas nodded slowly. "And so, if I'm hearing correctly, you would say you stand with. . ."

"I stand with freedom," I said firmly, breathing hard through my nose. Thomas took a breath, opened his mouth, then closed it again, smiling.

He murmured, "Ah, so did I."

I frowned. "How so?"

"As if you would know what real hatred and corruption and fear is," remarked Thomas. Even though his gaze was on me, I felt as if I were transparent. The old man's eyes were alight like two burning candles in a dark window. He continued, saying, "I saw real corruption in men's hearts, and I had to fight my brothers because of it. I was with the 59th Regiment. Volunteer Infantry."

"He was in the Civil War." The old man's wife touched his elbow, glancing at me and then her husband. "We really should be going now, Tom."

"Nothing really civil about it," Thomas replied, ignoring his wife's comment. "It was a bloody war. Many of my friends died; people I knew. But if I could have done things over, I would have gladly served, and done my part."

I stood silently, watching the old man speak.

Thomas continued, "You speak of oppression, yet fail to see it in front of your face-" The old man smacked the back of his hand against the headline of the newspaper he was holding. "Freedom used to mean one thing, last time I knew."

"Freedom unites us all," I said. Thomas chuckled, and then shook his head. He took off his spectacles and hung them on the front of his shirt.

Thomas sighed, looking at his newspaper. "This isn't freedom. This group of 'freedom fighters' the paper is calling them are nothing more than anarchists. Plain and simple."

"You say you stood and fought for freedom," I stated, pointing at Thomas. "And yet you don't support those that are fighting for our freedoms right now? How can you be so blind?"

Thomas raised his eyebrows. "I've never seen this kind of fight before." He shook the paper in his hand, pages ruffling. "People I know are dying. People I know who haven't had any stance in this 'freedom fighting' are getting hurt. Just last week, these freedom fighters set fire to the courthouse in Brooklyn. A friend I've known for twenty years was working in that courthouse, and he was cooked alive. What did he do to these freedom fighters? These lowlifes doing more harm than good. It's not the freedom that I used to fight for.."

I felt a twinge of heat spike in my chest. I said, "What kind of freedom did you fight for, old man?"

Thomas stood there, his facial expression turning rigid. He replied, "I fought so black folk could be free. I fought so to preserve the nation. I served in the Great War. I stood with my wife and three daughters in their suffrage movements." I could see the fire in his eyes, almost matching the temperature I was feeling in my veins. He took a step forward, eyeing me.

"I have lived my life in service of others. So, let me ask you," Thomas said. "What are you fighting for?"

Margaret put a hand on her husband's shoulder, "Tom, stop. The young man doesn't know what he's saying."

The old man stepped back, taking a heavy sigh and put his glasses back on his nose. He looked at me, looked at the paper, then back at me.

"It doesn't show up very often," The old man began, his voice low and brittle. "But you should read what these 'freedom fighters' are really doing in this city. In the fluff they write, a sensible person can see them for what they really are. Talk to some real people, boy, and see how different they are despite the platitudes they espouse."

"You don't know, do you?" I simply said, shaking my head. The old man stared at me. Ruffled his newspaper. Looked at his wife, and muttered, "Let's go." The couple walked down the hallway, Thomas's wife putting her arm through the old man's bent elbow.

I clenched and unclenched my fists. I remembered what Dianne had taught me. I slowly breathed in, held it, then breathed out. Breathed in, held it, breathed out. I repeated this several times until the old couple rounded a corner and passed out of sight. I shook my head and then turned my gaze to Room 104. I pulled the switchblade out from my pocket and flicked the blade out. There were still some splotches of now drying blood from the officer on the edges of the knife. The rest of the blade glinted in the light being cast from the sconce overhead.

I folded the trenchcoat twice so that it was a square, and then folded that square over the hand holding the knife. It looked like the trench coat was hanging from my wrist, the coat concealing the handle of the switchblade. I took in a couple of deep breaths, knowing what the next few moments were to look like. I imagined it in my head, seeing everything play out. I've made it this far. It didn't make sense I would fail now.

I knocked on the door. The knock echoed across the empty hallway. It made the hall feel more empty than it already was. Several seconds passed without any response. No shuffling from inside, no vocal reply, nothing. I waited patiently. The occupant had to open up the door to see his visitor; there was no peephole in the door. The room behind the door seemed just as empty as the hallway.

Then, I heard it.

