In John's palace…
this was not a passing piece of news.
It was a crisis.
In the meeting hall, the screens displayed the same image over and over—Murad… stepping out of his car in front of the nightclub.
Clear. Still. Impossible to interpret any other way.
One of the advisors stood and said seriously,
"This is not just a leak… this is a direct targeting."
A heavy silence followed.
Another added,
"Photographing the crown prince of another kingdom in this manner… and attempting to link him to inappropriate behavior—this could be interpreted as a deliberate attempt to tarnish the image of an ally."
This was not only about Murad.
It was about the kingdom… and the relations between the two realms—especially since the Kingdom of Dawn was among the greatest kingdoms, and much of the world's economy depended on it.
King Nilover stood calmly, but when he spoke, his voice was decisive:
"Whoever published this… was not seeking a headline."
He paused for a second.
"But a crisis."
In the back, John stood.
Silent.
But his gaze was not on the screen…
it was on the image itself.
Murad.
Because of me…
He did not say it out loud.
But it echoed inside him louder than any voice.
At the university…
The looks were not normal.
Nor were the whispers.
"Did you see the news?"
"Prince Murad…"
"He doesn't seem like what we thought…"
Every sentence reached John clearly.
Even if he pretended otherwise.
He passed by a group of students—their voices dropped instantly… but too late.
He had heard.
Everything.
He stopped for a moment.
His hands clenched slightly.
Then he continued walking.
But this time… he was not as steady as he always was.
He sat in the lecture hall.
Opened his book.
But he did not read a single word.
Only one voice echoed inside him—
"Don't wait for me after classes…"
He closed his eyes for a moment.
Then whispered to himself:
"I… am the one who pushed him to this."
In Murad's palace…
He did not go to the university.
The room was quiet.
But his phone… was not.
It rang.
He looked at the screen.
King Roland.
He paused for a second.
Then answered.
"Good morning, Father."
There was no immediate reply.
Then came the voice—calm… but heavy:
"Murad."
Just one word.
But it was enough.
"What happened?"
Murad exhaled slowly:
"Nothing major… I just went out to meet a friend."
Silence.
Then Queen Roxelina's voice this time:
"A friend… in a nightclub?"
There was no clear anger in her tone…
only disappointment.
And that was worse.
Murad did not answer immediately.
Then said:
"I didn't even know the nature of the place."
A longer silence.
Then the King said:
"The issue is no longer where you went…"
He paused.
"…but how it was used."
Murad lowered his gaze.
And in that moment, he understood.
He understood the scale of what had happened.
Not just as a personal mistake…
but as a crisis.
"I… will handle it."
He said it calmly.
But his voice was not entirely steady.
At the same time…
On the news screen—
one name appeared:
Aiden Harrow.
A global singer.
An influential figure.
In a sudden press conference…
he sat before the cameras.
Silence preceded his words.
Then he said clearly:
"The Crown Prince of the Kingdom of Dawn, Prince Murad… is a friend of mine."
He paused.
Then added:
"I met him on his very first day at the university."
The journalists' attention sharpened.
He continued:
"I was the one who invited him to that place… and he did not even know its nature."
A brief silence.
Then, in a firm tone:
"So everything being circulated about him right now is inaccurate."
He paused.
Then concluded:
"He is not what some are trying to portray him as."
Hours did not pass—
before the video spread.
Rapidly.
Across all platforms.
Headlines began to change.
"Aiden Harrow defends Prince Murad"
"Was the case fabricated?"
In Murad's palace…
He watched the video.
In silence.
Until the end.
Then… he picked up his phone.
Called.
"Aiden."
"I was going to do it anyway."
Aiden replied calmly.
A short silence.
Then Murad said:
"Thank you."
A simple word…
but sincere.
He paused for a moment.
Then added, in a softer voice:
"…He didn't call me."
He did not say the name.
But it was clear.
Aiden did not comment.
He simply said:
"Some people… need more time."
Murad did not reply.
He ended the call quietly.
