I'll have my men escort you to the border," Idris said as they're walking toward the waiting vehicle.
Mutali didn't answer right away. He stopped and tilted his head toward the sky, studying it for a moment as though he knew unseen eyes were watching from somewhere above.
"Maybe," he replied, his voice cold and flat.
"Maybe… maybe not."
Idris halted mid-step. He followed Mutali's gaze to the sky, then gave a small, weary shake of his head — the gesture of a man long accustomed to dealing with people who flirted with death.
"They're monitoring your every move," Idris said, lowering his voice. The tone had shifted — quieter now, heavier with warning.
Mutali turned to look at him directly, eyes steady.
"The Sultanate," he repeated, a faint, almost mocking smile touching his lips.
"They can't afford to lose me."
A short, heavy silence fell between them.
One of the fighters stepped forward beside the vehicle and carefully attached the flag of Moto wa Mapinduzi to the side. The fabric rustled and snapped against the metal in the dry wind — a quiet but defiant declaration.
"All set!" the fighter shouted.
For a few seconds, even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Mutali looked at Idris one last time.
"Take care, brother."
He didn't wait for a reply.
He opened the door of the vehicle. For a brief moment, the harsh sunlight caught his face as he climbed in, casting sharp shadows across his features — the face of a man who had crossed far too many lines of safety and never looked back.
The door slammed shut with a heavy metallic thud.
The engine roared to life. Idris stood motionless beside his men, watching in silence as the vehicle pulled away, kicking up a trail of dust behind it.
-NETHERLANDS
Inside a lecture hall at a university, the air was thick with tension. Late afternoon light filtered through tall windows onto rows of wooden desks where students sat in focused silence. Notebooks lay open, pens hovered. This was a political science debate session, and the discussion had clearly struck a nerve.
Anarchist student:
"All states rely on violence to exist. Therefore, all states are illegitimate."
Jamal leaned forward slightly, his voice steady but challenging.
"And what do you think will actually happen once anarchism replaces states?"
The anarchist student didn't flinch. He paused, calm and composed, his posture relaxed yet confident—like someone stating a simple truth rather than winning an argument.
Anarchist student:
"What do I think will happen?"
He let the question hang for a moment.
"I think violence will stop being the language of organization. You assume chaos automatically follows the absence of the state… but chaos already exists. The state doesn't eliminate it—it just gives it a uniform, a flag, and a legal monopoly."
A few students murmured. Someone shifted uncomfortably in their seat.
Jamal shook his head, refusing to back down.
"Violence committed by states is a reflection of humanity's weakness in dealing with conflict. But let's be honest—human beings are still perfectly capable of inflicting violence, whether under a state system or in an anarchist one. The form might change, but the nature doesn't."
A heavy silence settled over the room. The tension had shifted from academic to something more personal. A girl in the front row bit her lip. Another student tapped his pen rapidly against his notebook.
The professor, who had been listening quietly from the side, finally checked his watch and raised his hand.
Professor:
"Alright, time's up. Let's leave it there for today."
He scanned the room, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"Strong points from both sides. We'll continue this next week."
The students burst into applause and began rising from their seats. The professor approached Jamal, shook his hand firmly, and so did the student he had debated against.
As Jamal stepped down from the stage, a woman from the audience walked up to meet him — a woman with ash-blonde curls, sharp eyes, and a quiet, effortless beauty. She smiled as she looked at him.
"Lotte," Jamal said, slightly surprised.
"Didn't expect you to start a political war up there," Lotte teased.
Jamal smiled. "It was just a debate."
"You sounded like someone who actually meant every word," Lotte said softly.
Jamal held her gaze, the happiness of seeing her clearly reflected in his eyes.
"I like the concept of anarchism, but you can't defend both," Jamal replied.
Lotte laughed. "So you're saying you like chaos, but only when there's someone strong enough to control it?"
"Hey Lotte, we're just students," Jamal joked. "We're all just pretenders here."
They both laughed.
Lotte then looked at him quietly for a few seconds.
"Why?" Jamal asked, still looking at her.
"You seem finally recovered," Lotte said.
