Paris, France.
In the northeastern part of the city, nestled in the immigrant-heavy 19th arrondissement, Kazan Vandi couldn't believe how smoothly his family had managed to settle in after arriving in France just over a month ago. From his conversations with his older brother, Odo Vandi—who had immigrated illegally years earlier—Kazan learned that Odo's family had spent their first few years hiding from authorities, barely scraping by, and had even lost a child due to poor living conditions.
By comparison, Kazan felt extraordinarily lucky. Although their journey had cost them every penny they had saved over the years, his family of four quickly found stability upon arriving in France. He had even secured a job as a laborer, moving goods to make ends meet.
What's more, the local contact who had helped them settle down informed them about a new humanitarian aid center near Parc de la Villette. There, they could collect food and other essentials for free. After finishing his work for the day, Kazan hurried over, where he ran into his brother Odo and Odo's 11-year-old son, Mahdi.
Seeing Mahdi filled Kazan with a twinge of envy.
Born in France, Mahdi had automatically acquired citizenship at a time when France still granted birthright citizenship. Because of this, Odo's family had eventually obtained legal residency during an immigration reform. By contrast, Kazan and his wife, along with their two children—including the one still in her womb—had no idea how many years it would take for them to gain similar status.
After exchanging greetings, the three headed to the long line at the aid center, which was still bustling even as the sun dipped below the horizon. While waiting, Odo shared some news.
"Kazan, did I tell you? Our Mahdi is really smart. I've always worried about his schooling, afraid he'd fall into bad habits. But recently, a scholarship fund came to his school, looking for promising kids. They only take the best students. Mahdi's always been top of his class, so his teacher submitted his name."
Kazan felt a mix of pride and envy. "Does that mean Mahdi could go to university someday—for free?"
"Nothing's certain yet," Odo replied, shaking his head. "They said there's still an interview process. But from what I hear, they only want mixed-race kids."
Kazan spat on the ground in disgust. "I knew it! These white folks, they're never really helping us." Turning to Mahdi, he ruffled the boy's hair. "Don't worry, though. You're a citizen. As long as you work hard and get into a university, we'll figure something out."
After about ten minutes of waiting, they finally reached the distribution counter.
The brothers split up to avoid suspicion, each receiving a personal allocation of supplies: bread, a pack of biscuits, a pound of beef—enough for one person for a day. To their surprise, they also received a 100-franc food voucher, though it could only be used on certain items.
Kazan thanked the staff in broken French but inwardly cursed their naivety for handing out supplies so freely.
Just as he was about to leave, he noticed a pile of infant supplies on a nearby shelf. Spotting the stack of formula, he stopped and pointed at it. "That one," he said loudly to the petite, dark-haired woman behind the counter. "I need that. I have a child."
The woman, startled by his booming voice, shrank back slightly but explained politely, "I'm sorry, sir. These are only for women with children who come in person."
Kazan didn't understand her fluent French but grasped the refusal. His temper flared, and he pounded his fists on the counter, the sound echoing loudly. "I need that!" he barked in rudimentary French. "I have children!"
A male volunteer working nearby rushed over upon hearing the commotion. After assessing the situation, he switched to English to explain.
Kazan, who hailed from Somalia—a former British colony where English was widely spoken—understood perfectly. Still, he refused to back down, his anger unabated. "Women shouldn't be out on the streets. I have two kids, and my wife is pregnant. Just give it to me!"
This aggressive behavior was something he had picked up from his brother.
"Don't show weakness to white people," Odo had advised. "The moment they see you're tough, they'll back down."
Standing over six feet tall with a burly frame, Kazan towered over the scrawny volunteers, who instinctively shrank away.
But his intimidation tactics didn't work.
Two security guards stationed nearby—a pair of equally large Black men—stepped in. Without hesitation, they grabbed Kazan and forcibly dragged him away from the counter, shoving him onto the curb.
