Deep State: Memory Manipulation E-Book

Yeong Hwan Choi

• Herausgeber: epubli
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Deutsch

Seitenzahl: 415

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

■ Deep State 3: The Manipulation of Memory "Can you trust your memories? Our minds are constantly being manipulated, distorting what we believe is true." "Will you accept the mark of the beast, or embrace your destiny?" When the very foundation of what he thought was truth begins to crumble, he's left questioning: "Who am I?", "What was real?", "Is there any truth at all?" □ As an unnamed virus, earthquakes, and chaos spread across the globe, the fabric of reality itself begins to unravel. Amidst the turmoil, a new order rises. But who is pulling the strings? · The woman who fled into the wilderness: What does she know? · The goat of Judas: Who is the betrayer? · Nemesis vs Eden: Who will be the last one standing? · The true identity of Raphael: Whose side is he really on? · The stage is set for World War III. A voice echoes through the chaos: □ "World War III was planned long ago!" · After seven years of destruction, the superpowers are poised to launch their missiles at one another. And when three mysterious gates open—SILVER GATE, GOLDEN GATE, GOLVER GATE—the fate of the world lies in the hands of Eden and Nemesis. 1) African Civil War 2) U.S. Civil War 3) European War 4) Middle Eastern Conflict 5) South American Uprising 6) East Asian Tensions → The Crimson Claw smiles as the world burns. Was this "predestined judgment," or the inevitable scenario of the apocalypse? ★ The seventh trumpet blows. Before the final bowls of wrath are poured out, the victor will be invited to the Last Supper. □ Inside the tattered pages of his grandfather's journal lies a chilling truth: He knew the final secret of the Freemasons. · The last sentence: "Remember. Truth never disappears. Only those who endure will—" □ In a world ruled by the Deep State, what can we still believe? · What if everything you knew was a fabricated history? - What would you choose? · It's time to open the door to truth. √NWO: The New World Order and Humanity's Final Hour.

Leseprobe

​Deep State

-Memory Manipulation-

Table of Contents

Title Page

Deep State

<Judas’ Goat>

Part 1: The Manipulation of Memory | Chapter 1: Mark of the Beast or Seal of Protection?

Chapter 2: Denver Airport and the Eye of the Sahara

Chapter 3: The Golden Key and the Silver Key

Part 2: Global Chaos and Disasters | Chapter 1: Three Plagues of the First Trumpet

Chapter 2: The European War and Russia’s Expansion

Chapter 3: The Woman Who Fled into the Wilderness

Part 3: Armageddon, The Final Battle | Chapter 1: The Third World War

Chapter 2: The Last Supper

Chapter 3: The Final Judgment

<The Torn Pages of Grandfather’s Diary>

Deep State

[Meomory Manipulation]

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Yeong Hwan Choi

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Disclaimer

This novel is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, real persons, living or dead, organizations, or locales is purely coincidental. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this book are the products of the author's imagination and are used fictitiously.

ⓒ Deep State : Memory Manipulation 2025

<Judas’ Goat>

A damp chill clawed at his skin, the acrid stench of exhaust curling in his nostrils. The Speaker of the House had concluded his address without a hitch, but the world still reeled, drunk on his words. Simon pushed forward, cutting through the wind. He knew. He knew exactly who those words had been meant for.

Perhaps Grandfather’s diary had put it best.

"Is it time to break the chains?"

FROM THE MOMENT THE Freemasons had shaken the world, to the endless war between Nemesis and Eden—nothing had ever really changed. The battle was always the same. Man reaching for the seat of God. And God’s unwavering silence.

Solomon must have known. He must have foreseen that his descendant would be drawn into the final war.

The towering glass facade of Pigeon Media loomed ahead. At the heart of New York, a massive LED screen pulsed to life, casting cold light over the street below. A news anchor’s face flickered onto the display, her voice smooth yet urgent.

"The Speaker has delivered a decisive statement on the pandemic crisis and vaccine development. But is Deep State real? If so, where does this power struggle lead us? Public concern is at an all-time high."

Simon stopped at the front entrance and looked up—thirteen floors above him lay the truth he was about to unleash. And waiting alongside it... was Catherine.

For a moment, he could almost hear his grandfather’s voice. "Hold on to your faith, no matter what." He carried the weight of those words into the building, pushing through the revolving doors.

Inside, the lobby buzzed with the quiet hum of urgency. Suspended from the ceiling, monitors streamed breaking news.

"Terror attack in Milan leaves 43 dead..."

"California wildfires continue raging into their 13th hour..."

"Election official goes missing in the heart of Gangnam, Seoul..."

The receptionist glanced up as he approached.

"Good evening. I’m here to see Catherine Mills."

The woman hesitated, glancing at her screen, fingers tapping a quick sequence on the keyboard. Then, with a small frown, she lifted the phone, speaking in hushed tones. A moment later, she hung up, blinking in mild surprise.

"Oh—you’re an employee. You can head up as usual."

The elevator doors slid open, and as he pressed the button, a crimson glow illuminated the floor labeled CEO’s Office. Leaning against the wall, he closed his eyes for a brief moment.

When did Raphael and I officially become the hunted?

Since their call from Israel, not a single news outlet had reported the truth he had uncovered. He retraced the sequence of events. Ah. It started then. That was the moment we had to run for our lives. The moment the Red Priests began trailing us at every turn—until, inevitably, we were caught in their trap.

Perhaps Catherine had not ignored the story. Perhaps she couldn’t report it. Or worse—perhaps she had been part of the game all along.

A sharp ding rang out. As he stepped forward, the familiar space felt oddly foreign. He had cleaned these halls for five years, yet tonight, they seemed unrecognizable. At the end of the corridor, the door marked CEO awaited him, and beyond it, Catherine—the woman who had once been everything to him.

A knock. The voice that followed was unmistakable. Once, it had been the closest thing to home.

"Come in."

Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the New York skyline, its brilliance casting long shadows across the room. The walls were cluttered with photographs—snapshots from assignments all over the world. And as always, her desk was buried under piles of meeting notes and reports. Nothing had changed. Not even the way he used to slip in and out of this office with a mop in hand.

"It’s been a while," she said.

"It has."

Then, after a brief silence—

"Catherine... are you Nemesis?"

Her dark eyes flickered—just for a second. Then, they were steady again.

"What makes you ask that?"

"You once told me... you had a baptismal name."

Her fingers tapped lightly against the desk. A rhythmic pattern. Simon recognized it—she used to do this when she was hiding something, or when she was deep in thought.

"You’re not answering."

She tilted her lips slightly. "Do you know why the President pulled out of the World Health Organization? Because of the vaccine project."

He frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"Someone is monopolizing it. That’s how the world works, Simon." She gathered a stack of papers, her voice calm, almost indifferent. "The powerful hold the reins. The rest follow."

"Don’t change the subject. Why didn’t you report what I told you?"

She exhaled, leaning back slightly in her chair. "Bring me proof." Her tone was ice. "Real proof, Simon. Not what you think you saw. Not what you believe. Give me data." She pressed her palm to her forehead as if weary of the conversation.

"Catherine. Do you still live in Queens?"

"That place? I just pay the rent. I never go there."

"Then where do you stay?"

She didn’t answer. Instead, she flipped a page of her report.

"I’ve been to the Vatican. I’ve been to Parliament. I’ve walked the streets of Jerusalem. And in South Korea—" His voice sharpened. "I met Nemesis’s leader. They call her Crimson Claw. Do you have any idea how deeply they’ve infiltrated the world?"

The motion of her fingers—flipping the page—stopped.

"It’s true. I barely made it out alive. Raphael didn’t."

At last, Catherine looked at him.

"Raphael was one of them, Simon. He was Nemesis. Then he defected to Eden. And when he realized even they weren’t the answer, he ran—to the Vatican."

"Then he was a traitor."

"..."

"He should have picked a side, Simon." Her voice was quiet. "The right side."

"You—"

"I'm busy." She suddenly rose from her seat, smoothing out the papers on her desk as she spoke. "I have an important meeting."

"Catherine—"

She didn’t look away from him, yet her expression was unreadable, devoid of any emotion.

"So," she said, her voice devoid of warmth. "What exactly can a descendant of the Freemasons do?"

Without another glance, she walked out, leaving Simon standing there, staring at the closing door. He let his gaze wander around the office—an expensive leather sofa, a heavy mahogany desk, a massive floor-to-ceiling window, and a gray-toned carpet that swallowed the sound of his footsteps.

Slowly, Simon reached out and ran his fingers over the meticulously arranged business cards on her desk. One of them bore her name, embossed in silver, with the title CEO printed underneath. His thumb traced the letters absently. Then, turning his head, he spotted her black blazer draped over a coat rack, barely clinging on before slipping off. A crisp white shirt beneath it. The silhouette alone was enough to remind him of her.

She must have left something behind. Something that tells me who she really is.

Carefully, he opened a desk drawer. Nothing. Just stacks of reports, mostly media briefings, and a few pens worn smooth from use. Even the framed photo on her desk was frustratingly neutral—devoid of personal sentiment.

"Nemesis? Eden? What the hell is she?"

Simon scratched his head, frustration mounting. He studied her face in his mind, recalling the subtle similarities to the Crimson Claw.

But it didn’t make sense. Catherine grew up in the orphanage with me. That means she’s Eden. And yet... something is off.

He searched the office again, combing through every possible hiding place, but there was nothing. With a sigh, he slumped against the desk, rubbing his temples.

Time had slipped away unnoticed. When he finally glanced at the clock, the hands pointed to 7:07 PM.

As he stepped out of the office, the receptionist shot him an annoyed look, tapping at her watch. "The director isn’t here. What were you doing in there for so long? Some of us have places to be, you know."

Before Simon could respond, a familiar voice cut through the air.

"Hey, Simon!"

Andrew.

With his usual smirk, Andrew strode toward him, playfully thumping Simon’s shoulder.

"Andrew! It’s been a while. How have you been?"

Andrew snorted. "We saw each other yesterday. What’s with the sudden pleasantries?"

Then, his gaze flicked toward the office door Simon had just exited. His lips curled into a smirk.

"Why were you in the director’s office? She’s been out on business for three days. Unless you’ve suddenly taken up janitorial work, I can’t think of a good reason. Or..." His grin widened. "Did you miss her already? Can’t stand being apart, huh?"

Simon pinched the bridge of his nose. "What the hell are you talking about? I was just talking to Catherine. She left before I did."

Andrew’s expression froze for a fraction of a second before his brow furrowed.

"...You saw her?"

"Yeah. Just now."

"That’s not possible," Andrew said, crossing his arms. "She wasn’t in today. The whole team had a meeting, and we were specifically told she wouldn’t be joining. In fact, she sent an official directive to tighten control over press releases."

A chill spread through Simon’s fingers.

"What...?"

Andrew let out a breath and gave Simon a once-over.

"Listen, man. You need to get it together. You’ve been acting weird for weeks—like you’re in some kind of trance." He swayed dramatically, mimicking Simon’s supposed erratic state. "Yesterday, I even caught you leaning against a wall, whispering some weird name—Raphael or something? You kept muttering it over and over."

Raphael.

Simon’s pulse quickened.

"I... I’ve been traveling. Made some decisions on my own. I went to the Vatican, London, Jerusalem... even Seoul." His voice was hoarse. "Raphael was with me for weeks. But in Seoul..."

Andrew scowled and waved a dismissive hand. “Alright, alright. This is insane. What the hell are you rambling about? Vatican conspiracies now? You need to see a doctor, man. Maybe take a vacation. I think the stress is getting to you.” He scoffed and threw a stack of papers onto the front desk with a practiced ease. “Me? I’ve got better things to do. I’ve got a date tonight—first in months. Wish me luck.” With a smirk, he turned to the receptionist. “Make sure Director Catherine gets this, will you? It’s not something our dear department head can just brush off.”