Jamal's face turned cold and serious. "Enough about politics," he said as he started walking down the corridor. Lotte followed him.
"By the way, I already bought a ticket," she said, reaching into her backpack and pulling it out.
Jamal glanced back at her slightly.
Lotte showed him the ticket — a Coldplay concert ticket.
"Nice," Jamal said, smiling back at her. "How much was the ticket?"
- Under the gray, overcast Dutch sky, the
Ethiopian Airlines plane broke through the clouds and descended smoothly toward Amsterdam Airport Schiphol. The wheels touched the runway with a gentle thud, and soon the aircraft taxied to the gate.
When the cabin doors finally opened, a rush of cold, damp Dutch air swept inside. Mutali rose from his seat in silence. He stepped out onto the narrow airstair, his long dark coat swaying in the chill wind. His face remained calm and unreadable, betraying nothing beneath the bleak Netherlands sky. Yet the way his eyes carefully scanned the terminal and tarmac made him look less like a student arriving in Europe and more like a man stepping into uncertain territory.
Outside the arrivals area, a small diplomatic convoy waited. A sleek black Mercedes-Benz S-Class was flanked by two rugged Toyota Land Cruisers. Their tinted windows and official embassy plates stood out sharply amid the busy airport traffic.
Mutali approached the lead vehicle. He leaned toward one of the security officers and spoke in a low, firm voice.
"Tell the men to return to the embassy. I don't need heavy security."
The officer nodded. As Mutali slid into the back of the Mercedes, several vehicles in the convoy slowly pulled away, heading back toward the city.
The driver glanced at him through the rearview mirror.
"Are we going straight to the embassy, sir?" he asked.
Mutali looked up briefly, meeting the driver's eyes in the mirror.
"No," he replied. "Just drive."
He pulled out his phone and began dialing. The driver put the car in gear and merged smoothly into the flow of traffic. Mutali held the phone to his right ear as it rang.
A low tone sounded, then a voice answered.
"Relay point France."
"This is Mutali," he said calmly. "I want the current location of Mr. Van der Meer. Right now, please."
"One moment, sir. We'll call you back."
"Thank you," Mutali replied. He ended the call and slipped the phone back into his coat pocket.
AT THE CONCERT
They moved with the flow of the crowd toward the entrance of the Johan Cruijff ArenA, where metal barriers guided fans into narrow lanes under bright scanning lights.
Lotte walked slightly ahead, adjusting her jacket as the sound of distant music grew louder with every step. Beside her, Jamal stayed quiet, his hands in his pockets, his expression unreadable beneath the glow of the stadium lights.
At the entrance queue, security checked tickets and bags in a steady rhythm—beep after beep, wave after wave of people passing through.
That was when a group of young men stepped out from the side lane.
"Yo… Jamal?"
The voice carried a mix of surprise and amusement.
Jamal slowed down.
He recognized them immediately.
Former schoolmates.
One of them smirked, nudging his friend. "I didn't expect to see you here. Coldplay? Really?"
Another laughed under his breath. "Thought people like you don't do concerts. Or… wait." His eyes flicked toward Jamal's calm expression. "Maybe you're just scouting something else?"
Lotte glanced between them, sensing the shift in tone.
Jamal didn't respond right away. He simply looked at them, as if measuring how much attention they deserved.
One of the boys leaned closer, lowering his voice but not enough to hide the sarcasm.
"Still acting quiet, huh? Or is that just how Zarakhanda boys behave now?"
A brief silence followed.
The crowd behind them kept moving, unaware of the small tension forming at the edge of the entrance line.
Jamal finally exhaled softly.
"I'm just here for the concert," he said evenly.
Lotte grabbed his arm, staring at the young men who were laughing at them.
"Come on, don't mind them!" Lotte said as she walked forward.
- Pluk Amsterdam
Late afternoon sunlight filtered softly through the large glass windows of Café de Jaren, casting a warm glow over the tables while the quiet hum of conversation filled the air.
Mr. van der Meer had just finished his coffee and bread when the waitress approached his table.
"Sir, your bill has already been settled."
The older man frowned slightly. "Who?"
