“A coincidence? I don’t think so.”
2019 — a few days after the purge of Project Zero
— How could such a horror have escaped our vigilance?
The President’s voice snapped through the Oval Office.
No one answered immediately.
— Mr. President…
— We didn’t have all the information.
— The program didn’t appear in any complete official registry.
Donald Trump stared at his advisors one by one.
— Children.
— War orphans.
— A ghost program.
— And everything vanishes the moment we start asking questions.
He shook his head, irritated.
— This is a disaster.
— A total disaster.
A heavy silence settled in.
— Should I notify the Secretary of Defense to launch a full investigation? one advisor asked.
Trump raised his hand sharply.
— No.
He straightened in his chair.
— The NoName group has already caused monumental chaos.
— They see themselves as heroes, of course.
— Always the heroes.
— Never thinking about the consequences.
He paused, then added more slowly:
— But…
— They touched something real.
— They exposed flaws.
— Very big flaws.
He clasped his hands.
— And when the cracks are this deep…
— Someone is always inside.
Eyes met.
— I can’t trust anyone, he continued.
— Except myself.
He leaned slightly forward.
— The state of emergency is in effect.
— I retain decision-making authority.
— I want a team.
— Discreet.
— And this time…
— No one else is informed.
— Mr. President…
— If the investigation becomes official, procedures must be followed.
Trump gave a cold smile.
— Very well.
— Make it official.
— Classify it at the highest possible level.
— But understand one thing—
He tapped the desk lightly with his finger.
— This investigation will be under direct presidential command.
— What kind of profiles for the investigators? someone asked.
Trump thought for a second.
— Not the usual agencies.
— They’re too slow.
— Too visible.
— Too… used to obeying.
He raised his eyes.
— Find former agents.
— People “thanked for their service.”
— Free minds.
— People who know how to work in the shadows.
— And above all…
— Don’t pick at random.
He concluded simply:
— I want the best.
A few hours later, Donald Trump appeared before the media.
His tone was confident, almost provocative.
— We have launched an official investigation into the project known as “Zero.”
— The American people deserve answers.
— And believe me…
— We will get them.
The choice was bold.
Almost reckless.
But that was precisely the point.
Trump knew one thing:
if someone was still protecting this program in the shadows…
they would no longer be able to act discreetly.
The case was now public.
And the game had just changed.
After watching the delayed footage, a man clicked his tongue softly in front of his screen.
The announcement had just aired.
Clear. Public. Calculated.
He stood up without haste, adjusted his jacket, and left his office.
In the corridors, heads turned.
— Good morning, sir.
— Good morning, Mr. Secretary.
He merely nodded, without slowing.
Minutes later, he stood before the doors of the Oval Office.
— Is he in? he asked calmly.
— Yes, sir.
— Tell him I wish to speak with him.
Two minutes of waiting.
— The President will see you.
He inhaled slowly, then entered.
The President greeted him with a perfectly controlled smile.
— Well… what brings you here?
— You didn’t inform me, Mr. President.
A brief silence.
— Really? Donald Trump replied, feigning surprise.
— Did I do that?
He tilted his head slightly.
— Does it bother you?
— A state of emergency has been declared.
— Given the urgency of the situation…
— I allowed myself a few liberties. Let’s say… a small indulgence.
— That’s not procedure, the man replied calmly.
— Oh? You seem upset.
— No, Mr. President.
— Anything else?
A beat.
— No, Mr. President.
— Very well.
— I wish you an excellent day.
— You as well, Mr. President.
He left the Oval Office without another word.
In the corridor, his face remained perfectly neutral.
But inside, something had cracked.
This man was not just anyone.
Forty-eight years old.
Former award-winning scientist.
More than fifteen years in service to the United States.
Scottish-born, naturalized American.
Discrete. Methodical. Brilliant.
Through intelligence and networks, he had climbed slowly but surely, becoming Secretary of Defense.
They called him Sir.
Or Mr. Secretary.
Or, among the closest…
William.
Dr. William Campbell.
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A broken husband.
A father willing to sacrifice his own son in the name of his faith in science.
And above all…
The man behind Project Zero.
The one who had erased its traces with surgical precision.
Until today.
He thought.
I can do nothing visible.
But I can do many things… discreetly.
Being Secretary of Defense didn’t just mean leading.
It meant orchestrating.
The DoD.
Private contracts.
Ghost units.
Civilian subcontracted analysts.
Correlation algorithms.
He had resources the President never looked at.
Budget lines buried within other lines.
Audits that never concluded.
Slow, patient operations—almost invisible.
Trump didn’t read details.
He read headlines.
And as long as the headlines spoke of NoName, corruption, global chaos…
he looked elsewhere.