The receptionist nodded hesitantly. “Of course. I’ll keep it safe.”

Andrew shot Simon a final glance. “You—get your head straight. And by the time you clock in tomorrow, I expect you to be back to normal.”

Simon watched as Andrew strode toward the emergency stairs and disappeared down them.

Then, the headache hit.

A piercing, white-hot pain that sent shockwaves through his skull. “Ghh—” His vision blurred. A high-pitched ringing filled his ears, a cacophony of metronomes ticking at different tempos, each one clashing violently with the others. He staggered toward the elevator, stabbing at the call button. The numbers on the digital panel swam before his eyes. Cold sweat broke across his brow.

His stomach twisted violently. He barely made it to the threshold before he doubled over, retching. Acid burned his throat, a bitter aftertaste clinging to his tongue.

“What the hell is happening to me?” he gasped.

The receptionist rushed over. “Sir, are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

She steadied him, guiding him into the elevator. She pressed the button for the ground floor. “I’ll handle things up here. You should go home and rest. And if you’re still feeling unwell tomorrow, call in sick.”

The elevator doors slid open. Even on the ground floor, Simon’s legs threatened to buckle. The nausea hadn’t passed. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, inhaling sharply to suppress another wave of sickness.

Pocket. His hand shot instinctively to his pants pocket.

Empty.

A sudden panic seized him. His fingers scrambled across the inner lining of his jacket, searching—nothing. The USB drive was gone.

His breath quickened. He tugged at his shirt’s inner label. MADE IN KOREA. That was right. He had bought this in Korea. His phone—he fumbled it out, scrolling through his transaction history. There they were. Flight tickets. Seoul. London. Rome. Paid with his own card. His own feet had carried him across those cities.

Gallery. His trembling fingers navigated to his photos. There—undeniable evidence. The dimly lit courtroom in Seoul. A grotesque painting of a woman’s face, melting into darkness. Legal documents. A hotel rooftop where he had captured a breaking news headline—PRESIDENT IMPEACHED.

It was real. He had been there. He had seen it. So why—why were Andrew and the receptionist acting like none of it had ever happened?

Red Nails. Raphael.

The words sliced through his thoughts like a blade. An authoritative, razor-sharp voice, issuing commands. He had been a pawn on the chessboard.

Were his memories altered? Could it be...the Green Apple?

But if he dismissed all of this, if he chalked it up to hallucination or stress, then everything he had uncovered about Deep State would vanish into oblivion.

His fingers pressed against his temples. “Damn it.”

A war raged in his mind—a battle between 1930s recollections and the stark reality of the present.

“No,” he muttered. “This is real. I was there.”

Outside, a taxi idled. He barely registered climbing in. The streets of New York streaked past the window in a blur of neon and headlights. It all felt...distant. Foreign.

His phone rested in his palm, screen glowing. He stared at it, unblinking.

“We’re here, sir.”

Simon looked up. The Queens apartment loomed ahead, bathed in the dull glow of streetlamps. A quiet unease settled over him. He hesitated.

Am I really going home? Or is this just another scene in someone else’s script?

But if Catherine had been there—if their encounter had really happened—then why did everyone else act as if she was never around?

I know what I saw. I know she was there.

He let out a slow, measured breath.

The stairs creaked beneath his weight as he ascended. This place—their place—held echoes of a past he wasn’t ready to let go of. Mornings spent in the cramped kitchen, sipping coffee as they shared a newspaper, dissecting the world’s injustices. The familiarity of it was almost painful.

His fingers brushed against the door handle. Unlocked.

His pulse quickened.

Why the hell wasn’t it locked?

He stepped inside cautiously. The air was still, thick with silence. How long had it been since he last set foot here?

The living room was frozen in time. The old clock on the wall pointed to the same hour it had the day he left. The peculiar painting—that damned frame—was exactly where it had always been.

He moved toward the kitchen. And there, sitting untouched on the table, was his grandfather’s journal.

A shiver ran down his spine.

He reached out, fingers tracing the worn leather cover. Catherine hadn’t even opened it. Next to it lay a stack of papers—his own letters, exactly as he had left them.

As he picked up the journal, a single sheet of paper slipped from between the pages, fluttering to the floor.

A note.

From Catherine.

His pulse pounded in his ears. Slowly, he bent down and retrieved it.

His grip tightened.

At the top of the page, scrawled in her unmistakable handwriting, were five chilling words:

“Judas’ Goat.”

The letters felt heavy. Sinister.

He swallowed hard, his eyes scanning the rest of the note.

Catherine’s writing carried its usual edge—a touch of mockery, playful on the surface, yet laced with something much darker underneath.

A riddle. A warning. A truth he wasn’t ready to face.

And buried within it—a secret colder than death itself.

"THE JUDAS GOAT."

He slowly folded the note in half. The city outside the window moved on, indifferent and unchanging. But the world as he saw it—his world—had irrevocably shifted.

For a long moment, he stood still, lips pressed together in thought, before turning away.

There was a place he needed to go.

Alexander Crane. The director of Eden. The man who had raised him.

He had to return.

Gripping the journal tightly, he stepped into a dimly lit alleyway. The cold night air carried a hollow stillness, pressing against him like an unspoken truth.

"Was I Judas?" He muttered under his breath, each step echoing against the empty walls. "No... I am not like Raphael. I was never Deep State. I never betrayed anyone."

His footsteps quickened.

"Then who was the goat Catherine spoke of? Someone like me... another Judas, perhaps?"

Unaware that the answer had already begun unraveling beneath his very feet, he pressed on—toward the Hudson River.

Part 1: The Manipulation of Memory

Chapter 1: Mark of the Beast or Seal of Protection?

If his memory served him right, this was the way.

And yet, the street signs—once so familiar—felt strangely foreign. He scratched his head.

