When we arrived near the house, he told me that this place was where we could stay for a moment, as if a lucky opportunity might support us or reveal something unexpected. He mentioned a “lucky moment” more than once, saying it had been a good trip, though I didn’t really understand what he meant. I wasn’t working with him, nor did I belong to the group of people living in that house and doing services there. The whole place was strangely quiet, and he said no one would be around until the morning. I followed him through long corridors inside what looked like an enormous building. We went down to a lower floor, opened a door, and entered a hidden room that contained a large garden-like space covered with warm sunlight. He said everything here was simple, that I wouldn’t need much—just twenty dollars—to get what I needed. I didn’t have to sit downstairs; all I had to do was stay in the room, and someone from the kitchen would bring food to the door. He told me I could stand alone near the suitcase and that every question I had would eventually find its answer, except for one question I would have to discover for myself.
I told him that I live in Morocco, that I stay awake almost every night until six in the morning, and that I am always aware of the strange sounds in the house—wind, neighbors, things I can’t describe. That night, in this place, the silence was overwhelming. It felt as if the sound of insects outside the city was inside the walls, as if nature itself refused to respect human presence. This whole experience left me with more questions than answers.
We tried to understand the reason behind the mysterious atmosphere surrounding the house. Dawn started breaking around six, and I told myself I needed to live differently from now on, even if the transition felt difficult. After four or five days, exhaustion began to hit me strongly. I felt detached, unable to rest, unable to stay fully awake. I hadn’t played music in the house before, but suddenly I heard a strange and captivating melody—something from “Fengnam.” They called it “Mister Zinga from Nuremberg.” I had never listened to classical or foreign music like that. It surprised me, but I recognized the vibe. Ten minutes were enough for me to wash, dress, and appear more presentable before going downstairs.
As I walked down the stairs, I felt something unusual. I didn’t know how to describe it—an emptiness mixed with heavy thoughts. I wanted to understand what I was doing here, and like the French say, “to work in the province,” except that this wasn’t Morocco and nothing in this region felt familiar. When I reached the dining area, the table was beautifully prepared for breakfast. There were pastries, croissants, potatoes, jams, orange juice, coffee—everything arranged neatly like the tables displayed in furniture stores but with far more elegance.
A woman named Hilda stood by the table. She looked exactly like she did when she had welcomed me at the door. She pulled a chair for me and told me to sit and enjoy my breakfast. She said she knew my culture well and that she had prepared a special meal for me, free of ingredients I don’t usually eat. She pointed at the seat next to me and said someone else would join me—Hans Wagner, a composer known around the world. She explained I could adjust my meal without asking, and that if I needed anything, she would be nearby. Then she wished me a good appetite and walked toward the kitchen.
I examined the breakfast table carefully. Everything looked perfect, almost too perfect. Just as I was about to taste something, I felt the presence of someone behind me. When I turned, I saw Hans Wagner himself greeting me with a Hollywood-like smile. He was around sixty-five to sixty-seven years old, dressed in a black tuxedo as if he was attending a gala at six in the morning. I didn’t understand why someone would dress like that so early, but he seemed comfortable. His face was difficult to read—soft features hiding something darker beneath them, almost like the face of a charismatic psychopath.
He apologized that he couldn’t have breakfast with me immediately. He had urgent business with two special guests in his office, but he promised to return and spend time getting to know me. He said his wife and daughter were preparing lunch and that he wanted to meet me before they arrived. He told me to make myself comfortable and that he would come back after finishing his meeting. His office was about ten or eleven meters away behind the breakfast room, and he left the door open when he entered.
I heard muffled voices from the office. The two men he mentioned were wearing black trench coats and black suits, carrying briefcases as if they were going somewhere important. Hans told them something, then wrapped up the meeting quickly. Before leaving, they looked at me in a way that felt strangely familiar, as if they recognized me from somewhere. When they left, Hans returned to the table and began eating slowly. He told me he had only twenty-four hours in Belgium and that their meeting had been scheduled for six in the morning. He explained that their appointments could last anywhere between two and six hours, and that these people were difficult to catch during the day.
While he ate, I noticed something important: when I first met him, he had a forced, artificial smile. But now, as he ate and spoke, his smile became natural, relaxed. It was as if some burden had just been lifted from him, something heavy that had been threatening his life or his family. When he finished eating, he asked if I was ready to take a tour around the estate. He said the tour could last ten minutes or twenty-four hours, depending on how we connected. But since we would be having lunch later, we had plenty of time.
