Chapter 3: Dream Rewind: Seven Minutes

The hall lights flickered out one by one, but Sophia’s whisper still hung in the air. She had kept her voice low, barely a brush against his ear, as if she were terrified of walls with ears, or perhaps even more afraid of saying it too loudly. Caspar didn’t answer. He just tightened his grip on the Old Credential until his knuckles turned white, his gaze locked on the silhouette of the Parisian night pressing against the floor-to-ceiling window.

Outside was a typical Parisian winter night. Streetlamps stained the rain-slicked streets amber, and in the distance, the Tour Montparnasse was blurred into the mist and rain, looking like an unfinished watercolor painting. Raindrops slid down the windowpane, leaving twisting trails that smeared the city lights into flowing, broken blobs of light.

"The shadow behind you isn't human. Stop staying here."

"Then what did you see, Sophia? Or are you just probing me?"

The night watch bell began to toll from the direction of the old town—slow, steady, like some ancient contract keeping time. The sound cut through the rain, through the stone-paved alleys, and by the time it reached the hall, it had grown heavy and dull, as if bubbling up from the depths of the earth. He counted to thirty-one. That was the visitor card number. It was also the number of times the copper key had flashed in his dreams.

With every toll, his fingertip tapped the edge of the credential, as if confirming something. On the thirty-first chime, the bell’s echo dragged a long tail through the rain before fading into total silence.

The lights went dark completely. The marble floor gleamed with a cold sheen, like a frozen lake. His shadow stretched out long and thin, lying diagonally across the tiles, trembling slightly as he stood up. He rose, moved with light, careful steps, never looking back, and headed down the side corridor toward the stairs.

Faded oil paintings hung on both sides of the side corridor. The gold leaf on the frames had peeled away, leaving only vague outlines in the gloom. The soles of his shoes crunched against the marble, but the sound was mostly absorbed by the carpet, leaving only a faint friction, like a cautious breath.

The motion-sensor lights in the stairwell lit up floor by floor, then turned off behind him, layer by layer. Each time he climbed, a circle of light woke up above his head, but once he crossed the corner, the light behind him quietly vanished, as if someone was erasing his footprints for him. He counted the steps: one, two. The wooden handrail gave a subtle creak under his palm.

On the third floor, he stopped and paused, listening intently. The only sound in the corridor was the distant, rhythmic flow of water in the pipes, monotonous and regular.

He pushed open the door to the third-floor room, locked it behind him, and checked the window latches and ventilation vents. Nothing looked wrong outside the blinds. The sound of rain against the glass became muted, muffled like a thick quilt. He drew the curtains, took off his coat, and when he lay down, his hand remained resting on the Old Credential beside his pillow. The paper of the credential had yellowed with age, the corners worn smooth, and the creases so deep they looked ready to snap.

He ran his fingertips over the creases, as if recognizing a familiar pattern. He closed his eyes, and the copper key flashed again. The scene cut to the hotel bathroom. Steam fogged the mirror, reflecting a hypodermic needle with clear liquid inside, the fluid glinting coldly under the light.

Condensation on the mirror formed tiny droplets, sliding down slowly, distorting the light and shadow of the liquid into warped lines. A hand pressed on his shoulder, pushing him toward the edge of the bathtub. The needle tip pierced the vein, and a chilling cold spread through his bloodstream. That coldness climbed from his wrist, slithering up like a thin snake, burrowing into his heart.

He struggled, but couldn’t move a muscle. He couldn’t even make a sound; his throat felt stuffed tight.

He jerked his eyes open. The bedside clock showed he had just slept for forty minutes. He had only twenty minutes left until the poison in his dream would take effect. He threw off the covers and sat up without turning on the light, grabbed the Old Credential and the visitor card, slipped on his shoes, and pushed the door open. The hinges let out a barely audible click that sounded like thunder in the silence.

He held his breath for a few seconds, confirmed there was no movement, then ducked out of the room. He didn’t take the elevator. He went down the stairs, looped through the fire exits, and slipped out of the lobby’s side door. Outside the side door was a narrow alley, lit by dim streetlamps. Rain dripped from the eaves, striking the puddles with dense, rapid ripples.

At the end of the corridor, the light was dark. A shadowy figure raised a hand to knock. From inside the door gap came a muffled thud, like a heavy weight hitting the floor, or like a hand clamping down on a throat. The sound was short and dull, sharp in the silent corridor, like a punch landing on wet cotton. A hypodermic needle hit the floor; the glass shattered with a crisp crack, like ice breaking on a frozen lake, sharp and jarring in the stillness.

"The person inside is already dead. Don’t get any closer."

"You have the wrong person. I’m just here to get back what’s mine."

The figure in black sensed something wrong, spun around abruptly, and brushed past Caspar, knocking a fragment of a copper badge loose. The piece of metal hit the floor, spun half a circle under the light, and stopped at his feet. As it rotated, a cold glint reflected off the jagged edge, like an eye blinking once.

The figure in black didn’t stop. They pulled their hat down, disappeared down the emergency ladder, their footsteps hurried and erratic, quickly swallowed by the sound of the rain. The rain suddenly intensified at that moment, as if someone had turned on a sky-faucet, washing away every other sound.

Caspar crouched down and picked up the fragment. He ran his thumb over the texture; the bumps and roughness matched the feel of the key in his dream. The surface was cold and coarse, with burrs on the edges, as if it had just broken off some device. He didn’t linger. He returned to his room, locked the door, and shone his phone light on the fragment. The fracture was rough, and a corner of a crest was faintly visible.

The phone light was harsh and white, making the copper fragment look greenish under the glare. The shadows in the engravings looked particularly deep. On the back, a row of small letters and a serial number were carved in neat, official-looking script. The font of the number was a standard serif typeface, the engraving uniform, bearing the marks of a stamp.

