Morning light filtered through the lace curtains of the Weiss estate, scattering soft golden patterns across the polished wood floors. Stefan rose before the household servants came to wake him, his body already conditioned to the rhythm of early work. He had inherited this habit from neither grandfather but from the remnants of a past life where mornings were battles and schedules were trenches.
He dressed himself—simple, crisp, practical—and made his way down the corridor to the study where his grandfathers were already deep in conversation. They had returned from a diplomatic trip only two days earlier, and although they moved like men accustomed to burdens, Stefan watched them with the sharpness of someone who knew what lay beneath politics.
He knocked on the doorframe. "May I come in?"
Heinrich looked up from the table. "You're awake early."
"I wanted to join the briefing," Stefan replied. "You said you would discuss the outcome of the Rome conference."
Vittorio raised an eyebrow. "And you want to listen? At your age, I preferred sleeping."
Stefan sat down. "At my age, I prefer preparation."
The two men shared a glance—the kind that only people who had lived through decades of crises could exchange—then they nodded.
Heinrich gestured to a folder filled with neatly sorted documents. "The conference was… productive, in a narrow sense. Trade agreements. Negotiations on export routes. Some old rivals pretending they're friends for the sake of newspapers."
"And old enemies pretending they're harmless," Vittorio added. His tone sharpened. "Particularly Giorgio Falasca."
Stefan's eyes flickered. "He was there?"
"He made a spectacle of being cooperative," Heinrich said. "Which means he is planning something."
Falasca. A politician with too much ambition and not enough restraint—a man who had once attempted to undermine Vittorio's influence in Italy. Stefan had seen flashes of his name in newspapers from his past life; scandals, leveraged alliances, a short burst of notoriety before fading into irrelevance.
But here, in 1982, Falasca was still rising.
"What did he want?" Stefan asked.
Vittorio leaned forward. "The same as always. To arrange meetings without motives, to smile too widely, to hint at cooperation. A man who behaves like that is not cooperating. He's hunting."
Stefan memorized every word. His intuition, sharpened by two lifetimes, prickled with warning.
"If he's hunting," Stefan said quietly, "are we his prey?"
"Possibly," Heinrich said. "Or possibly he only wants leverage."
Stefan's mind accelerated. "Leverage on whom?"
"On us," Vittorio replied. "On the Weiss family, on our networks, on trade structures."
Stefan absorbed that. Falasca wasn't simply dangerous; he was opportunistic. And opportunists were often the worst kind of enemy—unpredictable and greedy.
But this time, Stefan would not be unprepared.
The International Lyceum felt different after the cultural festival. Decorations were still being taken down, students still buzzing with leftover excitement, and teachers—exhausted beyond reason—trying to drag everyone back into the monotony of academics.
Stefan entered the classroom with his usual calm, but his mind was far from equations or literature. He took his seat, opened his notebook, and began jotting quiet notes:
— Falasca: motives
— Italy: economic vulnerabilities in 1982
— Grandfather's new agreements
— Potential disruption points
— Countermeasures
Lucas leaned over with a grin. "Planning world domination again?"
Stefan didn't look up. "Just considering variables."
"That's an even scarier phrase coming from you."
Julien plopped into the seat behind them, dramatically sighing. "Mon dieu… why are Mondays so cruel?"
"Because you choose to sleep at 2 a.m.," Elena replied without looking up from her book.
Julien swatted the air. "I was researching."
"Researching what?" Lucas asked.
"Whether French food is scientifically proven to improve academic performance."
Lucas groaned. Stefan exhaled a tiny laugh.
For a moment, the weight in his chest eased. These were the small breaths between storms. His new life allowed them in ways his old one never had.
But even here, danger had a way of finding him.
As class ended and students began to file out, the principal walked in—Mr. Alden, a stiff British man who always looked like someone had swapped his tea for vinegar.
"Stefan Weiss," he said, "a moment, please."
The three friends looked at each other. Stefan stood calmly. "Yes, sir."