He turned and noticed a man standing near the counter, holding a steaming cup. The stranger walked toward his table — a dark-skinned man in an elegant charcoal coat. He had a refined posture and a calm, composed expression. The kind of presence that quietly drew attention without demanding it.
"I hope you don't mind, Mr. van der Meer," the man said smoothly.
Mr. van der Meer stayed silent for a few seconds, carefully studying the stranger as if trying to recognize him.
"Who are you?" he finally asked.
"I am Mutali, I am from the Dawahir Sultanate embassy," the man replied politely, extending his hand.
Mr. van der Meer hesitated for a brief moment before shaking it.
"May I sit for a moment, sir?" Mutali asked.
"Ah… yes, please. Sit down," Mr. van der Meer said.
Mutali placed the cup of espresso on the table, pulled out a chair, and sat down gracefully.
"I hope I'm not interrupting anything important," Mutali said with a faint smile. "The café looked less crowded from outside. I suppose I chose the right place to escape the noise for a while."
Mr. van der Meer glanced at his wristwatch before looking back at the man in front of him.
"Well… I'm actually in a bit of a hurry," he admitted politely. "So I hope you don't mind me asking directly—what exactly do you want from me, Mr…?"
"Mutali," he replied calmly. "Just Mutali."
A brief silence settled between them, softened only by the distant clatter of cups and the quiet murmur of conversations inside the café.
Somewhere near the counter, a barista laughed with a customer — a strangely ordinary sound against the heaviness slowly building at their table.
"I only came to ask a few questions," Mutali continued. "Nothing that should take much of your time."
He slipped a hand into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and unlocked it. After a few taps, he placed the device on the table and turned the screen toward Van der Meer.
Mr. van der Meer leaned closer, narrowing his eyes as he examined the image carefully. For several seconds, he said nothing.
"That's my daughter," Van der Meer finally said.
"Yes, it is," Mutali replied calmly. "And the young man beside her is her friend."
Van der Meer looked back at him, waiting.
"Your daughter's friend has recently drawn attention due to possible links to Moto wa Mapinduzi."
The light from the phone screen reflected faintly in Mutali's eyes while the photo remained illuminated between them like silent evidence.
"I am not accusing the boy of anything," he continued. "But certain institutions have started monitoring people connected to that circle."
Van der Meer slowly lifted his gaze toward Mutali, who calmly took another sip of his coffee as though the conversation carried no weight at all.
"Then… wha-what should we do?" Van der Meer asked quietly.
Mutali gently placed the cup back onto the table and leaned forward slightly.
"Warn your daughter," he said in a low voice. "Men like Jamal rarely bring peace to the people around them."
His finger tapped lightly against the photo displayed on the phone.
"That man in the picture is the son of Sefu the warlord of Zarakhanda."
Van der Meer's expression stiffened.
A heavy silence followed.
Even the sounds inside the café suddenly felt distant.
"His name is Jamal," Mutali continued. "The next warlord of Zarakhanda."
"our daughter never mentioned about this man" Van der meer said
"Of course not Mr Van der" Mutali said.
-After the talk.
Mr. Van der was calling Lotte as he drove out of the café's parking area. The phone rang several times, but the loud noise of the surrounding crowd swallowed the sound. Lotte didn't hear it.
At the concert, the arena erupted as the members of Coldplay emerged from backstage. The lead singer headed straight for the piano, and after a few seconds, the show began. The rich sound of instruments gradually filled the entire venue.
As thousands of voices sang along in unison, Jamal turned to look at Lotte. Pure joy was written across his face as he watched her, completely lost in the music. She was singing along with the crowd, her eyes reflecting the dazzling lights from the stage. In that moment, nothing else seemed to matter — just the song and the night.
Jamal smiled softly.
For the first time in many weeks, he saw Lotte truly free — no heavy thoughts weighing her down, no responsibilities pressing on her shoulders, and no shadows from her past chasing her.
But just a few meters away, a man in a dark gray jacket subtly raised his phone. He wasn't filming the stage.
Jamal was centered perfectly in his screen.
"subject insight" he whispered, before lowering the device.
On the other side of the crowd, a woman glanced in their direction.
