January 14th, 2019. Berlin-Tegel Airport.
The terminal clock struck nine in the morning. Lars, Viktor, and Marcus sat in a row of metal chairs by their boarding gate. The constant murmur of travelers filled the air, mixed with the smell of coffee and freshly baked bread drifting from a nearby café.
Marcus wore dark sunglasses, his hair a mess, his expression one of pure suffering. He held a cup of water in one hand and leaned his head against the backrest as if the world weighed twice as much on him.
"God… why didn't someone stop me yesterday?" he muttered, rubbing his temples.
Viktor raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms. "Because I'm not your babysitter. Besides, no one forced you to compete with that fat Russian to see who could drink more vodka."
Lars, who had been quietly watching, couldn't help but laugh. "So, who won?"
Marcus raised a finger, as if he still had the strength to defend his honor. "I won! … although right now it feels like I lost ten years of my life."
Viktor let out a dry laugh. "The only thing you won was dancing on top of a table while yelling that you could fly."
Lars's eyes widened, and Marcus adjusted his sunglasses, clearing his throat. "You exaggerate. I was just… showing my festive spirit."
"Right, festive spirit," Viktor said with irony. "If it weren't for the waiter who pulled you down, you'd have ended up flat on the floor."
Lars burst out laughing, and Marcus covered his ears. "Don't laugh so loud, please! My head…"
The loudspeaker cut through the moment with an announcement: "Flight 217 to Dubai, now boarding at Gate 14."
The three of them stood up. Marcus sighed dramatically and grabbed his carry-on. "Alright… if I die on this flight, make sure my tombstone says: he died in style."
Once inside the plane, they settled into their Premium seats. Viktor took the window, Lars the aisle beside him, and Marcus the aisle across.
"Always the aisle seat," Viktor said with a smirk.
Marcus gave him a solemn—if forced—look. "It's a survival strategy. You never know when you'll need to run to the bathroom in an emergency."
Lars raised an eyebrow. "Has that actually happened before?"
"More times than I care to remember," Marcus confessed, closing his eyes. "Once on a flight to Moscow… well, better spare you the details."
The plane began to move, the engines roaring louder. As soon as it lifted off, Marcus shot up with one hand on his stomach.
"Speaking of emergencies…" he muttered before vanishing down the aisle.
Viktor shook his head, hiding a chuckle. "Always the same."
Lars glanced at him. "Is he like this all the time?"
"That's Marcus. A walking circus," Viktor replied, leaning back. His tone softened as he turned toward Lars. "Tell me… how were your days at the palace? We haven't had a proper talk since you arrived."
Lars leaned back, recalling everything he had lived. "Hard. Training, tests, awkward silences. But also… I found people I didn't expect to trust. Or at least, I think I did."
Viktor studied him, weighing each word. "That's important. Nobody survives on their own here, believe me."
At that moment Marcus stumbled back from the bathroom, collapsed into his aisle seat, and sighed in relief.
"Wake me up when we land in Dubai," he muttered before falling soundly asleep.
Lars and Viktor exchanged a knowing glance. The journey had just begun.
Viktor lowered his voice. "So… tell me. What exactly did William say to you?"
Lars drew a deep breath. "He saw it in his visions. He said the boy is in Dubai, in the Burj Khalifa. He described it clearly: a wealthy man, surrounded by guards, throwing parties almost every night. The boy was there, like part of… I don't know, his private circle."
Viktor frowned, though his tone stayed calm. "Makes sense. Dubai's full of millionaires who think the world is their toy. These people have done everything money can buy, so after that, they dive into darker things. Who knows what goes on at those parties. And what makes it worse: anyone can enter… and anyone can disappear without a trace."
Lars nodded, staring out the window. "Exactly. We don't know who that man is, or why he has the boy, but… if William's right, that's where we start. The Burj Khalifa isn't just a building—it's a fortress in the sky."
Suddenly, Marcus raised a weak hand from his seat. "Fortress? The only thing I care about is whether it has decent bathrooms… because if this flight takes any longer, I'm doomed."
Lars looked at him patiently. "Weren't you supposed to be asleep already?"
Viktor chuckled softly. "Just try not to puke on the carpet, alright? This is only the beginning."
Marcus closed his eyes again. "As long as they don't make me climb stairs in that damn skyscraper, I'll survive."
Hours later, in Dubai.
The baggage carousel seemed endless. Marcus yawned with his arms crossed, still wearing his sunglasses, while Lars watched calmly and Viktor remained as stoic as ever. By the time they grabbed their luggage and cleared the controls, it was nearly 7:30 p.m.
