The scorching sun of Zion beat down mercilessly, turning the air into a suffocating haze. There was no escape from its burning rays; even the shadows offered little relief. The white walls of the historic buildings reflected the glare so fiercely that the world seemed blurred. Yet despite the unbearable heat, the city thrummed with life. The streets pulsed with an ancient, uniting energy. Every sense was assaulted at once, plunging one into euphoric confusion. Languages from every corner of the earth blended into a single living idiom. The covered market overflowed with a riot of colours and smells — saffron, cinnamon, cumin, sumac, and countless other spices dusting the air and settling on skin of every shade. And in the distance, the sky dissolved into sand.
None of this cultural richness impressed Anthony Chubice. He hadn't come to Judea for sightseeing. What did impress him, however, was the seamless fusion of religious tradition and modernity. The harmony between the two drew pilgrims and tourists in huge numbers, giving him the perfect cover to disappear into the restless crowd.
Despite occasional clashes between Musulmans and Judeans, Judea remained one of the safest places on earth. Its security apparatus protected all those persecuted by the Scythe Empire. Even if Scythian agents managed to slip through border control, word of their arrival reached the dissidents almost instantly through inside sources. Anthony didn't consider himself a dissident, yet the label had stuck to him. Even the Judeans who granted him refuge used it, making no effort to hide their contempt. No one liked traitors. Deep down, in the recesses of his conscience, Anthony knew he was one — or at least that every Scythe saw him that way. That was why he had been among the first to flee Scythia at the start of the Special Military Operation.
He had served as Prime Minister during the Turbid Times before becoming head of the Scythian Nanotech Corporation. His privatisation of state assets had earned him the lasting hatred of millions. His economic reforms were a catastrophic failure, though he would never admit it. To him, those had been the best years of his life — the most productive, fortunate, and abundant. He refused to accept any responsibility for the recession, the inflation, or the families driven into poverty and despair. I'm not to blame, he repeated to himself like a mantra whenever disturbing stories reached him — families on the streets, fathers turned alcoholics, mothers who took their own lives.
Denial, however, couldn't protect him from the consequences. Anthony had many enemies who wanted him dead. He had survived five assassination attempts yet learned nothing from them. He remained in Scythia, robbing both the people and the state, until the sword of Damocles finally hovered above his head in the form of Vladimir the Lucent.
When Vladimir came to power, he began dismantling the criminal paradise Anthony and his circle had built. Some changes were subtle; others were swift and brutal, most notably the war declared on corrupt businessmen and politicians. Anthony's arrogance was boundless. He believed Vladimir would never dare touch someone as influential as himself. For years, the public shared that impression. They couldn't understand why Vladimir took no action despite overwhelming evidence of his crimes.
They had underestimated Vladimir. He had a greater plan — one that would eventually ensnare every enemy of the Scythe Empire, including Anthony Chubice. When Anthony finally felt the ground burning beneath his feet, he fled.
He went first to the Ottoman Empire, where he was quickly spotted at the airport by Scythian tourists. A short video of him — wearing a black baseball cap and withdrawing cash from an ATM — circulated online. It was the very beginning of the Special Military Operation, just before the great exodus of liberal officials and the public's horrified realisation of how many traitors had infested regional governments, education, and culture.
Knowing the Ottomans couldn't be trusted, Anthony changed his plans. His final destination was Judea. There, no one would extradite him to the Scythes. Moreover, his mother had been Judean, making citizenship relatively easy to obtain.
Scythian journalists refused to let him disappear. They kept unearthing old scandals. To divert attention, Anthony staged a sudden hospital admission. Insiders leaked that he was gravely ill. Days later, it was announced he had Guillain-Barré syndrome, a rare and rapid-onset autoimmune disease. Most people didn't believe the story, but the immediate fuss died down.
He had stashed his stolen fortune in banks across the world, including Judea. It was enough for a lifetime, yet it was never enough for Anthony. He craved more. Finding new sources of income proved difficult; the Judeans granted him refuge but not the freedom to run his shady schemes on a large scale.