Placed the phone aside.
But this time—
it was not only silence that remained.
But waiting.
At the university…
John was watching the same video.
Standing still.
Every word Aiden said… reached him clearly.
"A friend of mine…"
Time paused for a moment.
An unfamiliar feeling—
not just relief.
But… jealousy. Anger. Resentment.
Why him?
Why wasn't it me who defended him?
Why… didn't I call?
He tightened his grip on his phone.
But he did not dial.
Did not type anything.
He just stood…
between desire—and hesitation.
And this time…
hesitation was harsher than silence.
The evening was unnaturally quiet.
In Murad's palace…
There were no sounds.
Only waiting.
He stood by the window, looking outside without truly seeing anything.
The phone lay on the table behind him… silent.
But he was no longer waiting for it.
Or so he tried to convince himself.
On the other side of the city…
John stood in front of the palace gates.
He did not move immediately.
His hand rested on the door… but he did not knock.
He exhaled slowly.
Then—
he knocked.
A guard opened.
One glance was enough.
"Your Highness."
No introduction was needed.
He was let in immediately.
Inside…
His footsteps were heard.
Not because they were loud…
but because the place was too quiet.
Until—
he stopped.
Murad was there.
Standing.
He did not turn immediately.
But he knew.
"You're late."
Murad said calmly. Without turning.
John froze for a second.
Then said quietly:
"…I needed time."
Murad turned slowly.
Their eyes met.
No warmth.
No escape.
Only… truth.
"Time?"
Murad repeated.
Then gave a faint smile… meaningless.
"Strange… I needed something too."
He paused.
"…and I didn't get it."
Silence.
Heavy.
John stepped forward:
"Murad, I—"
"You didn't call."
Murad cut him off.
Calmly.
Directly.
John stopped.
He did not find a quick answer.
And that… was an answer in itself.
"I saw everything."
Murad continued.
"The newspapers… the video… even Aiden's defense."
He paused for a second.
Then said:
"But the one thing I didn't see…"
He looked at him directly.
"…was you."
Something tightened inside John.
"I was going to—"
"When?"
Murad cut him off.
This time… his voice was not entirely calm.
"After everything was over?
After everyone spoke for you?
After—"
He stopped.
Closed his eyes briefly.
Then continued in a softer… but more dangerous tone:
"After I no longer needed you?"
"That's not true!"
John finally said it.
He stepped forward again.
"I didn't call… because I was trying—"
He stopped.
Because he could not find the word.
"Trying what?"
Murad asked.
Calmly.
"…to understand."
John said with difficulty.
"To understand how I reached this point… how I became—"
"Weak?"
Murad finished it for him.
With deadly calm.
John froze.
For a moment… he no longer knew how to respond.
The word Murad said was not just a completion—
it was a revelation.
As if everything he tried to hide… had been laid bare.
He parted his lips slightly… then closed them again.
He breathed slowly… but his breath would not steady.
Then—he broke.
His shoulders dropped, as if a heavy weight had fallen on him all at once.
He raised his hand to his face, but could not stop the tremor.
"…I don't want to be that."
It came out broken.
Weak… unlike him.
Murad did not move.
He simply… watched him.
John tried to hold himself together, but the words began to spill uncontrollably:
"He doesn't leave me… doesn't even let me think."
His voice rose slightly, then fell again, as if afraid to be heard:
"Everything is calculated… every step… every word…"
He stopped, running a hand through his hair in frustration:
"He says relationships are a weakness… that if I hold onto anyone… I'll lose everything."
He let out a short laugh, filled with pain:
"And the problem… is that I started to believe it."
He went silent for a moment… then lifted his eyes to Murad.
They carried something unseen before.
"I'm not distancing myself because I want to… I'm distancing myself because I have no choice."
This time… he couldn't hold back.
Tears fell.
Silently at first… then no longer.
His breathing faltered, his voice completely shattered:
"He said it clearly… the day will come when I'll be forced to choose."