While the entire arena sang at the top of their lungs, Jamal and Lotte remained blissfully unaware that they weren't the only ones watching them that night.
At their home in Harleem. Mr. Van der pulled up in front of his family home. He parked the car in front of the neat, two-story brick house — a typical middle-class Dutch home with flower boxes in the windows, a small front garden, and a tidy bicycle leaning against the wall.
The front door opened.
His wife, Mila, peeked out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel.
"Mila, I have something to tell you," Van der Meer said, his voice low and serious as he stepped into the kitchen.
"What is it?" Mila asked, not looking up. She was still stirring the pot on the stove, the rich aroma of garlic and herbs filling the air.
Van der Meer stopped beside the dining table, gripping the back of a chair. "Your daughter is dating a warlord. Right now."
Mila froze. The wooden spoon slipped from her fingers and clattered against the side of the pot. She turned slowly, her face a mask of disbelief. "What did you just say?" face reaction confused.
"Someone approached me at the café this afternoon," he continued, his tone grim. "They showed me a photo of Lotte with a man they've been monitoring. He has direct links to a terrorist organization in Africa."
Mila stared at him, her hand still hovering near the stove. The cheerful clatter of dinner preparation had vanished, replaced by a heavy, suffocating silence.
"How do you know this person was telling the truth?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Van der Meer met her gaze. "I recognized the man. I saw him on the news a few weeks ago, about the conflict in Zarakhanda."
Mila stared at her husband for a long second, searching his face as if waiting for the punchline of a cruel joke. When none came, she swallowed hard.
"What's his name?" she asked.
Van der Meer pulled out his phone, opened a browser, and typed quickly. He turned the screen toward her. "Mutali Elimon. Envoy of the Dawahir Sultanate."
Mila leaned in, her eyes scanning the article and the sharp, authoritative photo of the man standing beside President Emmanuel. The image left little room for doubt.
"If this is true," she said, her voice trembling with rising panic, "we have to go to the police immediately. We can't take any chances with Lotte's safety."
"No," Van der Meer replied firmly, shaking his head. "This stays between us and the man I spoke with at the café."
Mila took a step back, her eyes widening in shock. "Are you out of your mind?" she hissed. "Our daughter is dating someone tied to terrorists, and you want to keep it quiet? What if she's in danger, Van der? What if he's using her?"
Van der Meer rubbed his face wearily, looking suddenly older and exhausted under the warm kitchen lights.
"You will talk to your daughter, Mila," he said, his voice hardening. "Or I will. The moment she walks through that door."
Mila took a step back, her eyes widening in disbelief.
"Wat are you afraid of?"
"I'm afraid that once the authorities start asking questions, they won't stop with him," he said quietly. "They'll start looking at everyone around him... including us."
"Why would they look at us?"
Van der Meer hesitated.
The pause lasted only a second, but Mila noticed it.
"Van der?"
He lowered his eyes.
"Because investigations don't care about intentions. They dig into histories. Connections. Old records."
-After the concert
As they exited the stadium, they didn't hop on a ride right away. Instead, they walked with the thousands of fans heading home, slowly moving away from the noise of the concert. They strolled side by side in comfortable silence, their LED wristbands from the show still glowing on their wrists.
They stopped by the edge of a canal. The city lights shimmered on the surface of the water, and the final Coldplay song still echoed in their minds.
"The music really hits different when it's live with thousands of people, right?" Lotte said, cracking open a can of soda.
"Yeah," Jamal replied with a smile, holding his own can while looking at her. "It definitely does."
Lotte took a sip. "Next, U2?"
Jamal chuckled after drinking from his can. "You really like alternative rock too much, huh?"
Lotte just smiled.
They fell into a few seconds of peaceful silence, both gazing at the river.
Then Jamal turned to her, looking like he had something important to say. He hesitated, searching for the right moment, and took a deep breath.
"Lotte, I have something to tell you."
She turned to face him with a serious expression. "What is it?"
Jamal looked straight into her eyes before speaking.
"I want you," he said. "I like you… a lot."
Lotte let out a small, surprised laugh and looked away, turning her gaze back to the river. She stayed quiet for several long seconds, which only caused confusion to spread across Jamal's face.