Then, without warning, he received an unexpected phone call. Vladko Shut wanted to meet.
At first, he was suspicious. Vladko was a fugitive — a dead man walking. No rational person would associate with that junkie. Even his former colleagues had turned their backs on him. He had sold his country to the Gomorians, authorised biochemical experiments on his own people, and given criminal orders to butcher the Coal Miners. From any moral standpoint, he deserved the gallows.
But in Anthony's world — the world of big money — morality carried no weight. Vladko's only real value was the fortune he had fled with: money received from powerful Western backers. A great deal of money.
Rumour placed him in Gomora. Anthony was surprised he had survived long enough to reach Judea. Though Judean by birth, Vladko was unwelcome in the Promised Land. The community had publicly stated it wouldn't shelter Nazi sympathisers. Apparently, however, they were willing to overlook that detail for the right price.
Anthony assumed the meeting was being kept secret to avoid controversy. After some consideration, he admitted he was interested in what Vladko had to offer. Their collaboration could prove mutually beneficial. Vladko was a fool, but a fool with money that could be invested in Anthony's clandestine ventures. He was lucky Shut had contacted him first. Chubice couldn't pass up the opportunity.
They agreed to meet in the Musulman district — the only safe choice. Anywhere else in Zion would be dangerous for Vladko. Too many Scythian Christians wanted his head, and if the Judeans recognised him, the situation could spiral out of control. The Musulmans, for their part, cared nothing about either man or their crimes.
Anthony knew a small tea room hidden deep in the chaotic covered market. It had few customers — mostly locals or people who had lost their way among the identical stalls. The owner sold no alcohol, making it unattractive to foreign tourists. It was the perfect place for a discreet conversation.
The tea room was open, its roller shutter raised, with rickety tables and chairs set outside. The owner hadn't yet appeared behind the counter. Anthony was surprised to see one early customer already there: a young Musulman man reading a newspaper. He took a seat on the opposite side of the terrace, facing the market passage so he wouldn't miss Vladko's arrival.
He expected Vladko to be late. Men like Shut were unreliable, but for the right amount of money, Anthony was willing to wait.
Vladko appeared ten minutes later, wearing a black hoodie over a baseball cap and dark sunglasses. He was unrecognisable to the casual observer. He moved nervously, constantly glancing over his shoulder. When he sat down, Anthony noticed his skin was pale and clammy. Had he not known Vladko was a drug addict, he might have thought the man was feverish.
"Don't expect me to call you Mister President," Anthony joked.
He no longer cared about politics. Of course, it would have been better for him if the Scythe Empire had lost, but there was no use crying over spilled milk. He couldn't resist mocking the fallen man sitting before him.
"Oh yeah? Well, don't expect me to call you Sir, jerk," Vladko shot back.
Anthony relaxed at the familiar raspy voice and the obvious frustration behind it.
"Who gave you my number? And how did you get past border control? Don't get me wrong, but they really don't like you here," Anthony smirked.
"The same way I lured you out — with money. That's also how I got your number. I heard you have your own security system that warns you whenever Scythes arrive in Zion. I told them I needed to talk to you. Can you order something to drink here?"
"Where are you staying?" Anthony asked, glancing over his shoulder. The owner still hadn't appeared.
"None of your business, Chubby. For now, my money and I are safe. Once we get things running, I'll send you my business card with the official address. Then I'll invite you for mead and gingerbread."
Anthony tried to hide his irritation. People had called him names since the Turbid Times, but "Ginger" was the one he despised most. In Scythia, everyone knew exactly who it referred to. As for Vladko, the man was an abomination — equally useless as a president and as a comedian.
Anthony looked around and noticed the young Musulman customer had left his seat and was walking toward the counter. The owner finally appeared. The two spoke in Fârsi; Anthony couldn't understand them, but the young man's voice was soft and unusually refined for a local. The owner disappeared again, and the customer returned to his table. Anthony felt a small sting in his neck. He rubbed the spot and found a tiny bump. An insect bite, he thought.