"Had my memory really been altered?"

Pulling out his phone, he scrolled through old photos, searching for something—anything—that might confirm what he already feared.

"What the hell happened here?"

Two hours of walking left him breathless. The humid air clung to his skin, but the breeze from the Hudson cooled his sweat as he caught sight of it.

The orphanage.

It stood there, just as it always had—its silhouette untouched by time. His footsteps slowed.

Five years. That’s how long it had been since he’d last set foot here.

He sank onto a bench, staring out at the river. The same deep, murky blue. Across the water, the Manhattan skyline glittered, cold and indifferent.

"Who am I, really?"

The question echoed in his mind as he rose and made his way toward the entrance.

The steep stone staircase loomed before him.

This was where he had taken his first steps into the outside world.

He remembered it clearly.

"I was twenty when I first walked down these steps."

And now, he was climbing them once more.

A flicker of memory stopped him mid-step. "Thirty-three steps up... and she was there. The Crimson Claw."

The thought sent a chill through his fingers, spreading like ice up his spine.

Was she waiting for him even now?

Simon clenched his fists and took the first step.

One.

Two.

As a child, the stairs had seemed endless.

Three. Four. Five.

Now, they felt far too short.

He hesitated, glancing around.

Six. Seven. Eight.

Nine. Ten.

He steadied his breath, his eyes tracing the staircase to its peak. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen.

"Thirteen?"

Had the steps always been so few? Or had the vast landings made them seem longer?

At the final step, the rusted iron gate yawned open—just enough for him to slip inside.

As if it had been waiting for him. Simon inhaled deeply and stepped forward.

The central building loomed ahead, shrouded in stillness. Every footstep stirred a whisper of dust, carrying the faint scent of antiseptic through the air.

"The children must be asleep."

The walls remained as he remembered them—adorned with crayon drawings of sunflowers, crooked houses, and, in the corner, a small, scribbled name. "Simon."

Once upon a time, he had run through these hallways, laughing, crying.

And sometimes... trembling in fear.

“The students who received demerits were taken to the Nemesis Room.”

Back then, Simon hadn’t realized what it meant. But now, the weight of those words settled over him like an iron shroud. He walked a little farther, and the details of the wooden tiles beneath his feet stirred long-forgotten memories. That corner over there—fourth plank from the edge—was slightly loose. If he stepped on it, it would creak. He avoided it instinctively.

And here—on the first floor—was the dining hall. Simon pressed against the door and slipped inside. The round communal table stood exactly as he remembered it. Against the far wall, a chalkboard still bore the daily menu. Breakfast: bread and soup. Lunch: chicken and potatoes. And dinner...

"Ah, right. Catherine always stole my potatoes." A smirk tugged at his lips.

Memories of their childhood battles over food, the secret midnight conversations whispered across dormitory corridors—Catherine had always been a step ahead of him. He ran his fingers absently across the table’s surface before stepping back into the hallway. Ahead, the staircase to the second floor loomed in the dim light.

“I can’t believe I’m back here.”

Dormitory rooms lined the hallway, each door hiding the steady rhythm of sleeping breaths behind them. As Simon moved through the corridor, patterns he had once dismissed as mere decoration now revealed themselves in sharp clarity. The intricate carvings on the bedposts, the large numeral seven etched into a column, even the geometric motifs repeating along the window frames—back then, he had overlooked them. Just meaningless designs. But now, he saw it.

Eden.

He had known it all along.

Mandala—the symbol of harmony and integration. And yet... also a mark of concealed dominance.

A dizziness washed over him. Eden’s control was never crude or oppressive. It was subtle, an illusion of choice and freedom. Only now did he realize how deeply woven the web had been.

He reached the door to his old room but didn’t open it. Instead, his feet carried him forward—to the headmaster’s office. Beneath the door, a sliver of light bled into the hallway.

11:00 p.m.

Would the headmaster still be awake?

It felt intrusive, but he had already come this far. Turning back now would only feel like hesitation. And if he left, he would only convince himself to return in the morning.

Simon raised a fist and knocked—lightly, but deliberately.

No response.

Was the headmaster asleep? Or simply too preoccupied? He hesitated, considering knocking again, when—

“...Who is it?”

A voice, low and cautious.

"Ah. Headmaster, it’s me... Simon Gray. I know it’s late, but... may I come in?"

A brief silence stretched between them. Then, slowly—

“...Simon?”

A faint click. The door eased open.

Simon stepped inside, inclining his head respectfully. The room was exactly as he had imagined—an extension of Eden’s precision, of its calculated foresight. The AI systems embedded in the walls hummed with an invisible presence, their watchful eyes silently tracking him. But Simon’s attention was drawn to something else entirely.

A screen. A black monitor beside the headmaster’s desk.

It was off. But in its reflective surface, he glimpsed something that made his heart lurch.

The headmaster’s face.

No— Not just his face. The Goat of Judas.

Not like the rams he had seen in the Vatican or in Korea. This was different.

Unsettling.

The world wavered, the edges of his vision tilting dangerously.

And then— “I expected you to return,” the headmaster murmured. “Though I must say, you arrived sooner than I anticipated.” He tapped a finger against the desk. “I imagine I already know what you wish to ask.”

Simon couldn’t tear his gaze away from the reflection. His throat tightened.

“...Headmaster Crane,” he said at last. “Have you been well?”

Crane smiled—slow, measured.

“Well enough,” he replied. “And you, Simon?”

Simon let out a long sigh, ruffling his hair in frustration. Once the words started flowing, his pent-up confusion erupted like a dam breaking.

"I don’t understand what’s happening to me. I just spoke with Catherine—I'm sure of it. But my colleagues insist she's away on a business trip. They acted like I was crazy! But I know what I saw. I talked to her. Just moments ago!"

Crane studied Simon carefully, his gaze steady and unshaken. Simon, however, couldn’t stop.

