Teresa opened her eyes and found herself in a room caged with iron bars. For a moment, she couldn’t remember what had happened, but then the memory struck—the police had stormed into her house. Worse still, before they arrived, she had read in the newspaper that her closest friend, Sara, had been found dead.

Teresa’s mind reeled. Judging by where she was, she must be a suspect in Sara’s death. Panic, anger, and grief surged through her. She leapt to her feet and slammed her fists against the barred door. She hit so hard her fingers turned purple.

She knew exactly what iron bars meant for those who used “law” as a pretext to fortify authoritarian power. Those who justified oppression through race, belief, or science were the most ruthless of all. Hitler had been the clearest example of that truth.

When she remembered Sara’s stories, she thought of Poseidon—the man who convinced those around him that he was a wise and exalted leader. Considering his influence on the island, and the way the authorities revolved around him like obedient satellites, Teresa understood that her path likely led straight to prison.

As she pounded on the door, another voice rose from within—stern, accusing, yet strangely familiar:

“Weren’t you the one who dreamed of being a warrior of justice and peace? Who told you that battle would be fought on university grounds, in bank queues, or in the comfort of your own bed? Did you think the stories you read, the lessons you taught, and the prayers you whispered belonged only to forgotten ages—just fairy tales meant to lull people to sleep? Every struggle of our time carries the same ancient conflict: the idealist versus the corrupter, Abel versus Qabil. Fate has chosen you to be Abel in this war in Cyprus. So stop clawing at the door. Stand tall. Demand justice with dignity.”

The moment she silenced herself and listened, she noticed two figures walking toward her from the far end of the corridor. Their footsteps grew louder. One wore a uniform, the other medical scrubs—police and nurse.

“Miss Teresa, calm down,” the officer said. “This isn’t a cell. You fainted, so we kept you under observation.”

“I remember you entering my home,” she replied sharply. “Why was I brought here?”

Her question went unanswered. The officer unlocked the door, while the nurse checked her pulse and blood pressure. When Teresa—Paris-trained scientist—said she felt fine, the officer gestured toward the hallway.

“Our commissioner has a few questions for you.”

Teresa sat in the single chair placed beneath the harsh light of the interrogation room. The lamp, glaring like a vehicle’s headlight, illuminated only her, leaving the rest of the room swallowed in shadow. She could sense someone sitting across from her, but the darkness concealed his face.

At first, fear crawled through her. Then she understood—this was psychological pressure, a deliberate tactic. She inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly, and whispered silent affirmations to herself. The surge of panic receded; cortisol eased from her bloodstream. Her heartbeat was no longer frantic but steady—driven not by terror, but by the dignity expected of an idealist.

The unseen man finally spoke, introducing himself as the commissioner. His voice came from the darkness, as if it belonged to the shadows themselves:

“Did you kill Sara Anostosis?”

As everyone would expect, Teresa answered no. Yet the accusation—that she had murdered her closest friend—pushed tears to the edge of her eyes. She held them back with visible effort.

“When did you last see her?”

“Late yesterday afternoon.”

Even without seeing him, she could hear from his footsteps that he had risen from his seat.

“What did you talk about?”

Teresa knew the truth could kill her.
If she admitted they discussed the man who called himself Poseidon—the wealthy owner of a fleet of yachts and cruise ships—if she explained that Sara had learned of his illegal operations on the island through an intelligence officer, she would be signing her own death sentence.

And Sara’s murder, along with that of the intelligence officer, made the culprit painfully obvious.

“Nothing,” she said calmly, slowly, as if trying to prove her composure. “University matters, small talk, nothing important.”

The commissioner stepped into the light, revealing his face for the first time.

“Miss Teresa, did you have any argument with your friend?”

“No.”

“Did she say anything strange, or act in a way you found unusual?”

She shrugged.
“Same as always,” she said, then added, “Actually, we were still talking. She got a call from her son and left without explanation. She seemed alarmed. I worried something bad had happened to him.”

