0.1 – The News
Evening was slowly descending over Dublin, though it came heavy and low. The sky, draped in shades of graphite and ash, hung oppressively overhead, as if it might at any moment collapse onto the streets and crush the city beneath its weight. The air was thick, stifling—even though winter had yet to surrender to spring. Life in the city moved on as usual, but there was something in the atmosphere... something taut. As if everyone, on some subconscious level, was bracing for something terrible.
In the shadow of a towering building that resembled a glass fortress, two high school girls stood side by side, blending into the crowd flowing through the shopping district like a river of silhouettes. One of them, a slender brunette with long hair braided tightly down her back, leaned in toward her friend. Her voice was nearly a whisper, as if even the air around them might overhear.
— "Hey… have you seen what's going on in the media? Socials are completely flooded with it…"
Her friend, a girl with a cool gaze and a freckled face, shrugged, feigning indifference. But her eyes were tense, and her fingers fidgeted nervously with the sleeve of her jacket.
— "Pff. Everyone's heard about it. Look—they're even talking about it on the news right now."
She nodded toward a massive LED screen mounted high on the wall opposite them. It cast a cold, bluish light across the gray façades and the faces of passersby. The newscaster's voice—strained, muted, and clearly tense—dripped from nearby loudspeakers like venom.
— "Just moments ago, another terrorist attack was confirmed…"
The man spoke with difficulty, his hand trembling as if he wasn't sure he wanted to continue reading the script in front of him.
Something changed in that instant. Though the city's noise hadn't ceased, it was as if the entire plaza froze. People stopped walking. Conversations died mid-sentence. Faces turned to the screen. The murmur of the crowd dulled. Only the children kept playing—though even they grew quiet soon after, unsettled by the fear etched into the expressions of the adults around them.
— "An—another one…?" the brunette gasped, barely able to believe what she'd heard. "That's the second one this month…"
— "Why isn't the police doing anything…?" someone whispered nearby.
Glances were exchanged. The tension rose palpably, as though the entire square had inhaled—and was holding its breath.
— "The body of the Irish Prime Minister was found… in a restroom… during a private meeting…"
The newscaster's voice cracked—higher-pitched now, as though something inside him had fractured.
A faint cry broke from the crowd. A woman in a coat, clutching a shopping bag, dropped it to the ground.
— "What… happened?" she asked quietly, her eyes vacant—as if she wasn't expecting an answer, only mercy.
— "M-Mom… That's… that's close to where we are…" a small girl whispered, clinging to her mother's leg. Her voice carried a raw, childlike fear that sliced through the air like a gust of cold wind.
— "Police are still investigating. There are no leads. No suspects. No idea who—or how—this happened…"
The anchor's voice faltered. His face turned pale.
Suddenly, a new figure appeared on screen—a police officer. He stepped forward like a shadow, leaned in, and whispered something to the anchor's ear. The man froze, eyes wide, his expression shifting to one of true fear—not staged, not rehearsed, but human.
The officer straightened, now facing the camera. His posture was rigid, as though something inside him fought every word, yet he spoke:
— "To the citizens of the United Kingdom:
We regret to inform you that the current situation… is beyond our control. We do not know how long the investigation will take. It may be a week. It may be a year. But one thing is certain…"
He paused.
— "The individuals responsible for today's attack are the same ones who carried out the bombing two weeks ago in the United States. We have no idea how they managed to travel to Dublin so quickly. But we have uncovered one… deeply unsettling clue."
The plaza was silent now. Utterly still. The crowd stared at the screen like statues, as if hypnotized.
— "A message was found with the Prime Minister's body. His mouth was stuffed with his own mobile phone. And carved into his arm… with a razor blade… were the words:
'There is always a reason.' The Prime Minister bled out before anyone could find him."
A few people turned away from the screen. A woman shielded her daughter's eyes just as an image flashed onto the screen—a hand, still bleeding, with a Latin inscription slashed deeply into the flesh.
— "That's not all," the officer continued.
— "There were hidden cameras in the restroom. The entire event was recorded.
We will now show you a portion of that footage."
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FOOTAGE CLIP
The restroom was sterile—unnaturally clean. White light bounced off glossy tiles and polished chrome. A man in a dark, tailored suit entered the frame. He was washing his hands. His movements were calm, practiced. A politician. Confident. Unbothered.
Then the door opened.
Someone younger stepped inside—much younger. He wore a dark hoodie, a baseball cap, and a face mask reminiscent of the COVID era. A boy, perhaps still a teenager. He moved with certainty, as if he knew the space intimately. He took the sink next to the Prime Minister and began washing his hands.
— "Excuse me, this is a private restroom," the Prime Minister said, unease creeping into his voice.
— "It's reserved for meeting attendees. Who are you?"
The boy said nothing. He calmly turned off the faucet, reached into his pocket for a phone.
— "I said—identify yourself now, or I'll call security!"
The Prime Minister raised his phone, ready to dial.
He didn't get the chance.
The attacker struck with terrifying speed—grabbing the older man's wrist, twisting it back, and slamming him hard onto the cold marble floor. The impact echoed.
— "What are you doing?! Security will be here any second!"
The Prime Minister thrashed, tried to fight back. But the boy was relentless. He pinned him down, immobilizing him with one hand while retrieving the phone from his victim's grasp with the other. Then, slowly—almost ritualistically—he shoved the device into the man's mouth. Deep.
— "Agh…!" The Prime Minister gagged, choked. Saliva and blood spilled from his lips.
The boy pulled out his own phone. Opened a translation app. He scrolled through language options. Settled on Latin. Typed something. Deleted it. Typed again. He was thinking.
The Prime Minister's strength was fading. His eyes glazed over. His breathing became shallow.
The boy reached into his coat.
He pulled out a razor blade.
Gently, he rolled up the Prime Minister's sleeve. Placed his arm against the floor. Almost respectfully. Then he began to carve.
Slowly. Deeply.
Blood gushed at once, coating the attacker's fingers.
— "Uhhh—!" the Prime Minister moaned, choked by the phone lodged in his throat.
END OF FOOTAGE
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The police officer returned to the screen. His face looked ten years older.
— "That's all we will be showing. The assailant appeared young—possibly a minor. Green hair, likely a wig. Face obscured. No camera caught a full shot. He was always turned away…As if… As if he knew the cameras were there."