Between sharp silences and restrained heartbeats, the hunt for the chemical truth takes a ruthless turn.
In the dark heart of the Riviera, when the sea's breath mingles with the eerie hum of hidden machinery, Inspector Ogata moves like a shadow among forgotten moorings and diesel tanks, guided only by a flashlight and instinct. A crumbling hangar, a door opening onto the secret underbelly of an undeclared war, and a signature written with phosphorescent sarcasm: Phobos loves you. Inside, the evidence speaks for itself—boiling vats, devices disguised as everyday objects, handwritten data like maps of an invisible contraband.
But it's an encounter with a frightened boy, too young for the night he experienced, that shatters the apparent coldness of the investigation. And just when the truth seems to emerge from the milky liquid and the wet tags, the scene shifts, shifts, like a nightmare that never stops haunting its protagonists. The tension becomes tangible, the line between science and crime becomes blurred, and the investigation reveals only the tip of a poisonous iceberg pointing straight to Rome.
In the silence of the port, the echo of every detail—a lit torch, a step in the mud, a trembling voice—is the harbinger of an escalating conflict. And the real question is no longer who created it, but who will be able to stop it in time.
A team of Japanese scientists announces the molecule LYL 8, capable of inhibiting negative impulses in the amygdala; financial markets, governments, and bioethicists question the impact of a society without anger.
Stories. Osaka reveals LYL 8: the first 'anti-anger pill'. Chapter 14 – Return to Monte Carlo.
Port de Fontvieille, 28 May – 02.15 am
On the Riviera, the night was a heavy velvet, dotted here and there by the dull glow of anchors and ship's lights. The calm seemed suspended, broken only by the rhythmic, low chug of the yachts' watermakers, which blew jets of salty water like metallic breaths into the darkness. The air carried the salty scent of the sea mixed with the greasy, pungent odor of diesel, while everything—from the inflated fenders to the steel ladders—seemed muffled in a silence that felt like anticipation.
Inspector Rika Ogata advanced silently among piles of buoys covered in dried seaweed and crustaceans, mooring ropes as thick as human arms coiled into perfect nests, and diesel tanks with faded labels, lined up like tired soldiers under the yellowish light of a forgotten battery-powered lamp. A pair of seagulls, motionless on a tin roof, watched the scene with shining eyes, their feathers ruffled by the warm wind blowing in from the sea.
Ogata wore dark jeans, a gray hoodie with the hood down, and an NBCR vest over it, the initials of the National Police printed in white, standing out in the darkness. With his hair pulled back in a neat ponytail, his face drawn with a mix of exhaustion and concentration, he moved with confident strides, his breathing controlled, his gloved hands touching every object as if it might conceal a trap.
Before her, Hangar 17B looked more abandoned than cared for: the sheet metal was reddened with rust, peeling and etched by years of storms, the roof propped up by old antennas and sleeping pigeons. The chain holding the shutter was secured by a Chinese padlock: cheap but sturdy gears, the metal etched with marks and scratches that spoke of a thousand hands that had passed before it.
Ogata took the LED flashlight and placed it between her teeth, free to use both hands. The taste of metal and plastic lingered in her mouth as she fiddled with a thin lockpick, the shiny tip sliding between the teeth of the lock. Her right hand pried open, a short, decisive movement, and after a couple of attempts, the lock gave way with a sharp click, almost like a strangled cry in the dead of night.
The door creaked open, a plaintive sound that was lost in the dark belly of the hangar. A gust of cold air, uncharacteristic for a dockyard, lifted the collar of her jacket and the skin on her arms. The first beam of the flashlight revealed the scene inside, like a snapshot of an underground theater: electrical cables, thick and thin, stretched like freshly skinned snakes across the cement tiles; industrial power supplies with metal casings, still warm to the touch, emitting the faint sound of lazy fans; on the walls, garish graffiti daubed with fluorescent orange spray paint.
In the center, a message stood out in letters a meter high, wavy, frayed by time and dripping humidity:....
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