“What happened to her son that she ran out so suddenly?”

“That’s the point,” Teresa replied. “I asked, but she didn’t answer. And afterward, I called her several times. She didn’t pick up once.”

The commissioner smiled faintly, as if confirming something.
“So her son called you?”

Teresa nodded. The commissioner handed her a printout of call logs. She scanned it quickly—Sara’s phone records confirmed she had been at Teresa’s home, but there were no calls made during that time.

“How is that possible?” Teresa muttered. “I saw her talking on her phone.”

The commissioner’s tone turned clinical—perhaps to provoke her, perhaps out of genuine suspicion:

“Do you suffer from any psychological conditions?
Are you on antidepressants—or something stronger?”

The young scientist realized the commissioner suspected her of schizophrenia. She shaped her defense accordingly.

“In my entire life, I’ve never visited a psychologist, nor have I taken medication. There is no medical evidence to support the idea that I’m schizophrenic.”

“I never said you were schizophrenic,” he replied. “I’m asking how your version of events contradicts the phone records. The document from the GSM provider and your statement don’t match. That’s what I’m questioning.”

“Is it not possible there's an error in the record?” Teresa countered.

“Or,” the commissioner continued, pressing forward, “is it possible that you’re lying to clear yourself?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. Words spilled out of him, assembling an accusation piece by piece:

“According to the preliminary autopsy report, Miss Sara was murdered with her companion only a few hours after seeing you. You could’ve committed the crime right after she left—perhaps following an argument.

“The murdered officer was known to tolerate drug dealers. He was one himself. We suspect you and Sara were controlling the university branch of the narcotics market. Then a dispute arose—likely financial—and you acted first, eliminating them before they eliminated you.”

Teresa understood instantly.
A classic strategy: smear the dead officer with fabricated charges.

With powerful figures pulling strings, it wouldn't have been hard to dig up a low-level drug dealer or addict and coach him into providing a false testimony.

Her short silence ended with a faint, almost amused smile.

“Commissioner, allow me to remind you—you are not a screenwriter. If you’re crafting every suspicion based on the first plot twist that comes to mind, you could produce a blockbuster franchise out of this investigation.”

Then her tone turned razor-sharp.

“Do you have any evidence to support this narrative? The fact that I was the last to see Sara does not prove guilt.”

“I consider it evidence enough,” he replied.

Teresa lowered her head slightly, tapping her temple with a fingertip.

“That logic belongs in a third-world country.”

The commissioner turned to the officer beside him.

“Record a report for insulting our nation,” he ordered. “We are highly sensitive about our homeland, our state, and our flag.”

Teresa thought bitterly that this wasn’t patriotism—this was ego dressed in patriotic clothing, used to silence dissent and gratify personal power. She chose silence, believing it wiser to end the exchange than fuel the commissioner’s theatrics. But she knew one thing: she had to prove she hadn’t left the apartment at the time Sara was murdered. She had a solution—one she trusted completely—but she wouldn’t mention it in interrogation, not while evidence could still be tampered with.

Instead, through her lawyer, she sent a request to the apartment manager she felt confident would help her.

Teresa had pleaded with the prosecutor for time, but he denied her request and demanded her arrest.
The young scientist did everything she could to stall the hearing until her evidence arrived. She lingered in the restroom, prolonged meals, fabricated excuses—anything to gain a few more minutes.

But the trial still began, and the evidence had not yet come.

The courtroom stood as the judges prepared to announce their decision—when the court officer rushed in, whispering urgently into the presiding judge’s ear. He gestured toward the television, shaking it slightly.

Teresa knew instantly: the evidence had surfaced.

The judge addressed the court:

“Upon request from the defense, we will review security footage from Teresa’s apartment building to determine whether she left her home.”

The footage played in fast-forward. Just as Teresa had claimed, she never left the building. The cameras covered every exit. There was no secret path, no hidden escape. With this evidence, the panel ruled by majority that she would be tried without detention.