Vladko kept talking, but Anthony was no longer listening. His body temperature had risen sharply. He could endure the heat of Zion and had no medical condition that would cause sudden fever. Could the insect bite be responsible? He wasn't allergic. Sharp abdominal cramps seized him. He tried to stand but couldn't rise from his chair. Vladko stopped speaking and removed his sunglasses.
It struck Anthony how good Shut looked, despite years of drug abuse and the "rough night" he had mentioned. He seemed younger, almost altered. Anthony blamed the confusion and hallucinations on sunstroke.
"I think he's ready," Vladko said.
Who's ready? Who are you talking to? Anthony wanted to ask, but his lips wouldn't move. Before he could make sense of what was happening, his eyes closed and the world faded to black.
***
"Can you drive a little faster?!"
"What's wrong? It's like someone's chasing you!"
"Don't tell me you didn't notice how the Judeans were looking at me. They thought I was him!"
"Relax, Stepan. We've crossed the border. We're already in Palashtu. From now on it'll be easier."
"Easy for you to say. You don't look like a psychotic Nazi leader!"
Anthony's vision was blurry. The world spun. He felt movement and realised he was inside a car. Memory slowly returned, bringing with it the horrifying realisation that he had been kidnapped. He was handcuffed and hidden beneath a chequered blanket. He tried to move silently to get a better look at his abductors, but the squeaking leather seat betrayed him.
The man who looked exactly like Vladko Shut — but wasn't him — turned around and stared.
"Oh-oh. Mo, Ginger is awake," he said.
The man called Mo — the same young Musulman from the tea room — didn't react.
"Who are you? Where are you taking me? Who hired you?" Anthony stammered.
Silence.
The driver kept his eyes fixed on the road.
"Answer me! I demand an explanation!" Anthony shouted, his voice stronger now.
"You're not in any position to demand anything, Chubice," Mo replied calmly in Pan-Slavic. "But I can tell you this: who we are is irrelevant. We're taking you back to the Scythe Empire. As for who hired us… I think you'll work that out for yourself."
The horrific truth chilled Anthony to the bone. He had survived five assassination attempts. He had outmanoeuvred competitors, the mob, and law enforcement. But only one man possessed the influence, patience, and persistence to bring him down. How foolish he had been to underestimate him. Vladimir had finally caught him — and he would never let go. He would rot in a Scythian prison for the rest of his miserable life. Despite the heat outside, Anthony felt ice in his veins.
"How much are they paying you? I'll pay double! Both of you! Just let me go!" he pleaded.
Stepan glanced sideways at Mohammed. He had grown used to Mo's mood swings and recognised the grey anger settling over his face. The sound of leather squeaking filled the car as Mohammed gripped the steering wheel tighter.
"My father was fired during the Turbid Times and couldn't find another job because he was a Musulman," Mo said quietly, his eyes burning in the rear-view mirror. "My mother was the only one working, but the money was never enough. She couldn't buy my sister and me the sweets and toys we wanted. Sometimes there was no bread. I often heard her crying at night in the kitchen. I comforted her every time, but she kept crying. Look at me, Chubice."
Anthony met his gaze.
"There is no amount of money in the world that can undo my mother's tears. Don't worry. You will never know what it feels like to lose your job, to survive on almost nothing, to cry at night because you can't give your children something nice. You won't have to look for investments or a place to live. The Empire will provide you with everything you need."
Anthony continued to bargain, raising the sum with every refusal. Mohammed didn't seem to hear him. Stepan occasionally whistled at the ever-increasing offers, but he wasn't in charge.
It slowly dawned on Anthony that while he had robbed and impoverished the country, a whole generation of young people — reckless, slightly cruel, and shaped by the immorality and hardship they had witnessed — had grown up. One of those young people was now driving him back to face justice.
Anthony couldn't bribe a man like Mohammed with money. Mohammed couldn't be bought.
The only thing Mohammed wanted was revenge.