Act VI – Chapter 16: "Something Doesn't Add Up"
We are on September 6, 2028.
The United States is struggling to recover from the coordinated attacks three days ago.
News is still coming in drip by drip.
"In this type of exceptional situation," the journalist explained, "the Secretary of Defense, the sole survivor of the chain of command, should take the head of the country. But he didn't come out unscathed. He is currently hospitalized in Washington. His life is not in danger, and some are already calling it a miracle. We will keep you informed about the evolution of his condition…"
The image switched.
A man in a suit strode quickly down the hospital corridors.
He passed through a first security archway, then a second one. Each time, he showed his badge, let himself be scanned, searched.
"You may enter, sir," a soldier finally said, stepping aside.
The man continued to an isolated wing.
In front of a room, two elite soldiers stood guard, impassive.
Inside, under white light, a man plastered everywhere was lying on the bed. Bandages, splints, burned skin, short breath.
William Campbell.
"Mr. Campbell?" the man in the suit called, approaching the bed.
Campbell's eyelids twitched, then opened. His gaze, still clouded, fixed on him.
"Do you… have suspects?" he asked in a rough voice, without preamble.
The man in the suit swallowed.
"At this stage, no group has claimed the attacks, sir."
Campbell breathed with difficulty through the mask.
"NoName?" he growled.
"They've stayed silent since your intervention in Los Angeles and the disappearance of their leader," the man replied. "They're keeping low profile. And honestly, given their current state, we doubt they have the capacity to coordinate attacks of such magnitude."
A heavy silence settled.
"If you have nothing more… why are you here?" Campbell growled, every word costing him.
"Exactly, Mr. Secretary…" he replied, uncomfortable. "I wouldn't be able to explain it to you with words. It's better to show you."
He pulled out a tablet. One of the soldiers immediately intervened.
"Give it," he said. "All devices go through us."
The soldier took the tablet, connected it to the large screen mounted on the wall across from the bed.
The images played.
The President of the United States, in full outdoor ceremony, surrounded by flags.
An instant later, a titanic explosion swallowed the podium, a blast of fire and debris devastating everything.
Black.
The Secretary of the Treasury, in another city, in the middle of a plaza.
A tornado formed above him, rising from nowhere, sucking in cars, barriers, pieces of buildings. The cameras shook, unable to keep up.
Black.
A meeting room.
Another high official and his entire staff, seated around a table.
Suddenly, without warning, without a word, they stood up almost in unison, took their weapons, or whatever they had at hand… and all killed themselves together.
As if a decision had been made in silence, at the same moment, in all their minds.
Black.
Finally, the ceremony where Campbell himself was present, alongside the President.
Flames burst forth, swallowing the podium, the flags, the bodies.
The President, struck full on, didn't move anymore.
Campbell, himself, was screaming, silhouette on fire, before agents threw themselves on him to try to put out the flames.
The screen froze on an image of chaos.
Campbell stayed motionless, teeth clenched, his breathing whistling. His lips barely moved, in a murmur that no one could catch.
"Weather… Mind… Flames…"
"Sir?" the man in the suit asked. "What did you say?"
Campbell had a slight grimace, a nervous smile that stood out on his face still marked by burns.
"Well…" he replied, as if justifying himself, "it's simply absurd."
He brusquely threw back the sheet.
"Sir, wait!" the man in the suit protested.
Campbell put one foot on the ground. His legs trembled violently. Pain shot up the length of his plastered body, tearing a moan from him. But he planted the second foot, grabbed the bed rail, hauled himself up.
One of the soldiers moved to stop him.
"Sir, you shouldn't move! You can't even stand!"
Campbell clenched his jaws.
"Take me," he said.
"Where? Why?" the man in the suit asked, destabilized.
Campbell's eyes, bloodshot, fixed on him with cold hardness.
"Take me… to reassure America."
In the hallway, two doctors observed the scene from a distance, stunned.
"He's got a hell of a will to live, this Campbell…" one of them whispered.
"Why do you say that?" the other replied.
The first made a gesture toward the digital file on his tablet.
"Because with what he took… he shouldn't even be able to move a finger… it's almost inhuman," he joked briefly.
The images played on loop on the screen.
A body covered with a sheet leaving the complex, pushed on a stretcher, surrounded by soldiers and doctors.