Outside, Dubai's warm air hit them like a slap. Even at night, the heat was suffocating compared to Germany's winter.
They climbed into a spotless Lexus taxi, which slid onto an avenue lit as brightly as day. Skyscrapers rose on the horizon, glowing in white and gold, while the sky held onto the last traces of purple before fading.
Marcus leaned back in the front seat, whistling. "Damn… these towers look straight out of a sci-fi movie. You sure we didn't get on the wrong flight and end up in the future?"
Lars smiled faintly, watching the lights reflected in the glass. "Not so different from the future you'll have if you keep drinking like last night."
Marcus pressed a hand to his forehead. "Please, not so loud… I still hear that damn piano banging in my head."
Viktor glanced sideways, smirking. "Funny. The pianist stopped hours ago. What you're hearing now must be your conscience."
Lars let out a restrained laugh. Marcus gave him a mock glare. "Very funny. Just wait until some guard stops us and I'm the only one drunk enough to improvise a good excuse."
The taxi turned onto a wide avenue, and suddenly the Burj Khalifa came into view, soaring upward, covered in thousands of lights like stars trapped in glass. Lars fell silent, staring. Somewhere in that tower was the boy. And perhaps, the man from William's vision.
The city pulsed around them: luxury cars lined the avenues, giant screens lit up the sides of buildings, fountains sprayed dancing water under the artificial glow.
"Well, boys," Marcus sighed, leaning back. "I just hope the hotel has a minibar."
"What you need," Viktor replied flatly, "is a bed and silence."
Lars said nothing, but a faint smile tugged at his lips. The tension he'd carried in Berlin felt distant now; Dubai wrapped him in mystery and hidden promises.
The taxi stopped at the hotel entrance, a towering glass-and-steel building bathed in golden lights, its lobby shining from within. A bellboy rushed to open the door and grab their luggage.
"Look at this," Marcus whispered, adjusting his sunglasses as he stepped out. "Not even in my best dreams did I imagine being welcomed like a sheikh."
"Relax," Viktor said, following behind. "You're not a sheikh, you're just a German with a hangover."
Lars smiled faintly and walked in after them. The lobby surrounded them in white marble, gleaming columns, and crystal chandeliers hanging like frozen waterfalls. A subtle floral scent lingered in the air.
"Dear God," Marcus muttered, spinning slowly. "If I get lost in here, tell my mother I lived like a king in my final hours."
Viktor shook his head, though a discreet smile crept across his face.
At the reception, after minutes of paperwork and passport checks, they received the keys to the suite they would share. They stepped into an elevator that rose almost imperceptibly, its glass walls revealing the glowing city below.
"I think I'm falling in love with Dubai," Marcus said, pressing his forehead to the glass. "Or maybe with the elevator… not sure yet."
The suite door clicked open, and silence filled the group. The place was massive: a lounge with white sofas, a glass table, soft rugs, and a panoramic window overlooking the city. Three bedrooms branched off through private hallways.
"Well," Marcus said, dropping his bag, "I call dibs on the best view. I'll need inspiration when I start writing my memoirs: How I Survived Two Grumpy Germans in Dubai."
"Memoirs no one will read," Viktor muttered, walking past him and into the left-hand room.
Lars chuckled quietly, stepping closer to the window. From there, the city stretched endlessly in a sea of lights. The Burj Khalifa dominated the horizon, like a beacon pulling his gaze back again and again.
Marcus threw himself on the couch, arms wide open. "Admit it, this isn't so bad, huh? A little luxury never killed anyone."
"That depends on how you use it," Lars replied, still staring at the tower.
Viktor reappeared from his room, now without his coat, and poured himself a glass of water from the minibar. "Tomorrow we start moving. Tonight, rest. Marcus, that means no drinking."
"Bah!" Marcus exclaimed, raising his hands. "One night without wine won't kill me either. But if I snore, don't blame me."
Lars turned toward them, smiling faintly. For the first time in a long while, he felt something different. He wasn't alone.
"Come on, Marcus, I need you focused tomorrow. We start the search early," Viktor said, more serious this time.
Hearing that tone, Marcus dropped the jokes. "Alright, I'd better go to bed then. That way I'll be fresh as lettuce tomorrow." He waved lazily at them and disappeared into his room.
Viktor walked to the window, looking out at the city while holding his glass of water. "I've seen you before, Lars."
Lars turned sharply. "What are you talking about?"
"Not just in the newspapers, when you were listed as missing. I also saw you at the palace." Suddenly, a shadow peeled itself away from Viktor and drifted toward Lars.
"Remember when you saw a shadow in the library, and in your room at the palace? That was me."