Finally, she spoke.
"Jamal… you know this isn't the right time for us," she said gently. "We have a lot of personal issues to fix first."
She glanced at him.
"Let's just stay as friends, Jamal."
Jamal stood there speechless, staring at her. He was still processing what she had just said.
Jamal looked away toward the dark water of the canal.
"Is it because I'm Black?"
Lotte's eyes widened. She grabbed his arm.
"Hey, don't say that! No!"
"Then what is it?" he asked, turning back to her.
"Because I don't understand."
"Jamal, this has nothing to do with your skin color."
"Then help me understand."
"I never expected you would say this," said Lotte. "I mean, in the first place, you know we're just friends, right?"
Jamal didn't speak, staring into the distance.
"We just have to talk about it tomorrow. Let's go home," said Lotte.
Meanwhile, in the distance, a man in a gray jacket stood motionless, watching them. A wireless earpiece was tucked into his right ear. Every word Jamal and Lotte had spoken echoed clearly through the device.
"Poor kid," a voice on the line muttered.
The man in the jacket let out a quiet, bitter chuckle.
-After parting ways at the river canal, Jamal and Lotte headed home separately. Jamal boarded the late-night train back to his apartment.
Inside the nearly empty train car, only a few drowsy passengers were scattered across the seats. Jamal leaned back heavily, staring at the ceiling as the train rattled through the dark city. Across from him, a young punk couple sat pressed close together, arms wrapped around each other, laughing softly in their own little world.
Jamal glanced at them briefly, a faint pang in his chest, before his mind drifted back to Lotte's words by the canal
"Maybe she was referring to me that I should fix my self first" said Jamal on his mind.
- Back in Harleem.
The house was quiet and dimly lit. Only a warm, pale lamp glowed in the living room. Lotte slipped inside and gently closed the door behind her.
"How was the concert?" a voice suddenly asked from the shadows.
Lotte turned around, startled. Her father, Van der Meer, was sitting on the sofa, watching her.
"It was fun, Dad," she replied with a small smile. She began walking toward her room when his voice stopped her again.
"No No. Come sit here."
Lotte hesitated, then walked over and sat on the sofa to his right.
Van der Meer studied her for a moment.
"How's Jamal?"
Lotte's eyes widened in surprise. "Dad… he's just my schoolmate. A friend. How do you even know about him?"
Her father leaned forward slightly.
"A police officer came by today. They're monitoring him. Apparently, he has connections to a terrorist organization in Africa."
Lotte froze. The words refused to settle in her mind. Jamal? Her quiet, intelligent friend?
"What?" she whispered, staring at her father in disbelief.
"We spent twenty years building a life here," Van der Meer continued, his voice heavy with frustration and fear. "Twenty years proving that we belong. Twenty years making sure the past stayed in the past."
"What does that have to do with Jamal?" Lotte asked.
"Everything," he replied sharply. "You don't understand the situation."
"No, Dad. I think you're overreacting."
"Lotte, listen to me," Van der Meer said, his tone suddenly firm and serious. "Don't put this family at risk by staying close to him."
Lotte stared at him, stunned.
"Risk? Jamal has never hurt anyone, he is just"
"That doesn't matter. The police are already watching him."
"Then let them investigate," she shot back. "If he's innocent, they'll find nothing."
Van der Meer shook his head.
"You don't understand how these things work."
He paused, letting the silence hang between them before continuing.
"The police won't just look at him. They'll investigate everyone around him—his friends… us. We can't afford that."
Lotte's voice trembled slightly. "Then what should I do, Dad?"
"Cut your connection with him."
The words hit her like a slap.
"Stop seeing him outside school. Stop meeting him. Stop calling him," he said coldly. "I'm asking you to protect this family. Never tell him the real reason. Just… cut it off."
Lotte looked away, her gaze drifting toward the dark kitchen. She couldn't believe what she was hearing.
"Don't throw away everything we've built just because of that boy," Van der Meer said quietly, almost pleading.
-The next day.
The campus that morning carried a familiar rhythm—students drifting between classes in loose groups, backpacks slung over shoulders, papers clutched in one hand, coffee cups in the other. Laughter echoed near the benches outside the building, while a few others stood by the corridor walls scrolling through their phones or debating softly about lectures they had just escaped from.