The camera zoomed in.
"Wait… yes, that's definitely him," the journalist was commenting. "Secretary of Defense William Campbell gives a thumbs up, as a sign of recovery. Despite his condition, with this simple gesture he shows that America can count on him…"
The network was already launching the banner:
"A MIRACLE: SECRETARY OF DEFENSE WILLIAM CAMPBELL ALIVE".
A heavy rap bass resonated in Enzo's office.
Sitting at his desk, headset around his neck, he stared at a board covered in notes and arrows. In the center, a post‑it with a name: Gwen.
Around it, annotations scrawled in a hurry:
"Junior recommended for police training. Only 18 years old."
"Unusual age for an assignment by recommendation."
"Kills human traffickers coldly."
"Lives in a luxury hotel."
"Confirmed survivor of the Zero Program."
"Electric power."
"Doesn't seem hostile for now."
"Why join the police when you live in a luxury hotel?"
"Traces of her in the academy registers?"
Enzo tapped the end of his pen against the desk, his gaze going from note to note.
"Something doesn't add up…" he muttered.
His phone vibrated.
He cut the music, answered.
"Alvarez, I'm listening."
"Yes, I'm calling about the analysis of the seams you requested," a voice said on the other end. "You were right, there were indeed traces of blood."
Enzo straightened slightly in his chair.
"Great. Do you have a name?" he asked.
"Yes, but… I need to tell you something quite surprising," the analyst replied.
Enzo grabbed his notebook, uncapped his pen.
"I'm listening."
"The name is recorded in the international files of missing children… thirteen years ago, in Spain."
Enzo frowned.
"Expand on that," he said, opening his notepad.
"Yes. So… it would be quite a surprising story," the analyst continued. "The mother had gone missing a few years earlier, before mysteriously reappearing in 2010. There are psychological documents indicating she suffered from severe post‑traumatic stress disorder before giving birth. When asked where she had been all those years, she answered, trembling, that she was in 'Nowhere City'."
Enzo looked up.
"Nowhere City?" he repeated.
"Yes, funny name, isn't it?" the voice continued. "The documents state she was terrified. She spoke of an artificial city, of government, of people killing each other… and of the 'Stone of God'."
Silence fell.
"Sorry, what did you say?" Enzo asked, voice tenser.
"What? Her delusions?" the analyst asked, a bit lost.
"Did you really say 'Stone of God'?" Enzo insisted.
"Yes. It's written exactly like that in the reports: 'stone of god'. The psychiatrists classified it under the category of mystical delirium, post‑traumatic hallucinations. We found nothing concrete behind it, so the file stayed there."
Enzo felt a shiver run up the back of his neck. He gripped his pen a little harder.
"Continue," he said.
"As I was saying, the mother died. The exact causes are hidden in the file, we don't have access at our level. As for the child, she lived with her father until the age of five. Then she disappeared too. No traces since. She's still listed as a 'missing child'."
Enzo glanced at the post‑it in the center of his board.
"Give me her name," he asked.
"Yes, of course," the analyst replied after a few seconds of typing. "It's…."
September 15, 2028
Leo entered Don Javier's office.
The old boss briefly looked up at him, without smiling, before resuming his scribbling.
"I'm sorry for the delay," Leo said as he closed the door. "With what's happening in the country, the trip required a lot of detours."
"Hm. I see," Don Javier replied, without lifting his head.
Silence stretched for a few seconds.
"Is there a problem?" Leo asked.
The old man stopped writing. His pen stayed suspended above the paper.
"I don't know," he replied calmly. "Don't you have an idea, 'The Hero'?"
Leo clenched his jaw.
"You're right, in view of the disturbing events that have come to hit our businesses, coming from rival bosses, I took the initiative to act…"
Don Javier rubbed his eyes, elbows on the desk.
"You took the initiative, huh…" he repeated.
Then he exploded.
"You took the initiative… You took the FUCKING initiative!"
The papers on the desk flew when he hit it.
"You needed to put seven families of the worldwide mafia against you, huh! Fuck, you're smart, you… you didn't need to go that far! I received a call from Chicago, would you believe…"
"Moretti," Leo whispered.
