The council chamber was a cramped, wood-panelled room, but tonight it felt like an arena. The rows of seats were packed — townsfolk clutching “Save Our Park” placards, developers in sharp suits, and a scattering of reporters tapping at their tablets. The air buzzed with whispers. Barry sat near the back with Sophie and Harold, hands folded neatly on his lap. Outwardly, he was the same quiet figure who had spent years shelving books and mending frayed pages. Inwardly, he was still. Centered. Breathing slow and deep, as he had been taught long ago in a different life. Harold leaned over. “Remember, we stick to the facts. Let them make the noise. We’ll be the ones making sense.” Barry nodded. The advice was good — but he already knew how to choose his ground, how to let an opponent tire themselves out before striking. It was just that here, the battleground was words and ideas, not fists and throws. The meeting began with the mayor’s opening statement. The lead developer follow

Sophie had always been sunshine in Barry’s eyes — the kind of person who could walk into a room and tilt it toward the light. Even when she was knee-deep in council documents, her laugh came easily. But lately, there were cracks in that brightness. It began subtly. A delay in her replies to his messages. A faint tiredness under her eyes, quickly masked by a smile. She would arrive at their park campaign meetings with coffee but sometimes without her usual sharpness, her gaze drifting when Harold spoke. Barry noticed. He always noticed. One evening after a long planning session at Harold’s home, Sophie walked Barry halfway to the library before turning toward her own street. He caught a glimmer in her eyes — not the sparkle of laughter, but something tighter. “You’re not sleeping well,” he said quietly. She blinked, startled. “I’m fine. Just busy.” Barry didn’t press, but something in her voice told him the truth was heavier. The truth was sitting in her parents’ living room l

The restaurant wasn’t Barry’s usual haunt. All soft golden lighting, polished cutlery, and the faint, expensive hum of conversation. He’d chosen it deliberately — neutral ground, where neither Willemse’s camp nor the Glenhaven supporters could claim home turf. He arrived early, as always, choosing a corner table that gave him a clear view of both the entrance and the street outside. Old habits died hard. Combat training had taught him to measure every space — entry points, escape routes, who was watching whom. At precisely seven o’clock, she walked in. The woman from the park. If she’d been striking then, she was devastating now. Midnight-blue dress, a single silver chain catching the light at her collarbone, and the kind of presence that bent the room’s attention without asking for it. Her heels clicked like punctuation marks as she approached. “Mr Wessels,” she said, sliding into the chair opposite him. “Marina Kallis, counsel for Mr Willemse. Thank you for agreeing to meet.”

The council chambers buzzed with tension as Barry, Sophie, and Harold arrived for what was announced as the decisive vote on Glenhaven Park’s future. News of recent sabotage and the swelling community support had reached every corner of Glenhaven. Barry moved with quiet confidence, his calm demeanor masking the storm beneath. Years of mastering hand-to-hand combat had taught him that true strength was often found in stillness and resolve — not flashy displays. Tonight, that strength would be on full display. As the session opened, developers presented glossy projections, promising jobs, taxes, and progress. The room was thick with anticipation. But when Barry stood to speak, his voice cut through like a clear bell. “This park is not just land for development,” he said steadily, eyes sweeping the room. “It is a sanctuary — for children, for the elderly, for every soul who calls Glenhaven home. Progress built on erasing community is no progress at all.” He revealed the latest

The Glenhaven Community Foundation Gala was supposed to be about funding local causes, but Sophie could feel the undercurrent the moment she walked into the ballroom. The lighting was warm, the clink of glasses constant, but the crowd’s eyes kept drifting toward one figure — Barry Wessels, in a charcoal suit that fit far too well for someone who “just worked in a library.” Sophie had been on the organising committee, but even she hadn’t expected him to accept the invite. When she’d teased him about attending, he’d simply said, “Sometimes it’s important to be seen.” Now she understood. Across the room, the developers — the same men behind the park takeover — had stationed themselves like a pack of wolves. Their leader, Peter Myburgh, wore a politician’s smile as he chatted up the mayor. His gaze slid toward Barry more than once, a thin gleam of challenge in it. The evening’s speeches began innocently enough. But during the “community spotlight” segment, the MC’s tone shifted.