It began with the silence.Not the kind Kabri had grown used to—the kind that lingered in prison halls or haunted monasteries. No, this was a different silence. This was the kind of stillness that followed an ending. The kind that swallowed the sound of footsteps, of whispered arguments, of quiet apologies never spoken.It was 3:21 a.m. when Kabri jolted awake.The child had stopped crying an hour ago, lulled into sleep by Evelyn’s soft voice and rhythmic steps across the old floorboards. He had heard her singing, humming a tune he couldn’t place. Something nostalgic. Portuguese? Arabic? Her? Him? He didn’t know anymore.Now, nothing.He lay in bed for a moment, staring at the wooden beams above, letting his instincts speak.Something was wrong.Something final.The Empty RoomHe threw the blanket off and crossed the chalet to Evelyn’s room.The door was open.Wide.Inside, the bed was half-made. The baby was gone. The drawer hung ajar, and the single suitcase she had brought from Lis

The train to Tarifa screeched into the station just after dusk, its brakes coughing against the steel rails like the last breath of an old beast. Kabri stepped off the platform with nothing but a satchel and the dry burn of exhaustion in his bones.The wind from the Atlantic hit him square in the chest. Sharp. Salty. Restless. The sky hung heavy above the town’s old Moorish roofs, and gulls screamed like spirits overhead.He had a name.Not from Evelyn. Not from the cassette. From the boy, Kasim—scrawled on the back of an old bus ticket he passed to Kabri before fleeing into the London night:"Montaña de la Cruz – talk to the caretaker. He knows the whispers."It wasn’t a place on any modern map.But Kabri knew how to find places that didn’t want to be found.The Monastery RuinsThe Montaña de la Cruz was a long-forgotten monastery carved into a cliffside half an hour outside Tarifa. Its roof had collapsed decades ago. Vines crawled through what was once a prayer hall, and seagulls ha

Rain pelted the rooftops of the old French chateau where Kabri had taken refuge.No one knew about this safehouse—except Jamil. And now, that knowledge filled the air like poison.The walls were too quiet. The electricity flickered once every few hours. Evelyn’s scent no longer lingered on the sheets. The baby—not his—was now with an aunt Kabri had never met. And Kabri? Kabri was unraveling.He hadn’t slept in two days.Not because of fear.Because of recognition.The footage of the hooded man who met Evelyn. The mirrored angle in the window. The mannerisms. The tilt of the head. The faint limp on the left side.Only one man ever moved like that.Jamil.Dead and buried—or so Kabri thought.But now…The Chateau’s Hall of SilenceThe hallway was long, lined with mirrors. Antique, warped with time, each reflection a slightly different version of the same man.Kabri stood at the center, caught between his past and his present.The flickering candlelight threw his shadow across the floor,

Rain pounded the Lisbon rooftops as Kabri stepped into the shadows of Rua das Janelas Verdes. The tin box under his arm felt heavier with every stride. It wasn’t just metal and ink anymore—it was history sharpened into a dagger. A mirror he never wanted to face.He had thought Fred was the peak of the mountain. That after Fred’s final confession and death, the rest was rubble and healing.But he’d been wrong.Jamil wasn’t dead.And Evelyn... Evelyn had been part of it.Not a pawn.A queen.Collapse BeginsKabri entered a half-burnt chapel a few blocks from the monastery ruins. The confession booth still stood, blackened by flame but structurally intact. He sat inside, alone, the recorder still in his hand. The old leather of the seat groaned beneath his weight.His heart beat irregularly.His fingers were cold.He pressed play again. The cassette clicked. Evelyn’s voice returned. This time, he didn’t interrupt it with anger."Jamil and I met years before you and I did. Before Fred. B

The plane touched down in Canada under skies the color of ash.Montreal in winter had its own kind of silence—a snow-muffled, ice-bitten hush that made cities feel like ghost towns and people like shadows. Kabri stepped off the private flight with nothing but a shoulder bag, a new passport, and the face of a man who’d aged five years in five days.He didn’t know why he had chosen Montreal, not at first. It had been a hunch, a gut-pull from the embers of that call in the cabin. But when he remembered the note—“We’re waiting”—and traced the watermark on the back of the stationary to a small Quebecois paper company, it snapped into place.Evelyn and Jamil had been here.Maybe still were.And Montreal was loud with secrets.Frozen CluesHe moved like a ghost himself. No phone. No traceable transactions. Just a pocket full of CAD cash and one target: Barreau Station—an underground train platform rarely used by anyone outside of locals, but popular among smugglers and couriers.It was the m