"Is this the end of Europe…? Click."
With a sharp snap, the television went dark.
Johannes Falkner, a man in his fifties with a face weathered by years, let out a heavy sigh. He sat deep in the couch of his home, in a town near the German–Swiss border, his gaze fixed on the black screen.
What he had just heard didn't please him in the slightest.
"Breaking news," they called it.
For him, it was nothing but the latest humiliation dealt to the European Union by its so-called ally: the United States.
On the screen moments earlier, a press conference had been broadcast live. The foreign leader's words had been as blunt as they were humiliating, dismissing a major European trade agreement as "bad for business" and "a burden" for his country.
The worst part was the grin on his face, the tone halfway between mockery and pity, as if Europe were a stubborn child who still hadn't learned the rules of the game.
With an irritated flick of his wrist, Johannes changed the channel.
There it was again — the familiar sight of European leaders seated around a long table in Brussels, muttering platitudes to the press.
"An emergency meeting," they called it.
He knew the drill: they would spend hours arguing, issue a vague statement about "unity" and "concern", and by tomorrow, the whole mess would be forgotten.
He reached for his mug without thinking, only to realize the coffee inside had gone cold. Still, he drank it in a slow sip, eyes drifting toward the balcony door.
Moments later, he stepped outside, letting the cool evening air brush against his face. From here, the Alps were a faint silhouette on the horizon.
His gaze softened with a mix of longing and melancholy as he remembered his travels across Europe — places where history still lived in the stones, the arches, and the forgotten roads.
With a quiet sigh, Johannes turned back inside.
A dry chuckle escaped him.
"These old bones are starting to complain," he muttered to himself.
His eyes drifted to the framed certificates and medals on the wall. One in particular caught his attention: Diploma in Neo-Latin Philology.
"I rushed to study it after seeing the aqueducts in Segovia… couldn't get them out of my head."
His gaze moved to the medals — hard-earned relics from his years as a platoon leader with Constellis Holdings.
"I wonder where my brothers from Basra 2006… Tripoli 2011 ended up," he whispered.
The sudden trill of his phone cut through the quiet. The caller ID showed Kurt.
—Tell me you've seen today's disaster. —Kurt's voice was laced with sarcasm.
—Hard to miss. —Johannes leaned back in his chair.
They went on to complain about politicians who always managed to make Europe the laughingstock of the world, their frustration carrying a weight born from years of disappointment.
—Same circus, different clowns… —Kurt sighed, resignation in his tone.
—And the tickets just keep getting more expensive. —Johannes replied dryly.
After a pause, Kurt's voice softened.
—How about we go grab a drink at the usual place?
Johannes exhaled through his nose, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
—Alright… why not.
He grabbed his keys, locked the door, and stepped out into the cool night air.
Halfway down the street, a loud argument from across the road caught his attention. His eyes narrowed at the sight of the run-down building — a place he knew was occupied illegally.
Likely squatters, he thought, clicking his tongue in irritation.
He was still glancing toward the commotion when he reached the bar.
Pushing the door open, the warm scent of old wood and freshly poured beer wrapped around him. A few patrons looked up.
—Hey, Johannes! —called an older man from a corner table, raising his mug.
—Peter… —Johannes replied with a brief nod.
Near the dartboard, a young man smiled warmly.
—Good evening, Mr. Johannes.
—Little Frank… —Johannes returned the smile, then made his way to the bar.
Kurt was already there, leaning casually against the counter, chatting with the bartender, Hans. Stocky, bald, and with a perpetual frown etched into his face, Hans looked up and nodded at Johannes before signaling to pour him a drink.
Johannes took a seat beside his friend.
—Evening. —he greeted.
—About time. —Kurt grinned.
Hans slid a cold beer in front of him.
—Here you go.
—Thanks, Hans. —Johannes said, taking a sip.
Kurt's smile faded.
—You've heard about the mess lately, right? Squatters, troublemakers… The town's not what it used to be.
Johannes leaned on the bar, the weight of the topic pressing down.
—It's the same everywhere. This isn't the Europe I knew.
—And the wages? Don't even get me started. —Kurt muttered. —Everything's going up except what we earn.
Hans let out a sarcastic chuckle.
—And you two think you'll fix Europe sitting here drinking beer?
—Give me a chance as a politician and I'd fix it in no time. —Kurt shot back.
Johannes smiled faintly, nodding.
—I believe you.
Hans's voice dropped slightly.
—Speaking of the town, did you hear about Frau Schneider? Two streets from here. They mugged her… stabbed her when she fought back. She's in the hospital, in bad shape.
Kurt's jaw tightened.
—And what's our brilliant local government doing? Nothing!
Hans gave him a pointed look.
—They suspect it was one of the new "refugees."
Kurt slammed his palm on the bar.
—Right. And they told us they'd come to pay for our pensions, remember?
Johannes sighed and stood.
—It's getting late. I should head home.
The night air was colder now, biting at his cheeks as he walked. His mind replayed the events of the day — the humiliation of Europe, the news of Frau Schneider, the endless political failure.
Germany… no, not just Germany. All of Europe is rotting with it.
He reached his building's entrance, keys in hand, when a sharp, panicked scream tore through the air.
Spinning toward the sound, he saw a shadow sprinting toward him — a man clutching a knife, eyes wide with fear.
Their gazes locked for a split second before the figure lunged.
Pain exploded in Johannes's stomach as the blade slid in.
He collapsed, a muted cough rattling in his chest.
The world blurred, his limbs heavy and cold.
Somewhere far away, voices were shouting, calling him sir. The noise of the bar echoed in fragments — Kurt's laughter, Hans's sarcasm, the TV anchor's voice about the emergency meeting.
Regret tugged at him, but so did a strange relief.
A sad smile curved his lips.
At least I won't have to watch what comes next.