Sunlight filtered through the glass windows of the hallway, cutting across the tiled floor in long bright strips. The air felt warm but restless, like the campus itself was always moving somewhere even when people stood still.
Jamal walked through it all quietly, his bag hanging from his right shoulder. His steps were steady, but his mind wasn't fully in the present. When he lifted his head, he saw Lotte ahead with her female classmates. They were talking animatedly, their conversation light and fast, shoulders occasionally bumping as they walked.
For a brief moment, Lotte's eyes met his.
She gave a small nod—quick, almost neutral—before turning back to her friends as if the moment hadn't lingered at all. Just passing. Just normal. The group moved past him, their voices fading down the hallway.
But Jamal's eyes followed her for a second longer than he intended, like something in him hesitated to let the moment end cleanly.
Then—
"Jamal."
A voice from behind cut through the corridor noise.
He turned.
His professor was walking toward him, not alone. Beside him was a man in a black suit—too formal for the campus atmosphere, too composed for someone just "visiting." His presence didn't blend in; it stood out in a way that made nearby students glance and then quickly look away again.
The professor stopped beside Jamal, gesturing slightly toward the man.
"Someone wants to talk with you about your political views," he said.
A pause.
"This is Mutali, a representative of President Nazir of the Dawahir Sultanate."
Mutali stepped forward smoothly, extending his hand with a calm smile that looked practiced, controlled.
"How are you, brother?" Mutali said warmly, extending his hand.
Jamal hesitated for a fraction of a second before gripping it.
"I'm fine," he replied.
There was weight behind the handshake. Not outright hostility, but a quiet recognition — like two people who had crossed paths before in a world neither wanted to remember too clearly.
"I'll leave you two for a while," the professor said, sensing the tension thickening in the air. Mutali gave a small, polite nod. The professor turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing down the hallway until only the distant chatter of students remained.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Jamal pulled his hand back first.
"I know you" said Jamal"What do you want?" he asked, his voice low and direct.
Mutali didn't answer right away. His smile lingered, but it had tightened at the edges — less friendly now, more calculated.
They began walking slowly down the quiet corridor.
"I'm here just to remind you," Mutali said calmly, "that you're only here because of your father."
Jamal's jaw tightened.
"And what about it?"
Mutali tilted his head slightly, studying him the way someone reviews a file they already know by heart.
"I won't waste time here," he continued. "Your time in this place is up."
The words hung heavy in the air.
Jamal didn't look away. "My father is gone," he said, steady but sharp. "This is my home now."
For the first time, Mutali's expression shifted — not surprise, but a flicker of acknowledgment. He had expected resistance, just not this tone.
"Have you ever thought about being the leader of a nation?" Mutali asked.
Jamal glanced at him.
"We all want that," Jamal replied, "but never in Zarkhanda."
Mutali leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low, intense tone.
"Do you really think that if the people on this campus suddenly found out you're only here because your father wants to shape you into what he desires, they would still accept you as their leader?"
Jamal didn't respond. He kept his gaze fixed on the ground, jaw tight.
"Zarkhanda is on the brink of turning to dust," Mutali continued. "The very people expected to lead are too busy killing each other. But you... you can return with real strength and influence."
Jamal finally looked up at him.
"Tell them I have to finish my studies here if they want me to lead."
"You don't have to. This is urgent," Mutali said firmly. "The Sultanate is willing to fund you and support you—all so you can take your rightful seat at the Capitol."
Jamal's eyes narrowed.
"And if I resist?" he asked. "What are they going to do to me?"
Mutali held his gaze.
"You cannot resist your destiny," he replied, his voice calm but absolute.
He pulled out a plain dark-blue calling card and held it out.
"Call me when you're ready."
Jamal took the card without a word.
"God knows my destiny," he said quietly.
At that moment, a black sedan pulled up beside the curb.
"As you say," Mutali replied.
"You're not god sir" said Jamal while looking at the distance.