"And Israel, England, Korea, the Vatican—I was there. I remember everything. But now people are saying I never went. Does that make any sense? Look, I have my passport stamps, see? My clothes—these are from Korea! And this receipt—right here! Even my phone!"

He fumbled for his smartphone, scrolling frantically through his records. But the screen was eerily empty. Blank. As if none of it had ever happened.

"What the...? No, no, no. It was here. It was right here!" His voice wavered, teetering on the edge of panic. "How... how is this possible?"

Crane let out a slow, measured breath, rubbing his temple.

"Simon. Take a moment." His voice was low, even. Steady. "If we're to continue this conversation, you need to calm down. How about some tea?"

With a quiet click, Crane pressed a button on his desk. A concealed drawer slid open from the wall, releasing a curl of fragrant steam.

"Schisandra tea," he said, handing Simon a porcelain cup. "Drink. And take your time. One step at a time."

Simon wrapped his fingers around the warm cup, the heat seeping into his skin. His pulse, erratic just moments ago, began to slow. He took a deep breath, then exhaled.

"There are so many things I need to ask you." His hands trembled slightly as he reached into his coat and pulled out a leather-bound journal, placing it on Crane’s desk. The worn cover bore the marks of time, its pages filled with elegant, meticulous handwriting.

"This belonged to my grandfather," Simon murmured. "He gave it to me the day I left the orphanage. At first, I thought it was just a family record..." His jaw tensed. "But it wasn’t."

His gaze darkened as he turned his eyes back to Crane.

"That’s how I discovered the truth—I’m a descendant of the Freemasons. And the more I followed the breadcrumbs, the more I uncovered. Two opposing forces. Nemesis... and Eden."

A charged silence filled the room.

"You’re part of Eden, aren’t you?" Simon’s voice was firm. "This place—this orphanage—is Eden."

Crane remained still, watching him with an inscrutable expression.

"I saw what I saw in Israel. Nemesis controls people through faith and fanaticism, but Eden isn’t much different. Just... more refined." Simon’s tone sharpened. "You're another Deep State. You dress it up in the illusion of freedom, but in the end, it's just another way to keep control. Another ruling class pulling the strings from the shadows."

Crane said nothing. He merely listened.

Simon didn’t wait for a response. He picked up the USB drive, gripping it tightly.

"The data inside this drive. My grandfather’s journal. Why was all of this given to me? And Catherine—who is she, really? What about Estelle Raphael, Klaus Hauser, and the woman they call the Crimson Claw? Were they real?"

He remained silent for a moment, then slowly straightened his back, his voice calm but deliberate.

"That..." He hesitated, drawing in a deep breath before exhaling. "Simon... do you remember page seventy-seven of the journal?"

SIMON SWIFTLY FLIPPED through the pages, his fingertips brushing against the brittle parchment. Across the desk, Alexander Crane, the director, lifted a glass. The cold water moistened his lips before he finally spoke.

"Alright. I understand you have many questions." Interlacing his fingers, he fixed his gaze on Simon. "Let's break it down into three parts."

"First—memory and fact. The events you've experienced so far—were they real, or were they fabrications? What has been distorted, and what remains true?"

"Second—Catherine, the woman known as Crimson Claw, Lin Wu, Klaus Hauser, and Estelle Raphael. Who are they, really? What purpose do they serve in your story? And, most importantly, what does their allegiance truly stand for?"

"Third—Solomon Gray’s journal and the USB drive. The relics passed down to you. Are they an inheritance, or merely pieces in a carefully orchestrated performance?"

Simon absorbed Crane’s words, his eyes following the inked letters on the journal’s pages. Freemasonry. Truth and deception. And—

"James. I need to know about James, Director. I met him at the Wailing Wall."

Crane smiled knowingly.

"Very well. Then let’s begin with the first question, shall we?"

Simon nodded in silent agreement.

"We often mistake fact for truth," Crane continued, pressing his fingertips together. "But are they really the same?" He leaned forward slightly. "For example, is it a fact that the sun rises in the east?"

"Scientifically, yes," Simon replied. "Because of Earth's rotation—"

"Good. But if someone from a geocentric worldview claimed 'the sun revolves around the Earth,' would that be a lie?"

Simon opened his mouth but hesitated.

Crane’s smile deepened.

"Plato introduced the concept of the 'ideal form.' He argued that everything we experience is merely an imperfect imitation, and that truth is absolute, unchanging. Aristotle, on the other hand, believed in empirical observation—that reality is what we can perceive, and if perception aligns with reality, then it is true."

"Which one is correct?"

"Most people follow Aristotle’s reasoning. We define ‘fact’ based on what we can observe and prove." Crane glanced at the pale glow of the moon outside the window. "But Descartes questioned even that. What if our senses deceive us? In dreams, we act as though they are real, don’t we? Can you prove, at this very moment, that this isn’t a dream?"

Simon instinctively pinched his finger. A sharp pain shot through his skin. "Pain is proof of reality, isn’t it?"

"But what if even that pain is nothing more than a memory implanted into your mind?"

A weight settled on Simon’s chest.

Crane slowly pushed his glass across the table. "Kant argued that we can never perceive the world as it truly is. Our minds filter everything. What we call 'facts' are merely interpretations shaped by personal experience and perspective. And then there was Nietzsche, who took it even further—"

"‘There are no facts, only interpretations,’" Simon murmured.

Crane lifted his glass, took a slow sip, and set it back down with a heavy thud against the wooden table. The sound echoed in the dimly lit room. “If truth were so easily defined,” he said, locking eyes with Simon, “we wouldn’t have to fight this hard to uncover it.” He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a murmur. “It’s time for you to reconsider everything you believe to be true.”

Simon’s fingers clenched and unclenched unconsciously, an unfamiliar unease creeping into his chest. Crane’s words swirled in his mind like an insidious whisper. Had he truly seen what he thought he had? Had he truly heard what he believed was real?

Crane exhaled, his expression unreadable. “We’re not searching for facts, Simon. We’re searching for the truth we want to believe.” His voice carried the weight of something absolute, something inescapable.

