2:35 a.m. — Diplomatic Convoy, En Route to Vault District
The Prime Minister's transport cut through the night like a shark through dark water. It was a fortress on wheels—a sedan with heavy, reinforced doors, modular seating, and sound-dampening walls that smelled faintly of expensive leather and calming herbal tea.
Eloi Raventhir, clad in a sleek navy suit that hadn't wrinkled despite the chaos, sat with tented fingers. He observed Ogdi the way a scientist studies a radioactive isotope: with fascination and a healthy dose of fear.
Ogdi stared back. His expression was unreadable, save for a faint, thoughtful crease in his brow.
"You're calmer than expected," Eloi said softly. The vibration of the engine was a low hum beneath his feet.
"Calm is not the absence of pressure. It's negotiation," Ogdi replied, his voice level.
Eloi tilted his head, assessing. "They think you're dangerous. The police. The Directorate."
"I think they're reactionary."
Silence settled between them, thick and heavy.
Then Ogdi leaned forward. The air in the cabin seemed to thin.
"I need truth," Ogdi said. "No ceremony. No press-ready answers. For the sake of what's coming."
"Coming?" Eloi raised an eyebrow.
"Yes."
Ogdi made a subtle gesture with one finger—a small, conducting motion.
Instantly, the hum of the engine vanished. The sound of the tires on the asphalt disappeared. The world outside the window continued to blur past, but inside, the silence was absolute, as if they had been suspended in a vacuum.
The Prime Minister's pupils dilated. His shoulders dropped three inches. His mind remained intact, but the armor of his persona—the politician's mask—slid off like wet silk. Ogdi hadn't paralyzed him; he had simply untied the knots of performance.
"You want the truth?" Eloi said, his voice clearer, stripped of its usual oratorical cadence. "Fine."
He folded his hands. "This country is breaking—not just economically, not just politically, but psychically. The people are tired. They don't believe in anything anymore. They are hollow. I want to rebuild that—remind them their blood has value."
Ogdi remained silent, a statue of judgment.
Eloi continued, the words flowing faster now. "But I don't want to do it by being pure. Purity is weak. I want to be efficient. If I have to limit freedoms for a decade to ensure survival, I will. If I need to strike deals with powers that don't wear flags... I'll do it."
"So it's not about legacy?" Ogdi asked.
Eloi smiled faintly. It was a grim expression. "Legacy is the country. I can only help if they remember who gave them direction. Even if they curse my name later, they'll walk straighter because of the spine I gave them."
A long pause. Outside, yellow streetlamps flickered past like strobe lights, illuminating the cabin in rhythmic flashes.
Ogdi nodded once. The silence in the car rippled, allowing the low hum of reality to bleed back in.
"You're selfish," Ogdi concluded. "But not malicious. Strategic."
Eloi met his gaze, his armor slowly reassembling. "So what now? You'll judge me?"
Ogdi leaned back into the leather seat. "No. I'll support you."
Eloi's face barely moved, but the vein in his neck pulsed. "You will?"
"Yes. But my support is not currency—it's insurance. You act for the people, and I act for the continuity of things you cannot yet see. We walk different roads that cross just enough to matter."
The shimmer faded completely. The hypnosis lifted. Eloi blinked, slightly disoriented, rubbing his temple.
"You're terrifying," he muttered, looking at the boy who was more than a boy.
Ogdi smiled, just barely. A ghost of a grin. "Only when necessary."
The vehicle turned a final corner. Dawn broke on the horizon, spilling light like spilled ink across a marble floor.
...
3:02 a.m. — Jean's Apartment, Downtown Calmarith
The city outside hummed with an unsettling quiet—a taut string stretched across the metropolis, ready to snap. But within Jean's high-rise apartment, the tension was a physical weight.
His home was a meticulously crafted sanctuary of padded walls and analog relics. It was designed to repel the digital chaos of the world, a place where the static hum of an old record player could drown out the unsettling whispers of the unknown. But tonight, the peace was fractured.
Jean sat at the room's core, a solitary figure amidst the wreckage of his investigation. His tie was loosened, a rare concession to comfort, and his coat lay discarded on the floor.
His gaze—usually sharp and analytical—was fixed with a desperate intensity on a manila folder marked "Merrin."
Beside it, a half-empty glass of amber liquid sweated condensation onto the wood. Spread across the table were three notepads filled with terse, illegible shorthand. A voice recorder sat nearby, its red light stubbornly off. Jean had no desire for machines to catalog the whispers of his own confusion.
And there, nestled among the papers, was the anomaly.
A silver coin.
Jean stared at it. It was heavy, old, and minted with a face he didn't recognize. He hadn't placed it there. He hadn't seen it when he came in. It had simply appeared while his back was turned to pour a drink.
He reached out, his fingers hovering over it. He didn't check the locks; he knew they were engaged. He didn't draw his gun; he knew bullets wouldn't stop the person who left this.
"Payment?" he whispered to the empty room. "Or a warning?"
He picked it up. It was cold, biting his skin like ice. It reminded him of Merrin's eyes. Liquid silver.
He rubbed his chest, a subtle, unconscious gesture. A lingering sensation persisted there—not pain, but a profound absence. A hole where a thought used to be.
"Why did I forget the last question?" he murmured, his voice a gravelly rasp.
The question hung in the air, unanswered. The missing piece of the puzzle.
Exhaustion hit him like a hammer. The adrenaline of the interrogation room finally evaporated, leaving him hollow. He closed his eyes, intending to rest them for a second.
He instantly fell asleep.
...
Jean bolted upright.
The room was the same, but the light had shifted. The skyline outside was bleeding into the grey of early morning.
He stood up, his heart racing. He approached the window, watching the city wake up. But his mind was still in the interrogation room.
He opened his notebook. He grabbed a pen and began scribbling, the ink flowing frantically:
- Merrin's silver eyes
- "Placed between time"
- Folded intentionally
- Eleven total
- Nine unmarked
- Last question—gone
And beneath all that, he wrote in block letters, pressing so hard the paper tore:
"SOMETHING IS REWRITING MY RECALL."
He stopped. A low hum emanated from the wall.
He froze. He scanned the room for bugs, for digital interference. Nothing.
Then, his childhood analog radio—a dusty relic on the shelf—crackled to life. The dial wasn't moving. The plug wasn't in the wall.
Static hissed. Then, a voice cut through.
It wasn't a demon. It wasn't a man. It sounded like a child—smart, playful, and utterly wrong. The syllables were twisted, spoken with a rhythmic, nursery-rhyme cadence, but reversed and chopped.
"Yaw... kcab... kool-ay..."
Jean stepped closer, entranced and terrified.
"Ereh-t... si... rews-na... eth-ay..."
"Noit-seuq... sing-mis... eth-ay... ot..."
The voice giggled—a sound like a tape reel speeding up.
"Yaw-kcab... kool-ay... fi..."
Jean grabbed a pencil. His hand shook as he transcribed the phonemes, reversing the Pig Latin logic in his head as he wrote.
Fi... If.
Kool-ay... Look.
Yaw-kcab... Back-way... Back.
The radio sparked, a final burst of static, and went dead.
Jean stared at the paper.
"If you look back, the answer to the missing question is there."
Jean whispered, "I'll find it."
He didn't know who he was speaking to—ghost, child, or god—but the message was received. The answer wasn't in the future. It was in the past he had forgotten.