A voice in her mind whispered, See? There is still justice. You doubted the judges unfairly.

Her inner voice responded in a darker tone:

“The same power that erased the call from Sara’s phone—or forged it through deep web methods, mimicking her son’s voice—could easily bend judges to its will. They simply hadn’t calculated the surveillance footage, assuming Teresa would be imprisoned regardless. But now that someone influential has phoned in, the prosecutor’s appeal will prevail. This is no time to play Pollyanna. Run—and don’t look back. There’s already a travel ban against you. Find a way to escape illegally. Remember the innocents who spent their lives rotting in cold, forgotten cells.”

The moment she stepped out of the courtroom, Teresa rushed home in a single breath.

She gathered what she needed and was about to leave when she noticed a black bag in the living room—Sara’s bag, forgotten in the chaos. Inside was a notebook filled with handwritten notes. She skimmed through it: histories of Cyprus, cryptic references, ideological fragments. She remembered Poseidon’s words—how he claimed Cyprus was a fragment of sunken Atlantis, and how he, as the ancient sea god, had returned to reclaim it.

Teresa knew—the best way to dismantle a criminal network was to decipher its philosophy.
She tucked the notebook into her belongings. She would read it later.

Another question gnawed at her: Where would she go now?

The slums—the districts where illegal dealings thrived—were the only logical refuge. Like every fugitive, she needed to erase the light from her face, conceal the trace of intellect and dignity. She had a skill from childhood—an old game she’d played, pretending to be mentally unstable. Remembering those days, she found her new identity. She would become slightly unhinged, drug-addled, erratic—a woman no one would care to look at twice.

Teresa had managed to disappear into the island’s slums, finding a dark corner where she could remain unseen. For now, there was nothing to do but wait—wait for word from the traffickers who could smuggle her off the island.

She pulled out Sara’s notebook and began to read.
Among the scattered pages, a section titled “Cairo” caught her attention.

“Earth, along with the other planets of the solar system, drifts through its orbit around the sun—one among millions of stars and worlds.
For centuries, under the pressure of the Church, humanity believed that all planets revolved around Earth.
But the Polish priest Copernicus combined courage with scientific brilliance and declared that the planets revolved around the sun. Humanity accepted this new view.

Yet, in doing so, it overlooked a truth—one whose absence caused ancient civilizations’ astrological knowledge to vanish.
And this was not a simple forgetting; it may have been profound enough to alter the fate of the world.

Every cluster of stars has a reflection on Earth.
Just as Muslims believe the Kaaba is the earthly reflection of God’s throne in the heavens, so too are there earthly reflections of the stars in which demons reside—those whom God has permitted to dwell until an appointed time.
Considering the many types of angels born of light and demons formed from smokeless fire, it follows that there are many stars where they dwell, and thus many places on Earth that mirror them. But for humanity, the greatest danger is the earthly reflection of the star where Iblis resides.”

Teresa continued reading with growing fascination. Her skin prickled; every hair on her body stood on end. She sensed she was already walking through a tunnel of fear, but the sentence that would fully reveal where that tunnel led was still ahead.

She turned the page.

“Astronomers believe that Iblis’s earthly dwelling lies somewhere near Cairo.
The true reason Atlantis—located near Cairo—collapsed into the earth is rooted in this truth.
In other words, he descended to earth and disrupted the energy flows of humanity by influencing their temples.”

A cold unease rippled through her. Fear, curiosity, and anxiety swirled, battling for dominance inside her chest. She thought the words were not the ramblings of superstition, but frighteningly plausible.

“There is no creature that moves on earth whose forelock He has not seized.”

Recalling this divine declaration, she began to see the human temples—those fragile points on the skull—as biological dishes, capable of receiving interference. A disturbance to the temple would alter frequency—shifting the flow of energy, whether good or evil.