Simon’s jaw tightened. “Then tell me—do objective facts even exist? If everything is just perception, how can I ever be certain of what’s real?”

Crane smiled, as if amused by the question. “Ah. That takes me back to when I first taught you.” He gestured at the table between them. “Let’s assume, for argument’s sake, that this table is real. You can see it. You can touch it. So, you’d claim with confidence that this table exists. Seems irrefutable, doesn’t it?”

Simon nodded hesitantly.

“But what if Descartes was right?” Crane continued. “What if your senses deceive you? How can you know this table is real? What if your eyes lie? What if your fingers mislead you? Can you truly trust your own perception?”

A flicker of doubt crossed Simon’s face. “But... it’s so obvious. The table is there.”

“Is it?” Crane tapped his fingers against the tabletop. “Then let’s consider Kant. He argued that everything we perceive is filtered through our own cognition. In other words, what you see—what you think is a table—is nothing more than an image your brain constructs. The real table, its true form, may be something entirely different—something no human can ever fully comprehend.”

A slow, creeping sensation worked its way up Simon’s spine. “So, you’re saying that what I see... isn’t real?”

Crane chuckled softly. “I’m saying that what you perceive as reality may not be the ultimate truth. Even language itself shapes our perception of reality. Take Wittgenstein—he believed that language constructs meaning rather than merely describing it. The very words we use determine how we understand the world. Consider the word revolution. To one person, it signifies a heroic fight for freedom. To another, it’s chaos and anarchy. The event itself doesn’t change—only the lens through which we view it.”

Simon exhaled sharply, his mind reeling. “Then... are you saying that objective reality doesn’t exist?”

Crane shook his head. “It may exist. But whether we can ever truly grasp it is another matter entirely.” He leaned back, a shadow of a smile playing on his lips. “Even modern physics struggles with this concept. Einstein’s theory of relativity suggests that time and space aren’t fixed constants—they shift depending on the observer. One second for you might be 0.9 seconds for someone else. What we assume to be absolute is, in fact, relative.”

Simon swallowed hard.

“And then we have quantum mechanics,” Crane continued, his voice smooth, deliberate. “In the quantum world, particles don’t exist in a single, defined state. Instead, they hover in superposition, existing in multiple possibilities at once—until observed. The very act of observation collapses those possibilities into one reality. In other words...” His eyes gleamed. “The moment we perceive something as fact, we may very well be the ones creating that fact.”

Simon pressed a hand against his forehead. His mind was a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts.

"So, what we believe to be true... could simply be something we fabricated ourselves?"

Crane offered a quiet smile. "Exactly, Simon. The world we know exists only within the limits of human perception. And if that perception can be manipulated? If the history we trust, the truth we accept, was deliberately crafted by someone?"

Simon swallowed hard. The most powerful force in the world isn’t military strength or wealth. It’s the power to define reality itself.

Crane, reading the flicker of realization in Simon’s eyes, continued. "Even if everything around you is a lie, one undeniable fact remains—you, the thinker, must exist." His voice dipped lower, almost conspiratorial. "To put it simply—"

He reached for his glass and gave it a slow, deliberate spin. The clear liquid inside traced smooth arcs along the rim.

"Time itself could be nothing more than a human construct," Crane mused. "To assume the world is purely three-dimensional is to reject the possibility of higher dimensions. Everything we see, hear—what we label as objective facts—remain, at their core, unknowable. That’s the conclusion that both philosophy and science have reached time and time again."

Simon closed his eyes for a brief moment. Something in his brain clicked—like a loose gear finally slipping into place. The logic was sound, yet the entire conversation felt like an intricate game of semantics.

"So, in the end, you’re saying the self doesn’t even exist? What, like the whole simulated universe theory physicists keep debating?"

Crane chuckled. "That, my boy, is for you to decide." He took a slow sip from his glass before setting it down. "What matters is that the very concept of truth is subjective. Just as left and right only exist in relation to your body, what we deem objective reality is still filtered through our individual perspectives. When an event occurs, the facts themselves are ambiguous, and our interpretations? They’re even worse. Nothing but a mess of errors and biases."

Simon drummed his fingers against the table. Tap. Tap.

"So you're telling me that everything I’ve seen—everything I know about Deep State—depends entirely on what I choose to believe?"

Crane placed his glass down with a soft clink and narrowed his eyes. "Precisely. But here’s the key—" He leaned forward. "Eden never tampered with your memories. When you grew up here, we imposed only the barest minimum of rules. You chose your own studies, your own path. Every decision you made was entirely your own. Even coming to see me today—that was your choice. Do you understand now?"

"And one more thing," Crane added. "Catherine is deeply connected to you, and I’ll explain everything in due time. But first—let’s verify your memories, shall we?" He tapped his fingers twice against the desk, a rhythmic thud-thud. "The places you’ve been. The people you’ve met. What if we examined those recollections from an objective perspective?"

Simon frowned. "Objective? You mean... a third party?"

Crane nodded. "An AI, of course."

Simon ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply.

The desk’s surface wavered, like ripples disturbing a still pond. A soft green glow flickered to life, forming a translucent figure in midair. A calm, measured voice resonated through the room.

"Headmaster, you summoned me. This is Nikola."

The holographic form moved with an uncanny fluidity, its joints and posture eerily natural.

"Go ahead, Simon," Crane said, almost nonchalantly. "Ask your question."

Simon flexed his fingers, exhaling through clenched teeth. A chill crept up his spine.

"The HaYarkon Park. In Israel," he said slowly. "The Third Temple—"

His voice wavered. "The massive wooden structure in the middle of the park... You know what I’m talking about, right?"

The AI flickered for a brief moment, then responded in a neutral, unwavering tone.

"Simon, the Third Temple does not exist."

Silence.

"What?"

"The park has a large tree at its center, but there is no building."

"Lies," Simon hissed. "I saw it with my own eyes."