We went outside, and the chauffeur who had picked me up from the airport was waiting next to a four-by-four. Hans told me to get in with him. I expected conversation during the ride, but he stayed busy on his phone replying to messages. The driver and him exchanged short comments, but I stayed silent, filming some clips for Facebook and YouTube. The drive lasted about an hour and a half until we reached a coastal area near the Belgian sea—Amir de Noord. Sand stretched everywhere in front of us.
We stepped out of the car and approached an old caravan covered in dust, as if it had been abandoned for twenty years. The chauffeur opened the trunk and handed us two small bottles—twenty-five centiliters each. Then he walked back to the car without saying anything. The sand beneath my feet was warm, and the place felt strangely alive, even though it was completely empty.
Hans told me that this caravan had been his since he was sixteen, that it was dear to him, and that he never repaired it because he wanted it to stay exactly as it was from the first day he found it. Inside, there was a small table and two iron chairs—uncomfortable chairs you couldn’t sit on for more than an hour. The walls were rusted and dented, and the sun’s heat turned the inside into a small furnace. Even though the temperature was unbearable, he insisted we sit.
He handed me two long cigarettes and lit one for himself. He said the only way to understand a person’s soul was through honest conversation. He didn’t want lies or polite answers—he wanted the truth. He said his daughter believed I had a strong personality, that I wasn’t like most people who let life break them. He wanted to know the real version of me.
We smoked, and the conversation began naturally. I told him my entire life story. For more than an hour, we talked about everything—choices, mistakes, identity, fears. The heat inside the caravan reached levels that made it hard to breathe. Hans began sweating heavily, wiping his face repeatedly. He looked exhausted but remained focused. I knew he would eventually ask me something unexpected.
Then, suddenly, he looked at me and asked the question:
“Imagine yourself in Austria in 1989, in an African village, where a woman has just given birth to a baby boy two days ago. You stand before the child. You must choose between two options: either you end his life now and save fifty million people in the future, or you walk away and let him live—knowing that his destiny will cause unimaginable destruction. What would you choose?”
I paused. The logical answer, of course, would be to take the child’s life to save millions. But in my belief system, life isn’t something you erase because of destiny. If fifty million people were meant to die, history would have provided another person, another leader, another event. Perhaps Mussolini would have done it. Or Stalin. Or someone else entirely. Destiny always finds a shape.
So I told him:
“I would turn my back and let the child live. Even if his future is dark, destiny is bigger than us.”
Hans didn’t like my answer. He expected a pragmatic, action-based response. But I couldn’t lie. In my world, in my values, no one has the right to decide who deserves to live.
We continued speaking for four hours, discussing deep existential questions. As time passed, I felt him losing his composure. Eventually, he grabbed his bottle, opened it, and drank the entire thing. Then he shook my hand and said, “It’s finished.”
When they stepped outside, the chauffeur tapped my shoulder and said, “Psychological test finished.” He saw my bottle untouched and asked why I hadn’t drunk it. I told him I had shared everything about my life while Hans had shared nothing about his. He laughed and said, “Then it’s your turn. Drink your bottle.”
I opened it and took a long sip. Immediately, a wave of dizziness hit me. We got into the car and headed straight back to the villa.
The Second Morning: The Letter, the Call, and the Box
After greeting her, I reached for the bottle on the table, the same one I had ignored earlier. As I picked it up, the driver approached, tapped me on the shoulder, and said with a smirk, “You psychologists are all the same—lazy. Drink the bottle you left. Don’t leave things unfinished.”
I unscrewed the cap slowly, pretending I would drink it, then quietly buried it under the sand when he wasn’t looking. He immediately asked, “Why didn’t you drink? Why? What’s the problem?”
I told him, “Today, I’ll tell you everything. I’ll start from the very beginning.”
Hans overheard our conversation and laughed softly.
“Let me show you something,” he said. “I’ll drink it instead.”
He opened the bottle, took a long sip, then reached toward the Tonnebella, giving it a light push as if to distract us from how strange the morning already felt.