He paused, swallowing hard:
"And I… don't know if I'll be able to choose you."
The silence that followed… was different.
Heavy… but honest.
Murad remained standing for a few seconds.
He did not interrupt.
Did not comfort him immediately.
He simply… listened.
Then said calmly—yet with a trace of reproach:
"And all of this… you were going to keep to yourself?"
John did not answer.
He just lowered his gaze.
Murad stepped closer.
"You were letting me think the problem was me."
His voice was not loud… but clear.
"That you were bored… or that you didn't want me anymore."
John quickly looked up: "Murad—"
But Murad continued:
"All of this… because you said nothing."
He paused.
For just a second.
Then his tone shifted.
The sharpness faded… replaced by something calmer.
Deeper.
He stepped closer.
"You could have just told me."
Silence.
Then—without warning—
He reached out.
Pulled John into him.
The embrace was not quick.
Nor light.
It was firm… steady… as if anchoring something in place.
John froze for a second within it…
Then broke even more.
His hand gripped Murad's shirt, as if afraid he might disappear.
He buried his face in his shoulder, his breathing still uneven.
Murad said nothing.
He just… held him tighter.
One hand rested on his back, the other on his head, moving slowly… the same motion that always calmed him.
"You're not alone."
He said it at last.
In a low… steady voice.
"Whatever comes… you won't face it alone."
John did not reply.
But… he did not pull away.
And for the first time in days—
the silence between them was not painful.
They slept that night… without many words.
There were no more confessions, no long discussions.
Only quiet closeness… as if each of them was trying to restore what had nearly been lost.
John was the first to surrender to sleep, after a day heavier than he had shown.
His breathing gradually calmed, his hand still holding onto Murad… as if afraid he would disappear.
As for Murad… he stayed awake longer.
His eyes open in the dark, but this time… he was not thinking the same way.
The pain had not vanished…
But he was no longer alone.
At last, he closed his eyes—
and drifted into a sleep less cruel than the night before.
In the morning…
It was not only light that entered the city—
but tension.
In Murad's palace, he woke earlier than usual.
His expression was calm… unnaturally so.
As if something inside him had been decided.
He did not look at his phone this time.
Did not wait for a message.
Did not wait for a call.
He dressed quietly…
Then left.
On the other side…
John was on his way to the university.
His steps were steady…
But inside him—not.
Everything that happened yesterday…
Every word… every glance… every tear—
was still there.
Yet despite that… he went.
Because this time, he could not run.
At the radio station…
The hall was prepared.
Cameras ready.
The broadcast—live.
Murad entered.
With calm steps… steady features.
He sat before the microphone.
For a second—
silence filled the room.
Then he began.
"I would like to thank the station for inviting me."
His voice was clear… composed.
"Not to justify my actions…"
He paused briefly.
"…but to say: I am human, just like you."
The looks behind the glass shifted.
Focus sharpened.
"What distinguishes me… is that I carry responsibility."
"And my responsibilities are great… they do not allow me to justify something as simple as visiting a nightclub."
A short silence.
Then he continued—in a different tone.
More formal.
"And I would also like to clarify my political stance."
Here… the atmosphere changed completely.
"The person who published my photo…"
"I will escalate the matter against him in court."
He paused for a second.
Then added more clearly:
"And if the ruling does not satisfy me… I will take the case to the international court."
The statement did not pass normally.
It was a message.
"Because—as a journalist, you have the right to report."
"But not the right to attack… or defame."
His gaze settled forward for a moment.
"What was said… I consider an insult to a diplomatic figure."
Then he concluded calmly:
"Thank you."
The broadcast ended.
But what began after it…
was far greater.
In John's palace—
the news arrived within minutes.
It was not just a media statement.
It was an escalation.
King Nilover stood before the screen, watching the clip without moving.
It ended.
Silence.
Then he said—low, but firm:
"Begin the investigation."
No explanation was needed.
Everyone understood.
"We want everything."
"Who took the photo… who published it… and who stands behind it."
He paused.
Then added:
"Directly."