"His son is literally shitting himself every night since he met you," Don Javier continued. "And I'm not even talking about the father's threats of retaliation. Who knows what that twisted guy is planning. Without mentioning New York, which is radio silent, and believe me… that's never a good sign."
Leo barely shrugged.
"What does it matter? We can reach them from anywhere."
Don Javier slowly shook his head.
"Do you know why I've been at the head of the mafia for almost twenty years, and still talking to you, in front of you, with all my members… cough, cough… despite this cancer eating me away?" he asked.
"…Which one?" Leo asked, intrigued.
"Wisdom and patience, my friend. Coupled with the intelligence to know that there's always someone smarter than me, and that control is as relative as the chances of catching an STD when you fuck a hooker! I should bring you their head to apologize to them."
"Why don't you do it?"
Emilio — Don Javier — stared at him, then let out a long sigh.
"You know what, Leo? I don't give a fuck, OK," he said. "Didn't you think it was strange that your number one fan didn't throw herself at you when you arrived?"
Leo froze.
"What did you do to Gwen?" he asked, voice harder.
"Nothing at all, you idiot," Don Javier replied. "But your little super sister, she paid us a visit. And she put your girlfriend and fifty percent of our staff in the hospital."
Leo's eyes widened.
"She… she's alive!?"
"And more than a bit, yeah," the old man growled. "She's at the point of cutting the desert in half and wrecking our super weapon. Woooooh, let's celebrate that!"
Leo stood there, stunned.
"My sister is alive…" he repeated.
"Yeah," Don Javier confirmed. "And we're well and truly in shit."
Silence fell again for a second, only disturbed by the old boss's slightly wheezing breathing.
"If it's that serious, you… you can just cut off an arm and send it to them as an apology," Leo suggested in a dry voice. "That would be a gesture."
"I won't do that," Don Javier replied without hesitation.
"Why? It's not that important," Leo insisted.
Emilio hit his desk with his fist, this time even harder.
"BECAUSE YOU'RE MY SON, LEO!" he shouted.
Leo froze in place.
"I… What…?"
The old man looked away, annoyed.
"Come on, get out of here," he said, waving his hand. "I've seen enough of you. Your girlfriend is in our hospital. Don't forget it's her birthday today."
"But…"
"Come on, get out…" Don Javier repeated, not giving him time to protest.
Further away, in a renowned hospital, Gwen was sitting on her bed. Her arm was in a cast, a large bandage wrapped around her broken ribs. She stared at the clock, a mixture of impatience and excitement in her eyes.
Someone knocked on the door.
"You have a visitor, ma'am," the nurse announced.
Gwen felt a smile rise to her lips.
Oh, Leo's back!
She rushed toward the room exit, as fast as her injuries allowed. When she reached the waiting room, her smile faded when she saw who was waiting.
"What the hell are you doing here?" she snapped sharply.
Enzo, leaning against the wall, raised an eyebrow.
"What the hell did you do, Harper, to get yourself in such a state when you don't even work?" he asked, sighing.
"What do you want?" Gwen went on, not giving him time to insist.
"So far as I know, it's your birthday," Enzo replied. "I wanted to do things properly."
"How do you know that? Did you dig into my files?" she retorted, suspicious.
"I'm your trainer, of course I saw your file," he said, as if it were obvious.
"Creepy," she muttered, still dry.
"Oh, come on, you're not going to make a scandal," Enzo sighed.
"So, why did you come here exactly? Because right now, I'm actually waiting for someone."
"Let's go talk outside," he proposed.
"What?" Gwen said, before starting to smile. "Are you going to declare your love? It's true you're cute and rather to my taste, but sorry, my heart is already taken."
"Fine, very well, Harper, we'll do it here," Enzo capitulated. "I wanted to talk to you about someone who has the same birth date as you."
"Really? And what am I supposed to care about that?" she replied, annoyed.
Enzo stared at her, more serious.
"I came to talk to you about Alicia Sanchez," he said.
Gwen looked right, then left, as if the name should evoke something in the room.
"Who? That's supposed to mean something to me?" she asked, sincerely lost.
Enzo, disturbed by the total lack of reaction, continued:
"Yes, because…" he checked for an instant the DNA analysis coupled with the hospital blood tests on his phone, confirming he was not mistaken, then continued… "Alicia Sanchez… is you."
To be continued.