At exactly seven, our second breakfast was served. First breakfast had been in Meijica, and now the second one was set on a large wooden table in the villa’s garden. The Wagners were already there—Hans’s family—along with his wife. On the table were several newspapers, all centered around one major story published at 11 AM:
A Belgian billionaire, 55 years old, found dead in his villa. No signs of conflict, no enemies, nothing suspicious on the surface. He was deeply loved for his charity work. He had built his fortune in the pharmaceutical industry, owning patents for several well-known medicines.
And when he became a billionaire, he dedicated his life to providing free medication to poor countries in Africa. Before taking his own life, he left a letter addressed to his wife, Elisabeth.
It read:
“Thirty-five years of marriage were the greatest achievement of my life.
I destroyed the fortune I built, and along with it the lives of millions of people in Africa.
One mistake I made at twenty has caught up with me.
Now it’s time to pay with my life.
Whatever you hear about me or see in the news after my death, please don’t let it stain the love and respect we had.
Forgive me for everything, especially this cowardly decision.
But it was the only way to avoid being responsible for the death of countless innocent people.”
The letter was signed:
Antoine Vandebroek.
We continued breakfast with the Wagner family for almost an hour.
Then Hans joined me alone for our personal meal. And just as our plates arrived, his phone rang. The call was from Hungary.
I immediately sensed from his expression that it was connected to the story in the newspaper.
But the second I realized the caller was American—the one they called “The Voice”—I understood even more.
Hans didn’t like the call at all. The man was shouting so loudly I could hear every word from across the table. Whenever Hans tried to speak, the caller would cut him off, humiliating him, blaming him for some failed “mission,” telling him that his decisions had caused serious consequences.
Within a minute, it became obvious the call was directly related to Antoine’s death.
Hans ended the call, placed the phone on the table, and his face looked like someone who had just lost a battle he spent years fighting.
He looked down, pale, disappointed, embarrassed.
It reminded me of a child being scolded, unable to defend himself.
Then he looked at me and forced a smile.
“Why are you staring at me? You should be eating,” he said.
I answered, “The weather doesn’t feel like breakfast weather today.”
His reaction changed.
I could tell that the newspaper article and the phone call were connected. Both pointed to something far bigger than what was written publicly.
Finally, he said, “Listen… what you read, and what you heard on the phone—none of it is new to us. Our agency is called The Consit, under the branch MZ-Mariden. We work with the American IIS division. The man who died yesterday wasn’t just a billionaire—he was part of something larger. He was supposed to test a new pharmaceutical formula eleven years ago. Instead, he shipped more than 200,000 doses to poor African countries. The medication had no proper trials, no safety guarantees.”
He paused, then continued:
“Antoine worked for 20 years in the industry. He should have known better. He ignored protocols. And then, when we asked him to fix the damage, he refused. Do you know what it means when someone ignores the suffering of 200,000 people? Or the consequences this could have on politics, economies, entire regions? We tried to deal with him respectfully, but he wouldn’t cooperate. He left us no choice.”
Hans’s tone suddenly shifted.
He told me that Antoine wasn’t the first, nor would he be the last. Their agency knew secrets about people that the world never imagined. People with power, connections, wealth—many of them had hidden sins the agency had tracked for years.
To explain further, he brought a small metal box and placed it on the table.
“This is what we do,” he said.
“Before someone is buried, this box is placed in the Caraval—the ritual room we use. Those who pass the assessment survive. Those who don’t… stay buried there. You survived. That’s why you’re here.”
He opened the box slowly.
Inside were three items:
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A Rolex Submariner, exactly like the model I had always dreamed of.
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A bank card, golden, belonging to a man named Jean.
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A Mercedes key fob, with a small photo of the car attached.
At first, I didn’t recognize the car. But later, when I checked the name on the insurance papers and registration, I realized everything—
Everything was in my name.
A car.
A bank card.
A watch worth thousands.
All under my identity… given within 48 hours of my arrival.
How?
Why?
And for what purpose?
Hans told me:
“You’ll understand soon. But first, we’re going out. I want you to meet someone. She’s arriving today—Louise. You know her from Discord. But the Louise you’ll meet today isn’t the one you think you know.”
Before leaving, Louise asked us to stop at a service station.
She opened her bag, pulled out a small paper, and handed it to me.
It was a registration number:
1061.
And when she looked at me, her eyes were filled with something I never expected—
Fear?
Excitement?
Or something much deeper?
I still didn’t know.
But I was about to.
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