"Hey kid " said Mutali. "The plan in zarakhanda is simple, rebuild it, and you as the leader" Then walked toward the vehicle and opened the rear door. Before getting in, he glanced back at Jamal standing alone on the sidewalk and gave a brief salute.
The sedan pulled away from the campus.
Jamal remained where he was, watching as the black car disappeared into the distance, the dark-blue card still resting in his hand.
-Several days passed.
Lotte barely responded to his messages anymore. When she did, her replies were short and distant. He had tried calling her a few times, but the tone of her voice felt different now—as if he were talking to a stranger rather than the friend who had once seemed genuinely interested in him.
"Something's happening," Jamal thought.
Standing in front of the bathroom mirror one morning, a toothbrush hanging from the corner of his mouth, he stared at his reflection while holding his phone in one hand.
Something had changed.
At night, he would lie awake in bed, scrolling through Lotte's social media accounts, searching for answers he couldn't find.
"Maybe it's because of what I told her," he thought, shaking his head slightly.
The possibility lingered in his mind.
A few days later, near the campus, Jamal spotted Lotte sitting at a café with several of her female classmates.
Even though he hadn't planned on getting coffee, he found himself walking inside.
He stepped up to the cashier and pulled out his ATM card. As he was about to pay, he noticed a young man beside him finishing his order. The man picked up his coffee and headed directly toward Lotte's table.
Jamal's eyes followed him.
The guy looked to be around their age. Tall, well-dressed, and effortlessly confident. His blond hair was neatly styled, and even from a distance, there was something about him that drew attention.
Jamal's grip on his card tightened.
To his surprise, the man didn't join the rest of the group.
Instead, he took the empty seat right beside Lotte.
Lotte looked up and smiled the moment she saw him.
The man said something Jamal couldn't hear.
Whatever it was, it made her laugh.
Not a polite laugh.
A genuine one.
The kind that came naturally.
Jamal remained silent as he watched from the counter.
The guy leaned closer and spoke again. Lotte brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear and shook her head with a grin.
A few moments later, the man slid a small pastry across the table toward her.
Lotte accepted it without hesitation.
Jamal stood frozen.
He remembered how, not long ago, he had been the one sitting beside her after class. The one she talked to for hours. The one who made her laugh.
Now someone else occupied that place.
He knew classmates shared tables all the time.
He knew there was probably a simple explanation.
But watching another man sit beside her—the same seat he had always looked for whenever they met—felt like a punch to the chest.
For days, he had convinced himself that Lotte was simply busy.
Standing there, watching her smile at someone else the way she used to smile at him, that excuse was becoming harder to believe.
For the first time, Jamal wondered if he had completely misunderstood everything between them.
And somehow, that thought hurt more than rejection itself.
Jamal stood there for a moment, unmoving, as Lotte's words lingered in his mind.
"Let's just stay as friends."
Jamal backed away, turned his back on the cashier, and walked out of the café.
A few hours later, he found himself inside a small convenience store glowing under harsh white lights.
Without hesitation, he headed straight for the liquor section and pulled several bottles of vodka from the shelf.
The bottles clinked softly against each other as he reached for one.
Then another.
And another.
Afterward, he walked over to the snack aisle and grabbed a few packs of chips before placing everything on the counter.
The cashier silently scanned the items and slipped them into a plastic bag.
Jamal paid, took the bag, and stepped back out into the cold Dutch night.
The wind struck his face the moment he stepped outside.
He walked on at a steady pace, the plastic bag swinging lightly in his grip.
Inside were a few bottles of vodka, but the real weight he carried was far heavier—the words left unspoken, the regrets he could no longer change, and the quiet ache in his chest that no purchase could ever ease.
For the first time in a long while, the city around him felt distant. The passing bicycles, the glowing shop windows, the voices drifting through the streets—none of it seemed real.
All he could think about was Lotte. And the possibility that he had already lost her.
In the distance, a man in a plain dark jacket sat inside a nondescript sedan. A single earphone was in his right ear, while the other dangled against his chest. His eyes remained locked on the walking figure, unblinking.
"Look at that," he muttered, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Our guy's about to get drunk tonight.".
"Good… that's the beginning," Mutali said over the line, his voice calm and measured.