Teresa also knew that scientists had observed something unsettling:
Human beings cannot see the dark side of the moon, and during lunar phases when the moon draws closest to Earth, followers of the Abrahamic faiths often report a strange reluctance to perform their rituals—as though a crushing weight sits on their chest, like a nightmare pressing down.

She understood now: the pages were not filled with empty mythology.
Perhaps distorted, embellished with legends—but rooted in truths the world had chosen to forget.

Teresa recalled what astronomers had long established from telescopes and satellite data: the universe was unimaginably vast.

Even the light from the closest stars did not reach Earth in real time; it arrived after years—sometimes centuries—had passed. Astronomers often said that when they gazed at the night sky, they were looking at history. It was not poetic exaggeration. It was literal truth.

Light may travel at 300,000 kilometers per second, yet over cosmic distances, centuries could still pass before a star’s image reached human eyes. The famous Polaris, for example, took 680 years for its light to arrive. If the year were 2000, the star Teresa saw in the sky would actually reflect the year 1320. Perhaps the star had gone dark long ago—but humanity would not know. Even the Moon, Earth’s closest celestial neighbor at 386,000 km, reached human eyes with a delay of about 1.5 seconds. At the far edge of the solar system, Pluto’s image reached Earth seven hours after the light left its surface.
That meant a distance of:

300,000 × 7 × 60 × 60 kilometers.

Numbers so vast they became almost meaningless. Astronomers often tried to clarify the scale with metaphors. They would say:

“If the entire universe were a perfect sphere, the Earth would be the size of a baseball.
And the Sun would sit precisely at the center of that sphere.”

Remembering these facts and countless others, Teresa found the idea surprisingly plausible: that every cluster of stars might have an earthly reflection. She continued reading Sara’s notebook.

“Approximately every 10,000 years, a star cluster—unlike the others, not white but gray—draws closest to Earth. When it does, the earthly region that reflects it experiences waves of intense headaches, unrest, and psychological disturbance. Humans become more aggressive, and conflicts between societies may even escalate into war.”

Teresa paused, feeling a strange unease. What she held in her hands wasn’t just cosmology, or mythology, or history. It was a warning—quiet, ominous, and centuries old.

Teresa’s mind split in two directions. One part of her found the idea of a “gray star cluster” almost laughable—like a deliberate attempt to say, “Look, these stars contain demonic beings associated with darkness.” It sounded symbolic, theatrical, as if someone had chosen the color simply to imply malevolence.

But another part of her was afraid. Because she believed God allowed signs of events in the unseen realm to manifest in the visible world, so that humanity would not remain ignorant.

Sacred texts describe how, after the last prophet was sent, those who attempted to steal secrets from the heavenly dominion were repelled, and demons who tried to spy were struck down.
Shooting stars, meteors—perhaps even a gray star cluster—might be physical signs of metaphysical conflict. Flashes of fire across the sky, broadcast from battles fought in an invisible world.

A few pages later, Teresa reached a section titled, “What Is Manna?” She knew the story: Moses and his people escaped Pharaoh, and God had given them manna. Like everyone else, she assumed it was a kind of food—something that satisfied hunger. But the notes claimed otherwise. Manna was described as something that triggered an activation. What kind of activation? She found the answer in a line that stopped her breath:

“Every living being wears a garment of existence woven by carbon bonds. That garment can draw a human closer to God or drive them away. And when manna is consumed, the ability for interdimensional transition within the body becomes possible through those carbon bonds.”

Her eyes widened.

The text continued:

“The great pyramids of Egypt were constructed to produce manna and enable interdimensional travel. The esoteric purpose behind the rise of the Knights Templar was to guard this manna and, through dimensional passage, assemble an army of metaphysical soldiers.”

For a moment, Teresa wanted to laugh—or scream. Then a single question rose in her mind:
“What exactly is manna?”