One of them, holding a baton, leaned in threateningly. "Get lost, you idiot. If you cause trouble here again, I'll break your skull."
Knowing his undocumented status made him vulnerable, Kazan bit back his rage. He had been warned to avoid any situation that might attract the police. Muttering curses under his breath, he picked up his food and voucher and slinked away amid the laughter of those still waiting in line.
His heart burned with resentment—at the white staff, at the Black guards, at everyone.
But he made a mental note: tomorrow, he would send his wife to the aid center with their two-year-old son to collect the infant supplies. If this continued, he thought, they could stockpile formula not just for their current children but for the one on the way. It would save them a fortune, leaving his wages free for other expenses.
Back at the aid center, the distribution continued until 6 PM before winding down for the day.
Peter Lassore, the center's director, oversaw the inventory and dismissed the young volunteers who had helped distribute the goods. Then, he drove to the headquarters of the Aries Humanitarian Aid Foundation, located in the city center.
Peter didn't know if there were also foundations named after other constellations like Leo or Orion, nor did he care. A former employee of UNICEF's European branch, Peter had eagerly accepted the offer to join Aries when it came through. The salary was generous, and the entire team he worked with at UNICEF had been recruited together.
As a staunch leftist and humanitarian, Peter was simply grateful for the opportunity to help others while making a decent living. He didn't question the mysterious source of the foundation's funding.
After all, they were doing good work. Unlike many wealthy philanthropists who sought recognition, this anonymous donor seemed truly altruistic. Though Peter found it odd that their efforts were exclusively focused on immigrants in Paris's 18th through 20th arrondissements, he didn't dwell on it.
Why not help more people?
But that wasn't his concern.
When Peter arrived at the headquarters, he overheard a heated discussion between his colleague Darlene and their boss, Glenn Holt. Curious, he entered the room and listened for a moment before turning to a coworker for context.
Darlene had been lobbying for the foundation to distribute contraceptives, particularly among teenagers, to prevent disease and unwanted pregnancies in impoverished communities. She had submitted the proposal twice, only for it to be rejected both times.
"Darlene, I've told you, I support your proposal," Glenn was saying. "But the board of directors won't approve it, and there's nothing I can do."
"I know, Glenn. I'm not blaming you," Darlene replied. "I just want direct contact with the board so I can plead my case personally."
"That's not possible," Glenn said, shaking his head. "The donors insist on remaining anonymous."
After a brief silence, Darlene spoke again. "We've worked together for years, Glenn. Can you at least tell me—is there something wrong with our funding sources?"
"Absolutely not," Glenn said firmly. "Darlene, you've been in this field for a long time. If anything were amiss, you'd have noticed. Our operations are entirely above board."
"Still, I can't shake the feeling that something isn't right."
"You're overthinking it."
Glenn reassured her as best he could before convening a brief meeting with the rest of the staff to review the day's activities. By the time the meeting ended, it was already late, and the team dispersed for the night.
That evening, Glenn returned home, where his wife, Jamie, was waiting for him in an elegant evening gown. After quickly freshening up, the couple headed to a party in the affluent 16th arrondissement.
The event was hosted by Bernard Viell, the president of another foundation, the Scorpio Educational Equality Foundation. Bernard had previously worked for a UN-affiliated nonprofit and had only recently secured his current position—thanks to Glenn's recommendation.
As a result, the Viell family welcomed Glenn and Jamie with open arms.
After mingling with other guests, Glenn and Bernard found a quiet corner in the living room to catch up.
"How's the project going?" Glenn asked.
"We've selected nine kids so far," Bernard replied, shaking his head. "Three of them are girls. I'm not sure if the board will be satisfied. You know how hard it is to find mixed-race kids who are also smart. I was tempted to cheat—who can tell the difference? They're all Black anyway."
Glenn chuckled but quickly cautioned, "Hey, don't say things like that out loud. You'll get yourself into trouble."
Bernard smirked. "I only say these things around you. You'd never betray me, right?"
