Chapter 2

  "The Man Without a Name"

  At the same moment. Area 51.

  — Corporal... the guest has arrived. — A guest? Very well. Bring him in.

  The door opened. A young dark-haired man entered. He advanced calmly, without the slightest hesitation. He seemed young — early twenties at most, maybe less — but his assured stride gave him the aura of a much older man. He wore a black three-piece suit, perfectly tailored. Not a speck of dust. Not a single wrinkle. He had that air... important. Or: aware of being so.

  The general stood up abruptly. — How the hell did a little punk like you score a meeting in the heart of Area 51? — Who the fuck are you?

  The young man smiled. A calm smile. Almost amused. — I have no name, he replied in English, in a light tone.

  — Get the hell out of here, growled the general. — Now.

  — I've come to talk to you about Project Zero.

  The general froze. — That project doesn't exist. — It's just bullshit rumors.

  — Oh really? — And yet, according to my information... you just gave the order to shut down the program.

  The general exploded. — Don't waste my time! — Get out of my office right now or—

  — Or what?

  The young man's gaze locked onto the corporal's. Silence.

  — I don't know what game you're playing, kid, — but you're starting to piss me off.

  The general grabbed his weapon. It was calm. Too calm. Way too calm for the most secure base in the United States. The corporal felt something ice-cold crawl down his neck. He suddenly remembered the soldier who had escorted this young man here. He wasn't nervous. No. He was terrified.

  The corporal realized too late. — Show me your hands! he shouted, pointing his gun.

  The young man smiled again. He slowly raised his hands. — Come on, corporal... — You're tense.

  — Don't fuck with me! — From my point of view, he replied with a soft laugh, — you're the one playing games. — Enough. — Don't make me shoot you.

  — Oh really? — With what gun?

  The corporal went pale. His hands were empty. His weapon had vanished. — How...

  Snap.

  — Haha. — Well played, corporal. You got me.

  The young man tilted his head slightly. — Now... — Tell me what you know about Project Zero. He took a step forward. — No. — Tell me about subjects #714 and #475. — And their child.

  The smile vanished. — Yes... — I'd like to talk to you about that famous incident.

  The general tried to regain his composure. — What do you have to do with Project Zero...?

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  The young man's gaze went dark. — Everything. — I have absolutely everything to do with it.

  He stepped closer. — So don't fuck with me. — Or I'll handle this interview... much more personally.

  —

  Silence.

  —

  — Corporal! — We're experiencing an intrusion! — What are your orders?

  The corporal didn't respond. He stood alone in the room. Frozen. He had lived a thousand lives. Taken part in classified missions. Stared death in the face more than once. But for the first time... He had been so afraid that he pissed himself.

  No physical wounds. No. He had been broken. Not in his flesh. But in his psyche. No... In his soul.

  The young man walked out of Area 51 with a disconcertingly cheerful mood. As if he'd just gone grocery shopping. The desert sun beat down hard, but he didn't seem to feel it. As he walked, he played with a pen. Tossing it in the air, catching it, over and over. Then, at a precise moment, the pen didn't fall. It stopped. Because at that exact moment, a desperate boy had stopped time for his friend.

  The pen floated there. Suspended in the void. He approached it, examined it from every angle, almost curiously. — Fascinating.

  Thirty seconds later, the pen resumed its natural fall. But he... He was already gone, continuing on his way, whistling—even a desperate child's time stop hadn't halted him.

  A week later, he was sitting on a train. Comfortably settled. A newspaper unfolded in his hands. A slight smile on his lips. Through the window, landscapes rolled by slowly. Too slowly, perhaps.

  The headlines screamed: UNPRECEDENTED PURGE IN THE UNITED STATES ASSEMBLIES DISSOLVED — MASS ARRESTS STATE OF EMERGENCY DECLARED

  He read calmly. The United States announced a massive operation against corruption. Dozens of political figures arrested. Institutions dissolved. A "moral refoundation" proclaimed live on air. The president promised a new government. More just. More transparent. But in the face of national emergency, he explained, he was forced to impose martial law and postpone elections indefinitely. The armed forces were being reinforced. Borders secured. The speech hammered home the country's historic power. Its ability to survive any crisis. The popularity index, which had plummeted days earlier, was surging back up.

  An official investigation was announced into a classified program: "Zero." A program deemed inhumane. A national disgrace. Those responsible would be hunted down. All of them. The blame had already been assigned. An Area 51 corporal. Diagnosed insane. Committed. According to the report, he kept repeating: "The world is lost." "Someone is coming." "We must unite humanity to stop it."