"Headmaster," the AI continued, "perhaps you should look behind you."

Crane turned first, then Simon, his breath catching in his throat.

There it was. The Ark of the Covenant.

A golden chest, its polished surface gleaming under the dim light. Two sculpted cherubs faced each other atop the lid, their wings outstretched in silent reverence. The sacred artifact, believed to have once held the commandments of God Himself.

"The Ark is closely tied to the construction of the Third Temple," the AI intoned. "At present, only two historical temples have existed—Solomon’s Temple and Herod’s Temple."

"This can’t be right..." Simon’s head throbbed. "I... I was there. I saw it!"

A sharp, searing pain lanced through his skull, like a needle piercing deep into his brain. His stomach churned. The memories—ones he had been so certain of—were unraveling.

The streets of Israel. The towering wooden structure in HaYarkon Park. The woman, Mikhail, beneath its shadow...

One by one, they were slipping away. Vanishing into the void.

Simon staggered, gripping the edge of the table as the world around him tilted.

SIMON PRESSED HIS FINGERS against the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly. "The Crimson Claw... is she real?"

A faint green hologram flickered in the air before him. "Lin Wu. Lin Wu," the voice droned, mechanical yet eerily imbued with something almost human. "Leader of Nemesis. Headquarters: Beijing. Six key executives. Sixty-six senior officers. Total members approaching 666. Affiliated with the Committee of 300, USAID, EU, BRICS, and other clandestine roundtable organizations. High-ranking officials of major international institutions are involved."

Simon narrowed his eyes. "Then what about what happened in Korea?"

The hologram wavered, recalibrating. "She enforces obedience and domination. She conducts baptismal naming ceremonies alongside the Black Pope in the Apostolic Palace of the Vatican, using these rituals to religiously indoctrinate her followers. She is the de facto absolute ruler of Deep State."

A dry swallow caught in Simon's throat. "...Then what about the K-Web election fraud allegations?"

"The accusations were substantial. The Constitutional Court was on the verge of a ruling. However, South Korea is now in a state of chaos due to the collapse of the Chungju Dam."

Presidential impeachment and turmoil... That aligned with his memories. "That matches," he muttered, almost to himself. Then, after a beat, he asked again, "Estelle Raphael. Who is he?"

"Raphael. Raphael." The hologram scrolled through data at lightning speed. "Contract established: 1979—Estelle Raphael. Nemesis agent. Currently in hiding."

Simon’s mouth went dry. "He died during a chess game in Korea."

The hologram processed. "No additional information is available."

Simon's lips parted, then trembled slightly. "Raphael..." The name felt like sandpaper in his throat. His vision blurred at the edges.

He swallowed hard. "What about Klaus Hauser?"

"Eden operative. Advocated for blockchain-based cryptocurrency over traditional reserve currencies (USD, gold). Deceased two weeks ago. Deceased."

"The cause of death?"

"Determined to be an assassination by Nemesis."

Simon exhaled sharply. "And... is there a pyramid behind Gyeongbokgung Palace in Korea?"

The hologram hesitated, processing. Then, firmly: "Negative. No pyramid. Verification complete."

His pulse quickened. "Then... what about 216-18, Yongsan-gu, Seoul? A bookstore near Itaewon?"

The hologram blinked as it scanned databases. "A bookstore exists at the specified location. Former president operates it."

His heart plummeted. What was real, and what was fabricated memory? Some details were correct; others were false. The pressure in his skull tightened. His vision wavered, cold sweat trickling down his temple.

"James?" His voice was edged now.

Crane, who had been observing Simon’s growing distress, answered before the hologram could. "You remember the demerit system when you grew up here, don’t you?" His voice was almost conversational. "James was always a troublemaker. More inclined toward physical prowess than academics. He had a natural talent for combat, but rules? Not his strong suit. You remember the Nemesis Room, don’t you? He was in and out of there quite often."

That room. The mere mention of it sent a cold shudder down Simon's spine. The children who entered rarely spoke about it. Their faces told the story—whatever happened inside had broken them in ways words could never describe.

"I don’t know exactly what he went through in there," Crane continued, his tone almost reflective. "But I do know this—he came out stronger. Hardened. The perfect weapon. He's currently serving as Deputy Director of the CIA. A path he chose himself."

Simon’s eyes widened. “James... is in the CIA?”

Crane nodded. "Indeed. And the CIA is crawling with Nemesis operatives. Eden and Nemesis—locked in an eternal standoff. Like brothers bound by blood, yet sharing none."

"Goddamn it..." Simon muttered under his breath. His fingers curled into fists before he forced them to relax. Then, his gaze sharpened.

"And Catherine? Who is she?"

The director rose slowly from his chair, clasping his hands behind his back as he took a few measured steps across the room. The dim light traced a sharp line across his chiseled profile, a look of finality etched into his expression.

"The Solomon journal you seek, and the USB drive—everything is connected. We must go back, far back, to a time when our ancestors shaped the world. The golden age of the Freemasons... That was when the Chinese diaspora, fleeing the Qing Dynasty, sought refuge in Europe. They formed Nemesis to secure their place in this new world. And when their influence grew too strong, the Freemasons sought to eradicate them before it was too late."

Rain pattered against the windows, droplets trailing down the glass like whispers of a long-buried secret seeping into the present.

"But Nemesis struck first. They secured intelligence, aligned themselves with a Jewish faction known as Eden, and together they began to dismantle the Freemasons—one assassination at a time. By the end of World War I, only a single bloodline remained. Solomon Gray. He was murdered just days before the Treaty of Versailles was signed. And after that, Eden and Nemesis each devised their own strategies for world domination."

“I know,” Simon interjected. “I studied their history myself—at the Vatican, in the British archives. Their alliance couldn’t last. Conflict was inevitable.”

"Indeed." Crane gave a slow nod. "To counter Nemesis, the founding member, Crane the First, fled to America. He was my grandfather—the very man who built this orphanage. And with him, he brought two newborns. One, an infant taken from Nemesis. The other, the last surviving heir of Solomon Gray. The two children grew up side by side. One carried the blood of Nemesis. The other, the blood of the Freemasons."

