Night had fallen over Dubai like a veil of dark glass, and from the hundred-and-eighth floor of the Burj Khalifa, the city looked like an ocean of liquid light stretching as far as the eye could see. The penthouse's glass walls reflected the flashes of traffic and neon signs, blending them with the warm lights inside, where the party had already begun.
The host—a man in a midnight-blue suit and a smile crafted for cameras—moved through the guests with the confidence of someone who knew every gaze in the room belonged to him. His gold watch caught the light as he shook hands, chatted about business, and released laughs that never reached his eyes. Nearby, a DJ worked over an illuminated console, letting electronic music vibrate through the marble floor like a steady pulse.
Guests kept arriving in clusters: businessmen, models, politicians disguised as philanthropists. All dressed to impress, all eager to be seen, all oblivious to the secret drifting like a silent shadow through the perfumed air.
But of the boy, there was no sign.
Two massive guards stood at the main entrance, dressed in impeccable suits that failed to hide the military rigidity of their bodies. They scrutinized every guest with cold, calculating eyes. No laughter crossed their faces, nor was there any music capable of softening their expressions.
On the second floor—a private mezzanine with restricted access—three more guards patrolled without pause. Their footsteps created a different rhythm from the music: a dry, disciplined beat echoing along the metal railing. No guest attempted to go upstairs. Just one look at the guards' faces was enough to understand that the upper level wasn't part of the celebration.
The host lifted a glass to greet a newly arrived group of businessmen, but his gaze, fleetingly, drifted toward the staircase leading to the second floor. Only for a moment. Barely a blink. But enough to reveal a tension he never showed anyone else.
The boy was up there. Hidden. Protected. Or perhaps guarded.
A waiter approached with a tray, and the host took another glass, returning the smile. His words blended with the hum of music and chatter, but his eyes… his eyes kept drifting back to that silent staircase, again and again.
Something was going to happen tonight. He felt it. And though the guests saw nothing but luxury and extravagance, he sensed an undercurrent beneath it all, an invisible threat moving toward him through the city's glow.
Two firm knocks echoed from the penthouse door. The guards exchanged a quick glance before opening it. On the other side, Lars and Viktor stood waiting, impeccably dressed. Both wore tailored dark suits: Viktor with relaxed elegance, and Lars with the stiffness of someone not used to dressing so well, yet carrying it with confidence.
A guard raised a hand to block them.
"Invitations," he demanded, his voice deep.
Viktor smiled with that calculated confidence that seemed to appear out of thin air. He slowly unbuttoned his coat, reached into an inside pocket, and pulled out two purple tickets, perfectly folded.
The guards inspected them for a few long seconds. Then they nodded, stepped aside, and let them in.
Viktor and Lars entered at a deliberate pace, as if following someone invisible or avoiding drawing attention too soon. Once inside, both paused for a moment, stunned by the place's opulence: hanging lamps like sculptures of liquid crystal, Persian carpets spread like red seas, marble columns reflecting golden lights.
The DJ's sound pulsed everywhere, woven with laughter and conversation. The party was a boiling pot of wealth.
The host—the same man in midnight blue—noticed them from across the room. He walked toward them with a well-practiced smile, but when he got a closer look at their faces, something in his expression tightened, almost imperceptibly.
"I don't believe I've seen you before," he said with sharp courtesy. "Who are you?"
Viktor tilted his head slightly, adopting the perfect tone of a young European aristocrat.
"We are the sons of Mr. Hermann Rudenberg," he answered naturally. "My father mentioned he had business with you years ago in Frankfurt. He spoke highly of your gatherings here in Dubai."
The name struck like a charm. The host blinked, surprised, and his smile returned, now tinged with pride and recognition.
"Ah… Rudenberg. Of course. A very respectable man. I didn't know he had sent his sons tonight. And where is he?"
"Unfortunately, he couldn't attend. He told us you'd invited him and asked us to come in his name."
While Viktor kept the conversation flowing, Lars observed in silence. Details that others would miss stood out to him. Every time the host spoke, his eyes—restless, tense—drifted to the second floor. Not nervously, but with an obsessive vigilance. As if every faint sound from upstairs reminded him of something.
Lars frowned, tracing each darting glance.
That was the key.
Something—or someone—was hidden up there. And the host couldn't stop betraying himself every time he lifted his eyes.
