He placed the menu down on the table and smiled.
"How old are you?" he asked. It was uncertain whether he was being serious or just trying to outdo me in awkward conversation. At least it assured me he wasn't upset.
"I'm twenty-two," I replied. Judging by his grey hair, he might have been around fifty.
"I'm sixty-one," he said. "What's your name?"
Hearing the question, I sighed and looked away. "I thought you knew."
He said nothing and picked up the menu again. I straightened the hairs at the back of my neck.
This stranger had contacted me, and at first, I thought he was just another fan.
Fortunately, I'm a celebrity, at least by a flexible definition, who reads every message I receive. That doesn't mean I respond to all of them. In his case, I might have ignored his message entirely, or declined his invitation, if not for the phrase he included at the end of it:
*"It's up to you. The world is yours—it belongs to you and no one else. You rule it, and never shall anyone else."
That line caught me off guard.
Only I was supposed to know that phrase. Its original version went like this: "The world is mine. It belongs to I and no one else. I rule it, and never shall anyone else."
It was my personal motto—something I silently recited to myself in moments of fear or when making difficult decisions. I'd never written it down anywhere. I'd never spoken it aloud. It lived entirely in my mind. Yet, this stranger knew it. And it was unlikely to be a coincidence.
"Call me Ham," I said at last. Of course, that wasn't my real name.
"What should I call you?"
"Mah, in that—" He broke off for a reason I couldn't fathom and said no more. His eyes hadn't left the menu once.
A couple in matching green, homemade African attire, seated at the table across the aisle next to us, kept staring—likely gossiping about us. Their reaction was probably triggered by the notorious habit of eavesdropping.
The conversation—and the entire situation—carried a thick, awkward tension. Something felt... off.
"Who are you?" I demanded, fully embracing the discomfort.
He peered over the menu and slowly shook his head. "I cannot tell you. Not now." The words sounded rehearsed as though he was reading from somewhere.
"Why?" I asked, annoyed—but I managed to hide it.
"You do not want to know. Not now," he repeated.
This time, I didn't bother hiding my displeasure. I let it settle on my face.
"What do you mean?" My voice now mirrored the irritation on my face. "Why would I even ask about it if I don't want to know about it?"
It didn't make sense.
"Trust me," he said. "You do not want to spoil the fun."
"I'm not here for fun!" I interjected.
"I know," he chuckled. "Actually, what I consider fun, you might perceive as confusion."
"Well," I pulled down the front edges of my beanie. "I sometimes enjoy confusion. It sharpens my mind."
"Just..." He paused and lowered the menu slightly, revealing a grin. "Don't spoil the fun."
I frowned. "Are you a psychic or something?"
He seemed to be reading my mind, and it was beginning to get under my skin.
"You do not believe in that crap, do you?" He raised his brows.
"I don't," I admitted. "But if you claim to be one, I might have to reconsider."
He nodded approvingly. "Open-minded. I like you."
I frowned again.
"Sir," I began, "if you're not ready to tell me what's going on, I'd like to take my leave."
"You seem to forget you're here for lunch. We haven't even started eating and you're talking about leaving. Come on, there's plenty of time to talk. You'll probably get your answers."
I said nothing. It made sense.
"What would you like to have?" he asked after a pause.
"Anything," I replied. "You choose."
"What you mean is, you're going to eat whatever I choose?"
"Yeah."
"Good." He waved at the waitress.
I turned my head to look at her. Dumbfounded.