Crane turned his gaze directly to Simon.

"The descendant of that Nemesis infant... is Catherine."

Simon felt his breath catch. A moment of silence stretched between them, thick and oppressive.

"As you know," Crane continued, "she now serves as a director at Pigeon Media. And through it, she has devoted herself to spreading Eden’s message." He exhaled deeply. "I imagine this upends everything you thought you knew."

Simon bit down on his lip, his pulse pounding in his ears. "Then... who is she, really?"

"A Nemesis heir... who works for Eden." The words were delivered with a chilling simplicity.

Crane stepped closer, placing a firm hand on Simon’s shoulder.

"And what comes next is even more complicated."

For a moment, Crane hesitated, as though weighing the weight of his next words. Outside, the rain intensified, hammering against the window like an urgent drumbeat.

"The infant from Solomon Gray’s lineage... he never made it past his first few weeks in New York."

Simon’s brow furrowed, his body tensing.

"In the 1910s, a measles outbreak ravaged America. The child, born with a weak immune system, succumbed within days—high fever, rashes, complications that led to pneumonia. He didn’t stand a chance. But my grandfather refused to accept his fate. He did everything he could... including attempting an experimental stem cell transfer in his final hours."

Simon’s throat went dry. His hands instinctively wiped the sweat gathering on his palms against the back of his chair.

"The transplant failed," Crane admitted. "But the preservation of his stem cells did not. Years of research followed. And when my father, Alexander Crane II, took over... the experiment resumed."

A wave of nausea rolled through Simon. His stomach twisted as if the ground beneath him had fractured.

"When my father’s health declined, the research team sought other candidates for transplantation. Every attempt failed. Except one."

Crane’s gaze bore into him.

"You, Simon."

The room seemed to close in around him. The walls, the ceiling, the very air felt suffocating.

"...That’s impossible," Simon stammered. "You’re saying I’m not Solomon Gray’s grandson?"

Crane gave a slow, deliberate nod.

"Strictly speaking, your blood carries Freemason lineage. But your genetic origin... is entirely American."

A crushing silence followed. Simon’s head reeled, a thousand memories disintegrating, collapsing in on themselves like a house of cards.

"Then... my memories?" His voice was barely above a whisper, yet laced with rising desperation. "Were they fabricated?"

Crane’s expression remained unreadable. "Not fabricated," he corrected. "We never told you about the stem cell transfer. But we also never once claimed you were Solomon Gray’s direct heir. We simply gave you what was rightfully his—the USB, the journal."

Crane took a step closer to him. "At the time, Nemesis made a desperate attempt to track down Solomon's grandson, but they never uncovered the full truth. That’s why they still believe you carry the bloodline of the Freemasons. That belief gave Eden enough time to grow—immensely. Now, even Nemesis can’t simply eliminate you. Because doing so would mean risking an all-out nuclear war."

He cleared his throat and continued. "Nemesis has always feared the mere existence of the last descendant of the Freemasons. That’s why we had to emphasize—at all costs—that the lineage was still intact. In a secret society, legitimacy is everything. It’s a symbol that can’t be bought with money or power."

"This... this is not the right way." Simon’s voice was thick with anger. "Is that why my memories were altered?"

Crane shook his head. "No. Like I said before, your memories were never tampered with. You’ve lived, felt, and made your own judgments. Of course, we’ve been protecting you from the shadows... but the choices were always yours."

Then, suddenly, Crane turned his gaze upward and asked the empty space, "Are you here?"

A few seconds later, the television snapped on with a sharp click. Simon flinched as static filled the screen, the blue-white noise crackling like distant whispers. And then, an image began to take shape. But before Simon could process it, his gaze was drawn to Crane’s desk.

There, lying on the polished wooden surface, was a syringe.

A glass syringe, filled with a cloudy, pale liquid.

‘Don’t tell me... I have to take that?’

The television screen flickered again, and this time, the face of Nakamura Akira, the Prime Minister of Japan, appeared. His hair was neatly combed, his suit unblemished, and his eyes sharp with an unreadable depth. Slowly, he began to speak.

"Simon. Your transplant surgery was a remarkable success. Thanks to you, Eden has secured its claim to the true heritage of the Freemasons."

He let the words hang in the air before continuing.

"Furthermore," the Prime Minister added, "if we apply this stem cell technology to the vaccine, not only can we combat the plague Nemesis is spreading, but we could also make groundbreaking advances in cancer treatment. That’s precisely why pharmaceutical lawsuits are so common these days. Nemesis agents keep interfering."

Simon’s mind was spinning. ‘Transplant surgery, vaccine, identity...’

"The most important thing," Nakamura said, his face drawing closer to the screen, "is that I personally oversaw your stem cell procedure. And yet, even now, you have no discrepancies in your memory, do you?"

At that moment, Crane softly called out, "Nikola."

A translucent hologram materialized in the air before them, humming with an almost imperceptible mechanical whir. A three-dimensional scan of Simon’s brain hovered between them, glowing with a cold, blue light.

"Analyzing Simon’s neural condition. All synaptic connections—normal. Hippocampal and prefrontal cortex functions—stable. No memory circuit damage detected."

‘Then... my bloodline... No. Am I truly Solomon’s descendant? Or just a fabricated clone, wearing someone else’s DNA?’

As the thoughts stormed through his mind, something began to shift beneath his skin. A chilling sensation crept across his forehead, and for a moment, it felt as though the surface of his flesh had turned translucent. Then, like something rising from the depths of water, an intricate, faintly glowing pattern emerged.

A mandala.

Simon hesitantly raised his hand.

His palm—warped. The natural lines of his skin seemed slightly... wrong. And beneath the surface, a soft luminescence began to pulse. It wasn’t an illusion. The stronger his emotions swelled, the clearer the symbol became.