— AFTER PROVIDING ALL THE SUPPORT he could, Greg was led by Far through the silent marble corridors of the New Scotland Yard building. The sound of their footsteps echoed almost solemnly, as if each step marked the end of a long day and the beginning of something far greater — and infinitely more dangerous.
— I appreciate the support you gave us today, Greg — she said in a low but firm voice as the elevator glided to the top floor. — It shows just how valuable it is to have you on our side.
— It was nothing, Miss Far. It's always a pleasure to help when the truth is at stake — he replied with a tired half-smile, his distant gaze still caught in the memory of what he had just witnessed.
— As for your mission, I hope we can be of assistance. The Yard doesn't usually open its doors like this… — she added, watching him with a mix of curiosity and respect.
Greg nodded.
— I don't fully understand the reason for all this yet… but I'll need your help with something.
He pulled a small notebook from the inner pocket of his jacket, scribbled a few words quickly, and handed it to Far. She read the note and raised an eyebrow, intrigued.
— That's it? — she asked, trying to mask her surprise.
— For now, yes — he replied, slipping the pen away. — It's the most discreet way I've found to act without drawing attention.
— Leave it to me — said Far, folding the paper and hiding it inside her coat lining. — By tomorrow morning, you'll have access to everything he does.
Greg watched her for a moment, weighing the trust he had just placed in her.
— Thank you, Junnie.
She simply nodded and smiled before disappearing down the corridor.
As he entered his room, Greg felt a slight sense of relief. The apartment was luxurious, spacious, and silent, with panoramic windows overlooking the Thames and the golden glow of Parliament in the distance. His suitcase rested untouched on the bed, as if no one had ever laid a hand on it. For a few hours, he felt something rare — a sense of safety, which for him was almost a miracle.
SHORTLY AFTER HIS SHOWER, Greg sat on the leather sofa, a towel draped over his shoulders, and called his wife.
— Everything's fine, love. It's been a long day, but it's under control. — Her voice, from across the Atlantic, felt like a balm. — I know you worry, but this time it's different. Trust me.
"… Just promise me you'll get some sleep…" — she replied. — "… And, Greg… be careful who you trust…"
He smiled, even through the exhaustion.
— That's the first rule of my profession.
He hung up and, as usual, turned on the television. He liked watching the news before bed — not just out of habit, but for the illusion of control, as if understanding the world's events might help him anticipate chaos.
But that night, chaos came to him.
Without warning, the screen began to flicker. First, faint static noise. Then, a rapid sequence of channel changes. BBC. CNN. Al Jazeera. Fox. Back to BBC. The remote wouldn't respond, and Greg, puzzled, stood up. He tried turning the TV off, but even the physical button seemed dead. Then, suddenly, everything stopped. The image froze on a dark screen.
For a moment, he thought it was just a malfunction — until a figure appeared. A man wearing a brown robe, his hood covering half his face. He looked like a monk straight out of a medieval manuscript, with impossibly blue eyes and a voice that seemed to echo from centuries past.
"… We are pleased that you are here, Mr. Evans…" — said the monk, in an archaic, rhythmic accent that sounded both Latin and Gothic. — "… You have answered the call…"
Greg frowned.
— I'm sorry, I… there must be some mistake.
"… There is no mistake when destiny speaks…" — the voice continued, deep and hypnotic. — "… You will witness many strange things. This is natural. Humans rarely endure spiritual experiences without doubt…"
Greg took a step back.
— I don't understand what this is. Who's there?
The monk smiled, and for an instant, his face seemed to shift — aging, then becoming young again, as though time itself passed through him.
"… This is faith, Mr. Evans…" — he said slowly. — "… You do not need to understand in order to live…"
And just as suddenly as it began, it ended. The image returned to the BBC news, where the presenter casually spoke about the London weather.
Greg stood motionless, the remote still in his hand, his heart racing. The silence felt almost tangible.
— What the hell is going on here? — he muttered to himself, sitting on the edge of the bed. — First the White House recruits me for an overseas mission… and now medieval monks on my television?
For a brief moment, the reflection on the screen showed his own face — and behind him, something moved.
When he turned around, there was nothing. Only the distant sound of Big Ben striking midnight, and Greg knew — with that cold instinct only men marked by danger possess — that this night was only the beginning.