SECRET 410 Chapter 2 — The Visitor in the Slate-Grey Coat

Chapter 2 — Shadows in the Pizzeria

Night had settled over Val-d’Enbas like a heavy blanket, saturated with the sound of Christmas carols and the smell of mulled wine. The square still glittered with festive lights, but in the back room of the Town Hall Pizzeria, the atmosphere was icy with tension.

The star-whistle hummed softly in Naïma’s pocket. Every time she laid her hand on it, a strange calm fell over the room, as if the madness of the toppings sought to settle under its influence. Junon remained on alert, ears perked, nose twitching toward the now-sealed containers.

Martin, still pale, insisted he wasn’t crazy.
“I heard the olives screaming… I swear… like little soldiers… And something was speaking in a language that pulled at my mind.”

Naïma didn’t answer. Her thoughts circled endlessly: Abel, his suitcase, the compass, the new language, and that damn whistle she’d found here by chance. Nothing was ever by chance.

Across town, in the main office of the police station, Kermorvin was pacing. Abel sat facing him, calm as a stone in a rushing stream. The fingerprint machines stubbornly refused to capture anything from his fingers, as if his very skin refused to leave a mark.

“You do realize,” Kermorvin said, “that we need a legal identity to hold you here. And you… you’re just empty.”

Abel offered a faint smile, then his gaze drifted toward the fogged-up window. Outside, children ran past dressed as little hexagonal tokens. They were rehearsing for the Christmas marathon. Their costumes flickered with colored LEDs. Abel watched them as if he recognized them.

“The race has already begun,” he said softly.

“What race?”

“The one that will decide who holds the pen.”

Kermorvin frowned.
“The pen?”

But Abel didn’t elaborate.

Back at the pizzeria, Naïma had decided to question Louvel, the storyteller. The man was sitting on a stool, his hands covered in knotted veins, his white beard dripping with melted snowflakes. This time, no children sat before him—just Naïma and Junon, listening intently.

“You see, Captain,” said Louvel, “stories don’t come from us. We merely carry them. Like a flame in the snow. Sometimes, they start walking on their own.”

“I don’t need poetry—I need facts. The mice you… drew in the condensation, I saw them. Really. Not an illusion. They were going somewhere.”

Louvel smiled sadly.
“They’re searching for what they always search for: the ultimate cheese. In some stories, it’s hidden across time; in others, among the stars. Tonight, they smelled it here in Val-d’Enbas. And believe me, when the mice of the multiverse move, something very old is at stake.”

Naïma took a slow breath.
“What does that have to do with pizza toppings trying to escape?”

“Perhaps they, too, sensed the language. The new language. Words born before they exist. When you hear them, they seep in—they want to possess you. Your olives, your pineapples… they weren’t moving vegetables. They were prisoners trying to flee a voice.”

Junon growled low. The sound of footsteps echoed outside in the snow. The pizzeria door burst open. A police officer entered, out of breath.

“Captain! Come quick. We have a problem at the station. Abel’s disappeared.”

“What do you mean, disappeared?”

“He was sitting there. One minute. Then there was nothing. No opening, no trace. The camera caught… a blur.”

Louvel looked down, almost resigned.
“When you walk with a story, Captain, you don’t always use doors.”

Naïma clenched her jaw. Her radio crackled. A foreign, rough voice broke through:

“Ra… na… sha…”

The new language.
Junon barked furiously, as if to push back the echo.

Outside, the crowd sang “Jingle Bells.” The church bells tolled the hour. And in the snow, in the middle of the square, a kid dressed as a Hive power token suddenly collapsed, convulsing, his lips spilling the same impossible syllables.

Naïma understood then that Abel was right: the race had just begun.

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