"THREE NEW MESSAGES," announced the synthetic female voice of the virtual assistant, echoing through the dense silence of the apartment. Gregory rubbed his eyes, still heavy with sleep and accumulated insomnia. His wristwatch flashed 04:17. The half-open blinds let in a pale strip of light, casting shadows on the wall. He slowly got up, stumbling over the rug, and walked to the dark oak table, where the laptop rested like a modern altar before the chaos.
He sat down, took a deep breath, and clicked on the inbox icon. The newly arrived email expanded across the entire screen, accompanied by a faint metallic beep:
Dear Josephus,
Our mission in London was successful. Tonight, the enemy was defeated. I will give you a full account as soon as I return to Rome.
I ask permission to remain in the city for a few more days, as I intend to establish academic agreements between our English brothers and the Pontifical Athenaeum Regina Apostolorum.
In Christo et Maria,
Fr. Raphaniè Marin S.J.
Gregory frowned, resting his elbow on the table.
— Can I believe you? — he murmured, in a tone somewhere between doubt and contempt.
He clicked on the previous message.
Mr. Mannieri,
The Italian businessman had dinner with the journalist Saul Nolland at Dinner by Heston Blumenthal. At twenty-three twenty-five, he went alone to the Business Center. During the time he remained there, he made a call to Rome and used one of the computers.
We backed up the uploaded files (attachments). At two thirty-two, he returned to the suite.
Sincerely.
Gregory downloaded the attachments. Hundreds of pages in Italian filled the screen within seconds—reports, transcripts, fragments of ecclesiastical documents, and encrypted files. He quickly scanned the first lines, trying to identify patterns, names, or recurring words. Tired, he gave up on reading them directly.
— Easier to throw everything into the translator and see what the demon has to say... — he grumbled.
He opened Google Translate and dragged the files into it. When the words began appearing in English, one stood out, flashing in the middle of the text:
Antichrist.
Gregory leaned back in his chair.
— Antichrist... — he repeated aloud, with a forced British accent. — You wasted hours researching this, Father? If I were you, I'd be more concerned about what's happening right under your nose.
He returned to Raphaniè's message and checked the time it had been sent: 02:40.
— A few minutes after leaving the Business Center... — he deduced, tapping his fingers on the table.
His eyes gleamed with calculating coldness.
— Who are you trying to fool, Raphaniè? — he said, and clicked on the unread message.
HE WAS WATCHING A CARTOON when the doorbell rang. His grandmother screamed from the kitchen, a sound of terror and surprise. Gregory Evans ran to help her and found her collapsed on the floor, her trembling hands covering her eyes.
— What happened, Grandma? — he asked, breathless, while the police officer at the door watched with a somber expression.
— Keep watching your cartoon, sweetheart... — she tried, but her voice broke.
— Mrs. Evans, your husband was found dead — the police officer informed her, in a cold, formal tone. — I'm sorry.
— My God... how did it happen? — she murmured.
— He was beaten to death with a hammer in his workshop. We don't have any further details yet.
The woman fell to her knees, her sobs echoing through the house.
— My darling... — she sobbed.
Gregory, confused, reached out his hand.
— My father... where is he? — he stammered.
A voice answered, deep and calm:
— It depends on how he lived here.
Gregory turned around and the kitchen had disappeared. So had the living room. He was somewhere else now—the sunny backyard of his childhood, where he used to fly kites and ride his bicycle with his grandfather.
— I'm here. — said the same voice.
Greg looked and saw the man sitting on the old wooden bench, reading a yellowed newspaper. Gray hair, a thick mustache, and a serene gaze.
— Grandpa...? — he whispered, hesitantly.
The man looked up and smiled:
— I missed you too.
Gregory ran to him and hugged him tightly.
— What do you want from me? — he asked, emotional.
— I don't want anything. He does.
— Who is He?
— Greg... just think. Everything you've done since that day was a consequence of my death—caused by my own son, and that served to awaken the best man America has ever seen.
Gregory Evans looked away, fighting back tears.
— I wish I could have saved your life.
— You saved my memory, and that's what matters. A man without memory is nothing more than a body without a soul.
— Even so... — Gregory insisted.
— He chose you, son.
— He? Who?
— The Creator.
Gregory stepped back, incredulous.
— God?!
— Himself.
— That God? — he pointed toward the sky.
His grandfather laughed tenderly.
— Be careful what you're about to say.
— He allowed them to take you away from me! — Gregory shouted, in tears.
— God didn't kill me, Greg. We are the ones who choose our paths. The evil that exists in the world is the product of human freedom.
— Why didn't He stop it?
— Because this life is only the antechamber of eternity. Pain is the price of consciousness.
Gregory fell silent.
— Even a good man like me had his sins. — His grandfather sighed. — And you, Greg, are surrounded by corrupt men disguised as righteous ones, but there is still time.
— Time for what, Grandpa?
— To be redeemed. To serve the purpose He gave you.
Gregory stepped closer, his eyes filled with tears.
— What do I need to do?
— Discover the truth. That is why God gave you this gift. Use it before it's too late.
GREGORY WOKE UP IN THE MIDDLE of the darkness. His entire body ached, especially his back—he had fallen asleep on the sofa, fully dressed and armed. The lamp was still flickering with a faint light. The laptop remained open, the screen showing Raphaniè's email frozen in place.
He took a deep breath and ran a hand over his sweaty face, his heart beating rapidly.
— I need to solve this... — he murmured. — Before Hell solves it for me.
He got up, went to the window, and looked at the London sky, still covered in mist. The clock read 03:48.
He knew that from that moment on, nothing would ever be the same—not his faith, not his loyalty, and much less his destiny.
The Antichrist might have been nothing more than a word typed in an email, but for Gregory Evans, that word had just opened the door to the abyss.