Hours did not pass…
before movement began.
The journalist—was identified.
His movements.
His communications.
Then—
he was arrested.
Quietly.
Without immediate announcement.
But the news… leaked.
"The arrest of the journalist involved in Prince Murad's case."
"An official investigation opened into suspected diplomatic targeting."
"Legal escalation between the two kingdoms."
Headlines began to change.
But the tension… increased.
At the university…
John was watching the news.
Standing.
Silent.
Murad's statement…
his tone…
his strength…
all reached him.
But what remained most—
was not the politics.
But that one sentence:
"I am human… just like you."
He lowered his gaze slightly.
And whispered… barely audible:
"…And I'm the reason for all of this."
As for Murad—
after leaving the station…
he did not smile.
Did not feel victorious.
He was simply… calm.
But this time—
it was not the calm of retreat.
But the calm… before something greater.
The session was not ordinary.
From the very first moment—
it was clear that whatever would happen inside the courtroom… would not remain inside it.
On the morning of the trial…
the courthouse surroundings were crowded with journalists.
Cameras.
Microphones.
Questions asked without answers.
"Will the case turn into a diplomatic crisis?"
"Was the journalist acting alone?"
"Is there someone behind him?"
But the doors closed—
and the session began.
Inside the courtroom…
the silence was heavy.
The judge sat in place, his gaze stern.
The prosecutor before him.
The defense team on the other side.
And in the middle—
the journalist.
No longer the confident man who took the photo.
His features tense… his eyes uncertain.
The session began.
"Case number—"
The judge's voice was formal, steady.
"Concerns the publication of an image of the crown prince of a foreign kingdom… in a context that may be interpreted as defamation and offense to a diplomatic figure."
A brief silence.
Then he gestured to the prosecutor.
The prosecutor stood.
"What happened… is not merely journalism."
"But a deliberate exploitation of a public figure's image… with the intent to damage his reputation."
He raised a file.
"The image was taken without permission."
"And published with commentary implying inappropriate behavior."
He paused.
Then added:
"In the context of international relations… this is considered a direct offense."
The judge's gaze shifted toward the defense.
"Your response?"
The lawyer stood.
"My client exercised his natural right as a journalist."
"He did not fabricate the image… nor falsify it."
He stepped forward.
"The image is real."
"The place… is real."
Then added:
"And what was published… falls under freedom of expression."
The atmosphere in the room shifted.
But the prosecutor did not hesitate.
"Freedom of expression… does not mean defamation."
He opened another file.
"The headline published with the image—"
He read it clearly:
'Is the Prince abandoning his studies for alcohol?'
He lifted his gaze.
"This is not reporting."
"This is directing public opinion."
Silence returned.
But this time… heavier.
The judge looked directly at the journalist.
"Do you have anything to say?"
The man hesitated.
Then said:
"I… did not intend to create a crisis."
His voice was unsteady.
"I was only looking for a scoop."
The judge paused for seconds.
Then said slowly:
"Consequences… are not measured by intention alone."
At that moment—
the prosecutor intervened again.
"Your Honor… we have more than that."
Attention shifted toward him.
"The defendant's call records… show communication with an unidentified party… hours before the image was published."
The journalist froze.
"And this party—"
He paused briefly.
"…has not yet been identified."
The courtroom stirred.
This was no longer just a journalist.
But—
a thread.
A thread leading to something bigger.
The judge struck his gavel.
"Order!"
Then said firmly:
"The session will be adjourned for further investigation."
Outside—
the news exploded.
"Major development in Prince Murad's case!"
"Possibility of an entity behind the leak!"
"Expanded investigations reveal new leads!"
Inside the courtroom…
the journalist remained seated.
But this time—
he was not only afraid.
He realized.
He was no longer the one controlling the story.
Elsewhere…
Murad was watching.
In silence.
His eyes fixed on the screen.
But inside—
he was not thinking about the verdict.
Only one question had become clearer now:
Who… wanted all of this?
And why now?