His phone vibrated. A message from Sophia: Is the person safe? He replied: Alive. He didn’t mention the fragment. He stared at the screen for a few seconds, the cursor blinking in the input box, and in the end, he sent only that single word. He flipped the fragment over. The outline of the crest became clear. His heart stopped for a beat.

It was an eagle. Its talons gripped a scepter and a key. It was the crest of the EU Parliament Secretariat. The eagle’s wings were spread, the lines sharp. The scepter and key crossed, forming a cold, hard symbol. He gripped the fragment tightly, his thumb rubbing the break repeatedly. He didn’t turn off the light. He didn’t close his eyes. The rain outside grew denser. The night in Paris felt like a net slowly closing in.

The rain hammered the window glass with increasing frequency, like someone beating a drum in the distance.

He stared at the crest, remembering Sophia’s words, “The shadow behind you isn’t human.” He remembered when Hans had pushed the visitor card toward him, that smile that never reached his eyes. Hans’s smile only tugged at his lips; his eyes were cold as two coins. The fragment glowed with a cold copper light under the lamp, like a lost key pointing to a room not yet opened.

He didn’t move. He just gripped the fragment tighter. His knuckles turned white from the pressure. The sharp edge of the fragment dug into his palm, but he seemed to feel no pain. The rain continued all night. He sat on the edge of the bed, his gaze never leaving the fragment, until daylight seeped through the gap in the curtains, dyeing the copper into a dark gold.

Daylight seeped in, turning the copper dark gold. He tucked the fragment into a hidden pocket in his suitcase. He checked out; the front desk raised no red flags. He took the subway back to his hotel. There were remnants of police tape in the corridor. The cleaner’s body had been removed; white chalk lines marked the spot on the floor. He asked the duty manager what had happened last night. The manager said a housekeeping staff member had collapsed in the hallway, and police had sealed the area until six in the morning. He faked concern, asked for the name. The manager shook his head, waiting for police clearance.

He left the hotel, took a roundabout route, and confirmed no one was tailing him. He called Sophia. He said, the fragment came from the EU Parliament Secretariat. A moment of silence. She asked, are you sure? He said, Eagle, scepter, key, stamped number. She said, the cleaner who died in the hotel was Istvan, a Hungarian. He started three months ago. His true identity is unknown. He asked, does Hans know him?

She said, Hans has been in and out of the European Parliament Building in Brussels frequently recently. He was there last week.

He hung up. He took the bus, then a taxi, switching vehicles twice to shake off any tail. He returned to his place, locked the door, and drew the curtains. He placed the fragment on the table. He remembered Hans pushing the card, the smile at the corners of his mouth, the cold in his eyes. He decided to see Hans. He sent a message, meeting at the old dock warehouse. He didn’t mention the fragment. Hans replied instantly: Good. Two in the morning. I’ll bring the key.

Two AM, at the old dock. Half the lights were broken; shipping containers were stacked into walls. Hans stood in the shadows. He walked up to him. Hans spoke: Give me the item, and we’re square. He took out the fragment. Hans reached for it. Caspar didn’t let go. He said, tell me first, who sent you here? Hans was silent. The sound of water in the distance. Hans turned and walked toward the shore. He followed, seeing a boat docking, two men in heavy coats stepping off.

"You didn’t bring a key. You brought a deadly deal."

"The deal has already started. Whoever backs out first, dies first."

They didn’t look at Hans. They looked directly at him. One man pulled out a photo—it was the security footage from the bathroom. The man said, You really worked hard escaping last night. Caspar put the fragment back in his pocket. Hans laughed. This time, the smile reached his eyes.

It rained again. The Parisian night deepened, the net tightening. He gripped the fragment, knowing this scene was just the opening act; the real trap had not yet sprung.

He held the fragment up to the light. The last part of the stamped number—he’d seen it before—in last year’s archives, the prefix for the work ID of the EU Parliament Secretariat’s Third Group. The Third Group handled Eastern European affairs. Istvan, Hungarian, started three months ago. The timeline matched.

He called Sophia. She looked into it for ten minutes: The former assistant of the Third Group, named Erno, resigned two months ago. Hans’s entries into the Parliament Building last month listed the visitor as Erno. The key turned. He hung up, swapped an old lock, and changed his door.

The next morning, he was in Brussels. Outside the European Parliament Building, in a corner of a café, he waited. At 9:40, Erno appeared—short, wearing a gray coat, carrying a briefcase. Caspar followed him into the stairwell. Erno looked back, saw him, and his face went white. Caspar said, That fragment belongs to you, doesn't it? Erno didn’t deny it. He said, I’m just the messenger. Messenger for who?

Erno shook his head. Caspar pulled out the photo—the bathroom surveillance footage. Erno took a step back and collapsed onto the floor. Caspar said, Do you recognize this crest? Erno stared at the fragment, his lips trembling: It’s from the Parliament Secretariat, but it should have been invalidated long ago. What kind of thing? An anti-counterfeit mark. He said, The badge is a fake, but the stamped number is real. It belongs to a dead man.

A dead man. Erno whispered: Istvan. He came to kill you. The one who died in the hallway was his partner. Who’s behind this? Erno looked at him: Hans’s creditor. Hans doesn’t owe money. He owes a life.

The rain started suddenly. Caspar held the fragment; the eagle’s talons of the crest glowed cold in the light. He remembered Hans pushing the card, the smile at the corners of his mouth, the cold in his eyes—now he understood. That smile was the smile of a creditor. He tucked the fragment into his pocket and walked out of the café. Across the street, a black sedan slowly drove past. The window was half-down, revealing a face he had seen before, but had never truly known.

He knew. The real game had only just begun.