Barely a sound, a whisper of movement emanated from behind the door. My mouth became dry and I licked my cracked lips. I straightened and tried to make myself as inviting as possible. Checked over my shoulder and saw that no one was there. Good. Everything was ready. I waited for the door to open. I heard the doorknob turn, ever so slowly.

Come on, come on, come on.

The door opened, but just a crack. A sliver of a face appeared in the crack, light shining on one eye. Everything behind the eye was darkness. The eye's gaze centered on me. The owner of the eye squinted, looked down at my trench coat, then down at my boots. My boots. I saw the dawning realization occur in the man's eye and I struck before he could even blink.

I kicked open the door with my heel, and when that didn't fully open the door, I threw my shoulder against it. The man behind the door yielded at the first attack but became emboldened on the second. I could feel my feet slipping on the worn carpet. The door was mere centimeters from closing and a lock being initiated over the door frame. I couldn't risk any more delays; that would only decrease my odds of escaping alive.

I let the trench coat slide off my wrist, simultaneously triggering the switchblade. The knife shone once again, eager to do my bidding as it sprung towards the shrinking crack in the door. Just as I was about to give way, the blade of the knife ran itself home and blocked the door from fully closing.

I was presented with one of two options now. I could hold on to the knife, but that risked me not being able to win a pushing match against the man behind the door. Or I could let go of the knife and take a large step back to kick open the door, but that meant losing the only thing that was keeping the door from fully closing. Mentally, I rolled the dice.

Physically, I acted on the latter option. I was quick, but I made sure not to trip myself up in the process. It only needed one clumsy misstep or a lack of coordination to lose everything in this situation. I released the handle of my knife. As if the man behind the door had been reading my mind, he opened the door slightly, increasing the gap which allowed the knife to drop to the floor.

Seeing this, I lunged forward, all my weight being put into the heel of my foot as I planted it below the knob of the door. I kicked out and felt the door give way, the man unable to resist the sudden force of power. I wedged my fingers into the increasing gap and pried my way into the room.

The man let go of his hold on the door and stepped back. Light from the hallway flooded past me and into the dark room. The knife in my hand glinted and reflected the sconce's light across the walls of the room. It shone across the man's face. His eyes were wide, staring down at the knife in my hand.

He was a stout figure, his arms and legs seemed short compared to his barrel torso and chest. The man had a disheveled beard, slivers of gray hairs pointing in all directions. He stood there, his mouth open wide but he uttered no sound. The man was too shocked to speak.

I gripped the edge of the door and closed it behind me. Brandishing the switchblade in front of the man, I said his name. "Arthur Dempsey." The man's lips quivered, his eyes cemented on the knife's razor edge. He followed it as I gestured towards him as I spoke.

"If you scream, I can't guarantee that you'll live."

Arthur found his voice. He stuttered, "Please. What do you want?" When he spoke, it sounded like he was choking on his tongue. "I don't have much, I'm just an old man."

"Don't be so modest, Arthur," I said. "You know where some certain blueprints are. You helped design them."

Arthur coughed, his demeanor suddenly changing. His wide eyes turned into slits. "What do you know?"

"I have it on good authority that you are keeping blueprints somewhere here, and Freedom's Cause is calling for its liberation." I grinned. Even in the dark room, I could see the telltale expression of fear, clouded with worry building in the old man's face. I took a step forward. Arthur stepped back. The room wasn't small, but without a significant light source, the darkness hedged us in from all sides.

"Keeping blueprints? Freedom's cause?" The man scoffed, throwing up his hands. "What are you raving on about?"

I took another step forward. Arthur stepped back, then felt behind him with his hand. He had reached the opposite wall. There was no place to run. The door was behind me, which was closed, and the window was to the left. From where Arthur stood, he was the same distance away from both the window and door. If he was going to escape, he would either meet his death on the concrete outside or die at my hand.

From the growing desperation on Arthur's face, neither escape seemed appetizing to him. I took a final step forward towards the man, the switchblade in my hand waving back and forth like a shark following the scent of blood. Arthur glanced down at the knife, at me, then back down at the knife. He held up his hands in front of his face, droplets of sweat covering his brow.

"Stop! Stop, please for the love of God, stop!" Arthur's voice came out hoarse and weak. "I can tell you where they are. You don't have to do this."

"Nobody has to do anything," I growled, bringing the knife up to face Arthur. "But we do what we need to survive."

"Yeah, survive," Arthur repeated.

Then he punched me in the jaw.