  The young man folded the newspaper. — Do you feel it, ladies and gentlemen? he said softly, almost joyfully. — The world is about to change.

  He looked out the window. — You have no idea how much.

  He took a big bite of his croissant. Perfect butter. Crispy. He chewed slowly, gazing at the horizon. — Well... — It looks like we've arrived.

  A voice echoed through the train: — Welcome to the State of Nevada.

  The young man smiled. A calm smile. Satisfied. Like someone who had just reached the first step of a much larger plan. He checked his watch insistently. A pocket watch. Real gold. Shiny. Flashy. Almost indecent in a place as crowded as a train station. As if he were waiting for something. Or someone. He finally pocketed it and set off again, straight, elegant, assured—as always.

  That's when a light bump made him stop. Something had brushed against him. He felt his pockets. Empty. He spun around sharply and grabbed a slender wrist. — Hey, kid. — What do you think you're doing?

  The child struggled immediately. Then, without thinking, bit his hand. — Hey! — Stop! That hurts!

  He let go. The child bolted. He pursued relentlessly. The kid slipped through impossible gaps, between rusty fences, under rickety stairs. The nameless man stumbled several times. His suit got dirty. His tie loosened. Very quickly, the nice neighborhoods vanished. The chase ended on Stewart Avenue. A poor neighborhood. Forgotten. Hostile.

  Out of breath, the young man in his three-piece suit stopped. He took a deep breath. Then, calmly, he straightened his tie. And advanced. He entered a dilapidated building. The child was there. Back against the wall. Panicked. — Give me your watch, you filthy rich bastard! — My mom needs it more than you!

  The man knelt slowly, at the child's eye level. He was still smiling, despite his shortness of breath. — Oh really? — Where's your mom?

  — Who the hell are you? — Why should I tell you?

  — Maybe I can help you. — I had a sick mother too, you know.

  The child hesitated. Then tears welled up. — For real...? — Where's your mom?

  The man's smile froze. For a moment. Then he fell silent. A clumsy smile, almost embarrassed, stuck on his face. The child pointed to another building. A harsh cough echoed. Raspy. Exhausted. Inside, a woman. Not that old. Early thirties at most. Beautiful once. Battered now. Her body coughed like an old lady's.

  The man knelt. — Léo... — What have you done now, Léo...

  Tears streaming down his cheeks, the boy whispered: — I'm sorry... — I just want you to get better, Mom...

  — Oh, Léo... — It'll be okay...

  She pulled him into her trembling arms. Then looked up at the man. — Sir... please... — Forgive my Léo. — He's just trying to help me... — He's too young to understand.

  — Don't worry, ma'am. — It's nothing.

  He pulled out the watch. — Keep it. — If you want.

  — No... no, it's too much...

  — I insist.

  She realized he wouldn't take no for an answer. It was clear this child wasn't his son. An abandoned kid. Taken in. Their bond was obvious, though. Sincere. Touching. The man bid them farewell, wished them good luck. He extended his hand. The woman did the same. Then he placed his other hand over hers. A simple gesture. Warm. — Ma'am... — Take care of yourself. — And keep taking care of others. — Your kindness touches me deeply.

  He stood and left. Behind him, the woman—who had been dying just minutes earlier— seemed... revitalized.

  He walked a long time. Gazing at the sky. — Even with all the power in the world... he murmured, — I can't stop things like this from happening.

  His gaze clouded. — Even with all the good will in the world... — I can't stop beings like that from existing.

  A group of people encircled him. That day, five people disappeared. No witnesses. No media. No investigation. Just another banal event in that neighborhood.

  A few days later... The woman, now mysteriously recovered, heard a noise near the dumpsters. — Léo? — Is that you?

  She approached. And saw her. A little girl. Emaciated. Silver hair. Azure blue eyes. She was rummaging desperately for food. The woman approached gently. — What are you doing here, little one? — Where are your parents?

  The girl stayed silent. Then shook her head. The woman remembered the young man's words. "Keep taking care of others." She offered her some bread. — Are you hungry? — I suddenly have enough to feed a whole village, she said with a soft laugh.

  The girl hesitated. Then approached. She was too hungry to refuse. — What's your name? the woman asked.

  No answer. The girl shook her head. Then the woman understood. This child... Had no name.