The real problem is this investigation I don’t control.
William almost smiled.
The state of emergency buys me time.
Precious time.
An extended mandate.
A perfect gray zone.
He didn’t need to launch a massive hunt.
That would be a mistake.
No.
He only had to let the data rise.
Atypical biological signatures.
Neurological anomalies.
Impossible events classified as “isolated incidents.”
Incoherent medical reports.
Videos erased too quickly.
They would surface.
They always did.
Fifty initial subjects.
Thirteen escaped.
Thirteen survivors.
I never liked that number.
He admitted it now without hesitation:
nothing had ever been fully under control.
But everything could become predictable again.
Since 2009, no clear manifestation of the original Stone of God—nor of that nameless man.
As if they had left the game.
Or as if…
…they had already sown what they needed to sow.
William stopped by a window overlooking the city.
Thirteen.
Thirteen…
Then the thought, insistent, almost intimate:
What if “she” was one of them?
Silence.
William Campbell adjusted his jacket.
He was not in a hurry.
Patience
had always been his greatest advantage.
And while the world believed Project Zero was dead,
he knew one thing:
It had only just
entered its silent phase.
The next day.
— Mr. President,
— the team you requested is ready.
Trump barely looked up from his file.
— Good.
— Tell me.
— Robert G. Thomson, forty-five.
Former federal tracker.
Specialist in long-term manhunts, off-radar operations.
Early retirement for services rendered.
Trump nodded slowly.
— A real bloodhound.
— Suzuki Masamune, twenty-three.
Former cyber-branch agent.
A genius… a little too curious.
Dismissed after multiple non-protocol intrusions into classified networks.
— She hacked her own bosses, is that it?
— Exactly, sir.
Trump smiled.
— I like her.
— Stéphane Thomas, sixty-five.
Former French intelligence officer.
Specialist in psychological and behavioral profiling.
Renowned historian, obsessive about human and ideological cycles.
Recently retired.
— An intellectual, Trump grunted.
— As long as he can spot a liar.
— Finally…
— you already know her, sir.
The advisor paused.
— Ilona Virtanen.
Finnish inspector.
The one who dismantled the Nordic police corruption scandal.
A sprawling investigation—too wide… too deep.
Dismissed for excessive zeal.
Trump burst out laughing.
— She was inconvenient.
— Yes, sir.
— As requested, they were selected… by roulette.
No apparent links between them.
No one knows their identities.
They operate under your direct command.
Trump stood, adjusted his jacket.
— When will they be ready?
— They’ve already begun the investigation, sir.
Silence.
Then a slow, satisfied smile.
— Perfect.
He turned toward the Oval Office window.
— Let’s see now
— who’s really pulling the strings.
The investigation continued.
2020.
The team was stuck.
Thousands of classified pages.
Contradictory military reports.
Blurry, censored, fragmented videos.
They were drowning in documents supplied by Defense.
— We’re going in circles, Robert snapped, throwing a file onto the table.
— Three thousand pages just to conclude no one understands what’s happening.
— That’s not true, Ilona replied without looking up.
— We understand one thing: this isn’t random.
Unexplained events multiplied.
France, Occitanie:
a massive creature, captured by a thermal forest camera.
Four minutes of footage.
Then… nothing.
— No traces, no bodies, no coherent damage, Stéphane muttered.
— As if it had never existed.
Central Asia:
a childlike silhouette, captured by a military drone.
A battle tank lifted… then set back down.
No explosion.
No impact.
— The frame shakes, Suzuki noted.
— But the thermal signature remains stable.
— That’s impossible.
— Nothing is impossible, Ilona replied.
— Just… beyond our understanding.
Then came the cyber intrusions.
No signature.
No identifiable malware.
No repeatable code.
— This isn’t a virus, Suzuki said, tense.
— It’s… adaptive.
— Like it’s… alive.
Silence fell.
Finally, a name surfaced.
A Scottish count.
Duncan.
— Look at this, Robert said.
— He paid an obscene amount to have his own private physician arrested.
— More interesting, Ilona added,
— the prisoner identified himself under a specific name.
She looked up.
— William Campbell.
— U.S. Secretary of Defense.
A heavy silence.
— A message? Stéphane asked.
— A provocation? Robert suggested.
Ilona chewed her pen nervously.
— A lead?
Scotland — 2021
Count Duncan was returning from a business trip when he received the call.
— Yes, hello?
— Mr. Duncan,
— someone wishes to speak with the unidentified man.
— What?
— Send them away.
— It’s… an official diplomatic request, issued under the authority of the President of the United States, sir.
Silence.
— Excuse me?
A few days later.