When Viktor finished speaking, the host nodded briefly and then, without much subtlety, walked straight to one of the guards at the penthouse entrance. He spoke to him in a low voice, gesturing quickly, as if giving urgent instructions.
Meanwhile, Lars and Viktor began moving through the crowd. They walked slowly, weaving between guests laughing with raised glasses and servers carrying trays full of food. The DJ's music grew thicker as they crossed the room, so they moved toward a side table with drinks, small plates of food, and slightly less noise.
Viktor picked up a glass, lifted it to his lips for show, but didn't drink. Lars leaned in slightly, just enough so only he could hear.
"He kept looking at the second floor."
Viktor kept his eyes on his glass. His lips hardly moved.
"Marcus, did you hear that?"
Immediately, a cold breeze brushed past them. So subtle it felt like the air shifting after a door closed—but enough to raise goosebumps on their skin.
Lars didn't react outwardly, though his eyes narrowed.
Viktor smiled without looking up.
Marcus was with them.
He always had been.
He had entered the penthouse before the other two, moving like a bodiless shadow—an entity that neither reflected light nor made a sound. "Invisible" was too simple a word. Marcus didn't just vanish… he dematerialized, becoming a flow of air that could pass through people and objects, detectable only as a faint shiver.
Which explained why Viktor and Lars had entered so slowly: they weren't following the host—they were following Marcus, who walked one step ahead.
Another breeze brushed the back of their necks.
A faint voice, vibrating softly in the air, whispered between them:
"I saw it. The guy's paranoid. And yeah… whatever he wants to protect is upstairs."
Lars and Viktor exchanged a barely noticeable look.
The night had only just begun.
Marcus kept his eyes on the host. The man spoke to a waitress, gesturing impatiently. A brief, almost invisible exchange… except to him.
A cold current slid again between Lars and Viktor.
"Guys," Marcus whispered, camouflaged within the air, "I'm leaving for a bit. I need to find out something."
No reply was needed. Lars kept staring at his drink, Viktor commented something meaningless about the music. Nobody suspected.
Marcus slipped between the guests like ownerless wind, trailing behind the waitress.
She entered the kitchen. The space was narrow and filled with steam and movement: two cooks prepared trays of sandwiches and cold appetizers; another filled glasses with bright drinks; dishes moved back and forth with mechanical precision.
The waitress opened a high cupboard and grabbed an empty plate. She placed several sandwiches onto it and picked up a drink. Marcus moved behind her like liquid shadow, invisible among the smell of spices and the clinking of glass.
She left the kitchen and climbed the stairs to the second floor.
From below, the host watched her rise, tense.
The guard patrolling upstairs stopped her with a raised hand. She explained something, but he frowned, unsure. Then his earpiece buzzed:
"The girl is taking food to the boy. Let her through."
It was the voice of the guard the host had spoken to minutes earlier.
The guard lifted his hand, allowing her to pass.
The waitress walked down the carpeted hallway toward a room guarded by another man. Marcus slid between them, unseen, watching every detail.
She approached the door… but the guard stopped her.
"Give me the plate and the drink," he ordered gruffly. "You can't enter."
She opened her mouth, surprised, but didn't argue. She handed over the tray with trembling hands and left without looking back.
The guard pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Marcus followed him, silent as a breath.
Inside, the room was nearly dark. A single nightstand lamp cast a faint glow over a young boy sitting on the floor, a rope tied around his waist and secured to a marble pillar.
The guard placed the plate and drink on the nightstand.
"Kid, here's your food," he grunted impatiently.
The boy didn't react.
He didn't blink.
He didn't even move his eyes.
He just stared at an invisible point before him, as if his mind were trapped far from that place.
"Hey, you hear me?" the guard repeated, tilting his head.
Nothing.
A shiver ran through the man. He straightened, uncomfortable, and stepped out, slamming the door behind him.
Marcus remained inside. Hidden. Watching.
For a few seconds, everything was silent.
Then the boy, without changing expression, picked up a sandwich and began eating it slowly, with mechanical, almost inhuman movements. His eyes stayed locked forward, as if he tasted nothing, felt nothing—not hunger, not fear.
Marcus watched him, motionless.
Something was wrong.
Very slowly, he allowed his body to regain form. The invisible lines composing him thickened, the breeze solidified, and a man emerged in front of the boy as if materializing from the air itself.
The child kept eating without lifting his gaze, detached from the world.
Marcus took one step forward…