For a man with short arms and stocky disposition, Arthur was deceptively fast. His first punch grazed my chin. Surprised, I jumped back instinctively, then received another blow underneath the ribs. I almost collapsed, the air almost being knocked from my lungs. I held onto my switchblade, gripping onto it as tight as possible. I knew I couldn't let go of it. I just couldn't. Arthur threw back his leg, rearing for a kick directly at my head. I sidestepped to the left at the same moment his bare foot went sailing past me.

Arthur hopped forward a bit, his bulky frame set off balance from the missed kick. I jumped behind him and wrapped the inside of my elbow around his neck, dragging him back. He followed my lead, accelerating as he back-peddled against me. I held on tight, squeezing on Arthur's neck as he slammed me against the wall. I felt the breath being crushed out of me as Arthur stayed his pressure against my chest, pinning me to the wall.

"Stop it!" I hissed. I wasn't sure why. In retrospect, it didn't make sense. The racket we had been carrying on for the last two minutes had been loud enough to wake every sleeping person on this floor. I was sure I had only five more minutes to get what I came here for, and then that was it. I couldn't waste any more time.

"Where are the blueprints?" I whispered loudly into Arthur's ear, still retaining my hold on his neck. Arthur grunted and gurgled, his fingers trying to tear away at my arm. I held it firm, then released it slightly. Arthur felt the tension release on his neck. I heard him clear his throat.

"Scream, and you'll never be able to walk again," I breathed, sticking the switchblade up against his lower back. The spear point tip wavered inches away from the base of his spine.

Arthur gave a noncommittal grunt. I felt his body tense and his back muscles seize. He breathed in slowly, and I could feel his pounding heartbeat with his back up against my chest. Arthur opened his mouth to speak. Then he shouted, "Thomas!"

The switchblade sang, darting forward and up. It tilted and angled and corkscrewed until it found Arthur's lungs. It pierced through and through as Arthur slowly became silent as the blade found other vital organs in his body. It sniffed them out like a rabid dog until Arthur fell to the floor, motionless.

I stood there, looking at the man's crumpled body.

The thunderous roaring of my heartbeat filled my ears as I shakily knelt and wiped my knife's blade on the back of the man's night robe. Dark streaks came off the blade's edge in the darkness, then I retracted it, placing it in my front pocket. I stood and clenched my shivering hands. Outside the room, in the hall, I heard voices. Several of them were low and hushed. None of them had started shouting.

Yet.

I looked around me, squinting into the darkness. I had to find the blueprints. I quickly leaped forward to the door and quietly slid the deadbolt into place, locking it. I could see shadows flickering back and forth from the light in the hall leaking through underneath the door.

Making my way carefully across the room, I reached out with both hands and felt the desk at the end of the room in front of the window. I began opening every drawer, overturning every paper, rifling through every cabinet. I went through stacks and stacks of paper, postage, and parchments. Nothing remotely close to blueprints. I could hear the voices growing louder outside. Someone called out Arthur's name several times.

A singular knock on the apartment door. I moved from the study and went to the bedroom. It was small and bare. Unusually spartan. I spotted a dresser and mirror vanity, the only pieces of furniture besides the bed, and a single standing lamp in the corner. The drawers in both the dresser and vanity were filled with clothes and personal grooming effects respectively. Nothing related to ships, building plans, or civil engineering.

I planted both hands on the table of the vanity and stared at my reflection in the mirror. I could see perspiration dotting my brow. Specks of congealed blood had been splattered across my right cheek. My body began to tremble uncontrollably. Back in the hall, I could hear people urging someone to break down the door. My hands shakily gripped the edges of the vanity.

The mirror trembled, the image of my face shivering under the tremors. My vision began to narrow, and I saw only my face. Multiple cracks appeared around my face's reflection. My grip tightened, my arms and entire body trembling under an invisible weight pressing down around me from all directions. A singular fissure split my face in two, then ten, and then twenty different pieces.

The cracked portions of my face, neck, arms, and chest sloughed off and fell in a heap onto the table of the vanity. I stopped shaking. My reflection was gone, and in its place on the wooden backing of the vanity was a sheet of charcoal gray paper.

The edges were crinkled. It had been wedged or shoved behind the mirror and was taped at the edges. I tore it off and turned them around. There were at least three large pieces, each of them having white outlines of drawings of a ship on them. I grinned as I began rolling up the blueprints.

I hoarsely whispered, "Arthur, you old goat. You old clever goat," As I stuffed the rolled-up blueprints into I could hear the voices in the hallway beginning to grow in volume.

A woman's voice cried out, "There's somebody in there with him!"

A loud thumping noise started coming from the door.

And then a man's voice said, "Break it down, boys."