"If I were going to
betray you, I wouldn't have gotten you this job," Glenn said, glancing around the room. "Your wife's been wanting to move to the 16th for years. If it weren't for this job, you'd never have been able to afford it."
"True enough. Glenn, I owe you for this. I'll never forget it."
The two men, both in their forties or fifties, shared a moment of reflection. Once, they had been idealists, much like the young staff they now managed. But years of working in international organizations had shown them the complexities and compromises of the nonprofit world.
Their youthful idealism had long since given way to pragmatism.
While they still adhered to certain principles, they also prioritized their own comfort and their families' well-being. For Bernard, this job represented the best of both worlds.
Still, he couldn't help but feel uneasy about the foundation's secrecy. Lowering his voice, he asked, "Glenn, can you tell me who we're really working for? If this is all legitimate, why the secrecy?"
Glenn hesitated, then sighed. "Bernard, my advice is: don't dig too deep."
"So you do know something?"
"Just a guess," Glenn admitted after a pause. Glancing at his curious friend, he finally said, "It might be connected to Simon Westeros."
Bernard's eyes widened in surprise. "Simon Westeros?"
"Keep your voice down!"
Bernard quickly composed himself but remained perplexed. "Why would he hide his involvement? Isn't philanthropy supposed to be public?"
Glenn gave a faint, enigmatic smile. "Let's just focus on doing our jobs. The rest isn't our concern."
Though Glenn had his suspicions about the foundation's true motives, he lacked the full picture. All he knew was that both Aries and Scorpio served purposes far beyond simple charity.
But that wasn't his problem.
As long as he followed the rules, paid his taxes, and avoided misusing foundation funds, he believed he had nothing to fear. Despite his high salary, everything about the foundation's operations seemed legitimate.
If this was money laundering, it was unlike any scheme he'd ever seen.
Later that night, after the party had ended, Bernard retreated to his study. Unable to sleep, he reviewed the files of the nine children selected for the foundation's scholarship program.
When his wife appeared at the door, he glanced at the clock and realized it was past midnight.
"Come to bed," she said, placing her hands on his shoulders. "You can finish this tomorrow."
Smiling, Bernard set the files aside and rose to his feet. "Alright."
But as he prepared to leave, his wife's gaze fell on the stack of documents. "What are those?" she asked.
"Scholarship candidates," he replied. "The board gave me strict criteria. Honestly, I think it's unfair, but my hands are tied."
"Then don't question it," she said lightly. "This job is perfect for us. I don't want you running yourself ragged like before, traveling all the time and barely earning enough to make ends meet. You've missed so much of Tony and Deborah's lives."
"I know. I promise I'll do better," Bernard said, taking her hand. Then he remembered something. "Oh, one of the board members mentioned they might be able to help with university admissions—for Tony and Deborah."
"Really?" she asked, her eyes lighting up.
"Yes, but not here in France. Their connections are in the US, UK, and Australia."
"Did you ask which schools?"
"Not yet. I've only just met them," Bernard said. Seeing her disappointment, he quickly added, "There's a meeting tomorrow. I'll ask then. But you know Tony and Deborah's grades aren't exactly stellar."
She sighed, a mix of frustration and resignation. "At least you remember that much."
"Alright, I'm sorry."
"How about this—invite the board member to dinner this weekend. Let them meet Tony and Deborah."
Bernard hesitated but eventually nodded. "I'll try. They seem very busy, though. Don't get your hopes up."
"As long as Tony and Deborah can get into a good university, I'll be happy. Studying abroad isn't a problem—France doesn't have any truly world-class schools anyway."
"You're setting the bar high," Bernard joked.
"Of course. They're my children."
"..."
Feeling a pang of guilt, Bernard fell silent.
After sending his wife to bed, Bernard returned to his study. Carefully, he packed the files of the nine mixed-race children into a folder, ready to present them at the next day's meeting.
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