He followed the principal to his office, expecting a discussion about exams or an upcoming event.
Instead, he found a man already sitting inside.
A man Stefan recognized.
Giorgio Falasca.
The Italian politician smiled, a sharp, oily smile that didn't reach his eyes. He stood as Stefan entered, extending a hand.
"You must be young Stefan," Falasca said warmly. "Your grandfathers speak highly of you."
Stefan did not offer a handshake.
"Why are you here?" he asked.
Mr. Alden cleared his throat. "Signore Falasca is visiting several institutions across Brussels—he asked to meet promising international students."
Lie.
Stefan didn't need two lifetimes to read that.
Falasca waved a hand, pretending to brush away the explanation. "I simply wanted to meet the boy who impressed two of Europe's most respected statesmen." His eyes narrowed slightly. "You truly are… exceptional."
Stefan stayed silent.
Falasca chuckled softly. "You are like your grandfathers—suspicious. But understandable. The world of politics is full of shadows."
Stefan met his stare. "Are you here to cast one?"
That surprised Falasca. Just for a second.
Alden looked horrified, opening his mouth to scold Stefan, but Falasca lifted a hand.
"No, Principal. It's fine." He walked slowly around the office, as if inspecting the room. "Stefan, your family is powerful. Influential. Some say too influential."
Stefan tilted his head. "Some say too ambitious."
Falasca's smile hardened. "We all want a place in the future, ragazzo. I only came to… understand what kind of future the young Weiss intends to build."
Stefan realized something important:
Falasca did not come to threaten.
Not explicitly.
Not yet.
He came to evaluate him.
To measure him.
To see whether Stefan was a weakness—or a threat.
Stefan gave the faintest smile. "I intend to build a stable future. One that benefits the continent."
Falasca nodded slowly. "Stability is admirable. But remember: stability for one family can be instability for another."
Their eyes locked.
Two players reading each other across a board no one else could see.
Finally, Falasca reached for his coat. "I hope we see each other again, Stefan. My next visit to Brussels may come sooner than expected."
Stefan felt the unspoken implication.
Alden escorted Falasca out, leaving Stefan standing alone in the office.
His pulse was steady. His breathing calm. But his thoughts sharpened into battle-readiness.
He wasn't being underestimated anymore.
He was being watched.
And watched targets rarely survived by standing still.
Vittorio slammed the newspaper onto the table the moment Stefan walked into the room.
"You met him."
Stefan nodded. "Yes."
Heinrich pinched the bridge of his nose. "Alden informed us. We didn't expect Falasca to go after you so directly."
"He didn't threaten me," Stefan said. "Not openly. He wanted to… assess me."
"Which is worse," Vittorio growled. "A man who evaluates a child is not evaluating a child. He's evaluating a pawn."
Stefan sat, folding his hands. "Then make me a piece too dangerous to move."
That silenced both grandfathers.
Stefan continued calmly, "If Falasca wants a weakness, show him strength. If he wants to see if I'm harmless, show him I'm not."
Heinrich exhaled slowly. "And what do you propose?"
Stefan looked down at the notes he had scribbled earlier. Economic structures. Vulnerabilities. Countermeasures.
"I propose," he said, "that we prepare."
Vittorio leaned back. "Prepare for what?"
Stefan's gaze hardened.
"For the storm he intends to bring."
He sat by his window later, staring out at Brussels' night lights. Memories from two lives overlapped.
In his previous world, power struggles like these had destroyed alliances, corrupted industries, and fractured Europe. Politicians like Falasca had risen, caused damage, and then vanished, but not before leaving scars.
Not this time.
This time, Stefan knew the patterns.
This time, he could anticipate them.
This time, he would not allow shadows to grow unchecked.
And as he sat there, a subtle thrill coursed through him—not fear, but anticipation. He wasn't just reacting anymore.
He was shaping the board.
The quiet wars had begun.
And Stefan Weiss was no longer a silent observer.