Chapter 65.
At breakfast that morning The Host is back to communicating via speaker. “You may make a final call or write letters to friends or loved ones today,” he announces. “One final courtesy. They will be mailed once your aircraft is in the air.”
They are going to be bused to the Portland International Jetport. There they will board the flight to what was still an undisclosed war zone somewhere.
Alek and Hannah walk back from breakfast hand in hand, boots scuffing gravel, the Maine air damp and cold enough to wake you up even if you haven’t slept.
Alek says, “I don’t believe Jimmy quit.”
Hannah doesn’t answer right away.
She’s thinking about Death Valley. About the button. About the rule that was supposed to be the only rule that mattered.
Alek continues, because when Alek believes something, she says it like it’s a fact. “He’s not playing their game anymore. He’s playing against The Host.”
Hannah finally nods once. “Then he’s doing the only rational thing.”
She breaks away and runs to her cottage.
She doesn’t cry. Knowing how little time she has, she writes to her parents in Germany—both police officers, both trained to see patterns, both trained to ignore melodrama and look for proof.
Dear Mom and Dad:
If you are reading this, then one of two things has happened:
I am dead.
Someone wants you to believe I am.
Either way, treat this as evidence, not a goodbye.
You raised me to be precise and observant, so here is what I know and what I need you to do.
What this is: A competition disguised as “philanthropy.” The stated goal is to identify The One—a person who can lead a global movement.
The true goal appears to be control. The Host is not alone.
There is a “board.” There is a way to abandon the game and it is real, but not equally real for all of us.
A. Do not go to the press first. You will be fed a narrative.
B. Go to your contacts in Bundeskriminalamt and request a quiet inquiry into the flight manifests connected to our movements from Ohio onward. You know how to phrase this so it doesn’t trigger bureaucracy.
C. Pull CCTV around any private aviation facilities near the last confirmed locations of “Jimmy Donaldson” (I cannot include certain details here without risking interceptions).
Our movements require clearance and equipment you can’t fake: tail numbers, secured airfields, armed escorts, fuel, manifests.
Look for repeats. Patterns will be the only fingerprints.
He is not your target. He is an asset to your investigation. If you find him. He will be useful.
Proof and identifiers:
· The Host’s voice has a particular cadence and a recurring phrase structure (“for the uninitiated,” “not to make too fine a point,” “delightful”). This is not random. It’s a mask.
· He uses everything as a deliberate intimidation tactic. He wants us to imagine something untouchable.
· No one “sets up” a war zone. You rent it. Security contracts. “Aid” flights. Medical pallets that aren’t medical. That isn’t “one rich guy.” There’s a private apparatus that mimics a state—contractors, shell charities, and a security conglomerate that can buy access.
The boring parts are where the truth hides.
Now the part I don’t want to write, but I will, because you would hate me if I didn’t.
We’re about to go on our most dangerous test.
All we know is that we’re being sent off to a war, without knowing which one. In the world in which we live, that could be almost anywhere.
You both raised me to be brave and strong. And were always telling me—long before this came along—that I could grow up to change the world.
I just want you to know that if something happens to me, if I never see you again, that I’ve always loved you the way you loved me.
There’s another thing I need to admit, because it feels dishonest to die without saying it.
I care about someone here. Wyatt Jordan.
He’s not what he seems, but neither am I anymore.
I was forced into a choice: him or the game.
Another “test.” Another way to make us bleed without leaving a mark.
I chose the game. I did it to survive. I did it to stay close to what’s happening long enough to understand it.
It also hurt him, and I’ll have to live with that.
If I don’t survive: Tell him this wasn’t a teenage fantasy. It was real. It was brief. It mattered.
Finally—because you’re my parents and you’ll want to protect me even from beyond the world—remember: You didn’t send me into this. I walked in with my eyes open. I just didn’t know how dark the room was.
If I come home, I’ll tell you everything.
If I don’t, remember me as brave, and I need you to do what you do best.
Justice.
Ich liebe euch
Hannah