In a secret Scottish prison,
ultra-secure,
buried beneath layers of protocol,
Ilona Virtanen faced a man without a name.
No record.
No past.
No administrative existence.
He appeared in no database.
After the interrogation, back in the United States,
Ilona stood alone for a long time before the wall of files.
— All right, let’s recap, she finally said aloud.
The others moved closer.
— A ghost man.
— Obsessed with biblical narratives.
— Talking about the end of the world.
— Breaking into a manor under a false identity…
— And choosing the exact name of the Secretary of Defense.
She turned to Stéphane.
— Your take?
Stéphane shrugged, a nervous smile on his lips.
— I rewatched the interrogation footage.
— Absolute calm.
— No pupil dilation.
— No stress micro-expressions.
He exhaled.
— Either he’s profoundly convinced…
— or we really are on the brink of the apocalypse.
He laughed.
No one answered.
— Suzuki?
— I searched everywhere, she replied.
— Civil databases.
— Military.
— Black programs.
She hesitated.
— I… didn’t exactly follow protocol.
— And? Ilona asked.
— This man doesn’t exist.
— Blood analysis? Ilona pressed.
Robert checked his notes.
— Human.
— Standard DNA.
— No detectable mutations.
He looked up.
— He’s not a Project Zero subject.
Ilona inhaled deeply.
— Good.
She stood.
— Gather all religious texts.
— Bible.
— Quran.
— Torah.
— Ancient mythologies.
— Forgotten legends.
— What? Robert blurted.
— You have a better idea?
Silence.
— We’ve been stuck for two years, she continued.
— And we all agree on one thing:
— these events don’t fit any classical framework.
She locked eyes with them.
— So we expand the framework.
She slammed her fist on the table.
— I want each of you to know what you’re talking about.
— Even if it sounds like bullshit.
— Even if it’s frightening.
A beat.
— Gentlemen, get to work.
— Yes, ma’am, they replied almost in unison.
The investigation had changed nature.
Shortly after Ilona’s visit,
the nameless man escaped the Scottish prison.
No explosion.
No alarm.
No body.
As if he had simply… waited.
Reports spoke of an intact cell,
locked doors,
guards conscious but unable to explain what they had seen—
or rather, what they hadn’t seen.
When Count Duncan learned the news, he didn’t react immediately.
He stood for a long time, gazing at the garden from his window.
Then he made a decision.
He left the estate.
Not out of fear for himself.
But to prevent Zoé from discovering the truth by accident.
He knew what she was capable of.
He also knew she never listened willingly.
The investigation team was immediately informed.
But at that moment, they were in France.
France — 2021
Occitanie
A series of consistent testimonies.
Shepherds.
Hikers.
A civilian surveillance drone.
A massive creature.
Furtive.
Impossible to identify.
The population named it before the State could react:
The Beast of Gévaudan.
— That name always comes back when humanity has no answers, Stéphane murmured.
— Legends always precede panic.
2022 — Las Vegas
A score-settling in a casino.
Sixty injured.
Zero deaths.
— Statistically impossible, Robert said.
— Even for amateurs.
— Or someone didn’t want to kill anyone, Ilona replied.
Suzuki said nothing.
She stared at the screen, frozen on a blurred silhouette with silver hair.
2023 — United States
A digital entity.
Not an AI.
Not a program.
Something reactive.
Then, months later,
a gigantic bridge on the verge of collapse.
The calculations were clear.
It should have given way.
And yet…
— As if an invisible hand held the structure, an engineer whispered on television.
— Just… long enough.
2024 — Worldwide
The event was broadcast live.
Not a leak.
Not a breach.
A live transmission.
The first Project Zero subject filmed after a cataclysmic confrontation.
Networks froze.
Streets fell silent.
The world held its breath.
Trump couldn’t believe his eyes.
William was shaken by the turn of events.
In the briefing room of the investigation cell,
Ilona dropped her pen.
It echoed on the floor.
No one spoke.
Then she slowly raised her head.
— Stéphane…
— what do we have… on the return of Jesus?
Stéphane remained silent for a moment.
Then he spoke, more gravely.
— During his first coming, he came to save, not judge.
— But upon his return…
He stopped.
— It’s the Final Judgment.
— Pure.
— Relentless.
Ilona murmured, almost to herself:
— Given everything we’ve seen over the past years…
— we can no longer deny the obvious.
She inhaled.
— That nameless man…
— might have been right.
— We may be standing at the dawn of the end of the world.
No one argued.
Not a word.
Not a smile.
Not a sigh.
At the same moment,
somewhere beyond the reach of cameras,
the nameless man watched from afar.
A slow smile spread across his face.
— You must understand now…
— the thirteenth… is ____.
He smiled.
The countdown had begun.