The notes admitted uncertainty:

“It is impossible to define clearly. But if we accept that ancient civilizations regarded the human temple as a kind of bio-dish that received and transmitted electromagnetic energies; and if modern science confirms that all existence is energy, then we can say this: For electromagnetic energy to be properly received and transmitted, the human body must be highly conductive. And for that, the body must contain large amounts of gold—the most powerful conductor known. In short, the substance taken to access other dimensions—manna—is related to monoatomic gold, a derivative of gold.”

Teresa closed the notebook, her fingers trembling.

Monoatomic gold.
Interdimensional travel.
Pyramids not as tombs, but machines.
Knights not seeking relics, but technology.

It all sounded insane.

And yet, somewhere deep within her, a dark whisper asked:

“What if it isn’t?”

Teresa shook her head and muttered to herself,
“Now it makes sense—why they used gold protons at CERN. One of the goals was to open an interdimensional gate.”

In the experiment, two gold protons were accelerated to the speed of light and collided. Through specialized imaging techniques, scientists observed a particle that appeared for a few seconds and then vanished. Some researchers claimed that with this particle—called the Higgs—new forms of matter could be created, and that it might even allow an entity to be transmitted to multiple locations simultaneously. Others, more speculative, argued that travel between parallel universes—still unproven and fiercely debated—might one day be possible through advancements in Higgs-related research.

Teresa sifted through what she knew about gold. Scientists had long stated that elements like iron and gold could not originate on Earth. Even the planet’s hottest known environment, magma, lacked the temperature necessary to forge them. Therefore, they must have arrived on Earth millions of years ago, delivered by a meteor.

The Parisian scientist also knew that gold remained one of the most valuable materials in the modern world. Nations stored tons of it in their central banks. In times of rising geopolitical tension—especially among superpowers—demand for gold surged, and its value climbed with it. After currencies like the dollar and the euro, gold was still one of the most widely used instruments of trade. And this fascination was not new. Humanity’s obsession with gold stretched back millennia. Archaeologists had found gold teeth embedded in skulls thousands of years old.

Gold had always been more than metal. It was legacy, currency, technology—
and perhaps, in the darkest corners of science, a key.

Modern dentists explained ancient gold teeth in simple terms: their shine and color attracted attention. Those who wore them projected wealth, nobility, status. Chemists, however, gave a more practical reason: gold is a non-reactive element, resistant to corrosion and decay.
A tooth constantly exposed to moisture would not rust, rot, or tarnish if made of gold. From this, a metaphor had evolved over centuries: a child who preserves their essence, nature, and identity is likened to gold.

Teresa was far from home, without her books, without access to the internet, without any way to retrieve scientific journals. She strained her memory, forcing her neurons to dredge up every study related to gold—directly or indirectly. She recalled research conducted on epilepsy. Scientists had placed electrodes in the occipital, frontal, and parietal regions of patients’ brains, measuring fluctuations in neural electrical activity.

During these recordings, something unusual had been observed: on certain days, the voltages in patients’ brains spiked dramatically—far beyond previous measurements—and these spikes coincided with an increased number of seizures. The cause was eventually identified: solar flares—violent electromagnetic storms erupting from the sun. Some researchers went further, suggesting that during crises, certain epileptic patients might become entangled in a form of electromagnetic field sometimes called collective consciousness.

Teresa whispered the thought that had crystallized in her mind:

“This could be a kind of dimensional shift. Its occurrence depends on changing electrical or electromagnetic energy. And if the theory is correct, the best element to enable such a transition would be gold—the most efficient superconductor. Which means that some studies on epilepsy might indirectly suggest that the gold within the human body plays a role in dimensional change.”

By the end of the day, Teresa’s mind was crowded with questions:

1. Whether she would be able to leave the island safely, through illegal means.

2. Whether the projection of the gray star cluster was a myth—or something real.

3. If it was real, whether the place said to be near Cairo was, in fact, the island of Cyprus.

4. Whether Atlantis had sunk into the depths of the sea because such a gray star cluster had once approached Earth.

But the most unsettling question of all was this: If the catastrophe linked to that star cluster had happened once, could it happen again? And if it did—how devastating would it be?