It was late afternoon, and the sky over London seemed heavy with lead. Clouds dragged slowly above the buildings, reflecting metallic and diffused tones, as if heralding an omen. The cold autumn wind swept through Saint Garvin's Park, lifting dry leaves that spiraled across the damp ground. On one of the cast-iron benches, a young man with an athletic build read attentively from a worn-out book.
The title engraved in fading golden letters read:The Tempest, by William Shakespeare.
The young man was Saul Nolland, in his early thirties, tall, pale, with angular features and an unfathomable gaze. His thin, slightly upturned nose balanced a face of classical traits, high cheekbones, and a firm chin that suggested both determination and melancholy. His blond hair, somewhat carelessly styled, fell across his forehead, while the back remained neatly trimmed, revealing small, symmetrical ears.
Bent over the book, Saul read slowly, absorbed in Prospero's lines.
The park was nearly empty. Only the distant sound of a chestnut vendor and the occasional bark of a dog broke the silence. He hadn't even noticed Justine's delay—his girlfriend. Time seemed suspended, as if the entire universe were waiting for the revelation of a secret.
Sometimes, death comes without warning...
No. Saul knew death was a merciless visitor and rarely arrived when desired. When summoned, it delayed. When unexpected, it appeared suddenly, with the coldness of an executioner.
Startled, he raised his head, his heart racing.
— Who spoke to me? — he murmured, biting his lower lip, thinner than the upper one.
He looked around, but there was no living soul nearby—only the wind shaking the branches and the distant toll of a bell from the cathedral. He checked his watch. Half an hour late.
He picked up his phone, dialed Justine's number, but after a few rings it went to voicemail. He slipped the device back into his overcoat pocket and took a deep breath. He had a secret to tell—one capable of destroying whatever future they still had left.
If she loves me, she'll accept it.She has to accept it...
Suddenly, a thunderous crack split the sky. The clouds tore apart like veils. A red flash illuminated the landscape. Saul looked up—and his heart froze. A colossal dragon with incandescent red scales emerged from within the storm. Seven heads, ten horns, a serpentine tail. It was an impossible vision.
He thought about running, but remained frozen, hypnotized. Its flaming mouths exhaled bursts of fire that turned into spheres dancing in the air. The dragon roared, a sound that seemed to shake the very foundations of the city.
Then it hurled the fire spheres to the ground, and a series of explosions shook the park. Saul was thrown backward and felt a shard pierce his right leg, just above the knee. He fell, screaming as warm blood poured down.
And through the mist, a shadowy figure approached.
— Who's there? — he shouted.
— My name is Samyaza...
— What do you want?
— Everything, Saul... I always want everything.
The last thing he saw was the scarlet glow in the creature's eyes before darkness swallowed him whole.
Saul woke up sweating, gasping, his body trembling. The clock read four in the morning. He was in his bedroom, alive—but his heart still pounding violently in his chest.
He sat up, grabbed the notepad from the bedside table, and wrote quickly, his hand shaking:
Samyaza.
Since Justine's tragic death, the nightmare had repeated itself, always with slight variations—the park bench, the excerpt of the play, the color of the sky—but now there was something new: a name. A name that seemed to echo from the deepest corners of his soul.
He stood up, turned on the living room light, and pressed the shuffle button on the sound system. A soft melody began to play. He lit the old pipe inherited from his grandfather—the one he used to think—and filled it with a secret blend of cannabis. The smoke filled the air with a sweet aroma.
Between puffs, he thought of Justine. Fifteen years since the accident that had taken her from him. Fifteen years since his heart had been torn out. No woman had ever touched him the same way. No love had survived. The framed photograph on the shelf, with her smile, was the last link between past and present.
At times, he wished he had died with her—but there was a reason he was still alive. And perhaps the nightmares were the path to discovering it. Something—or someone—was calling him from the other side, and Saul Nolland, the reporter who never ran from the truth, was determined to find the answer.
Unable to sleep, he put on his robe and went to his office. On the computer screen, the title of his new article blinked:
"Jessyca Volpi, the new goddess of the catwalks..."
— She's the new star of showbiz — editor Mick had said hours earlier. — I want everything: when she lost her virginity, how many boyfriends she's had, who she's dating... and if it's the prince, even better.
Saul scoffed.
— From ritualistic murders to the world of celebrities... nice promotion, Mick.
He opened a folder filled with clippings and interviews about the Brazilian top model.
As he read, a radio news report echoed in the background:
"Scotland Yard has yet to find the killer of the three women brutally murdered this month..."
Coincidence or not, Saul felt a chill.
Two years earlier, he had been a star of investigative journalism. Awards, headlines, respect. Until he went too far. He published a series of reports linking ritualistic murders to influential members of the British elite—including friends of his father.
The next day, a maniac confessed to the crimes, and the case was closed.
Saul became a national laughingstock. His reputation was destroyed, his father disowned him, and his colleagues treated him like a leper.
A journalist without credibility is a walking corpse, he thought bitterly.
With no options, he accepted an offer from The Sunny, London's most sensationalist tabloid.
— You're perfect for us — the editor had said. — You have a name, controversy, and no ethics. People like that sell newspapers.
It was rock bottom—but Saul still believed in conspiracy. The so-called maniac was just a smokescreen. The real culprit—the name not on the list—was Ipsissimus, the man in the shadows.
Now, two years later, something was resurfacing. Three new victims, all mutilated in the same way. The nightmare was beginning again, and the name Samyaza seemed to be coming to life.
Amid this turmoil, he came across, by chance, a recent interview with Jessyca Volpi in Vogue.
Reading her answers, he thought sarcastically:
Virginity at fourteen?A ménage with two men?Marijuana, cocaine?Perfect.
But then, one sentence changed everything.
"My last memory of my father is terrifying. I woke up in the middle of the night from a nightmare and saw him with his hands covered in blood. A dead animal on the table. The next morning, he was dead—stabbed. The police never found the killer."
Saul froze, his blood running cold.
He slowly closed the laptop and lit another pipe.
— Sacrifice... blood... death...
Saul smiled, and for the first time in years, felt the same thrill he used to feel when he was about to uncover something big. The model's story would no longer be just about sex and fame—it would be about black magic, sacrifices, and a past that insisted on rising from the ashes.
And perhaps, the key to his nightmares lay within her.