Chapter 1

Chapter One: Darius

December 10th, 2025. United States

Darius woke to the sound of two separate arguments happening in the same house.

One argument was tiny and furious, made of bare feet slapping the hallway and a boy’s voice insisting that socks were, actually, a conspiracy.

The other argument was quieter, older, and more intimate, spoken in Arabic under a woman’s breath as she coaxed a newborn back toward sleep.

The ceiling was still dark. The room smelled like warm fabric and last night’s hair oil. The air had that winter dryness that made you feel thirsty before you even stood up.

Beside him, Noura sat upright against the headboard, her scarf loose, her shoulders rounded like she was trying to keep the whole world from startling the baby. The newborn’s head was tucked into the crook of her elbow, a little bundle of breath and stubbornness.

Darius watched her for a second and tried not to make any sudden moves.

Noura’s eyes flicked to him without turning her head.

“Do not,” she whispered.

“I didn’t do anything,” he whispered back.

“You are thinking too loud.”

He smiled into his pillow so she wouldn’t see it and get that look. The look that said, I married you, yes, but I can still file a complaint.

From the hallway came a crash that could only be a plastic dinosaur being used as a weapon.

Darius sighed. “Time?”

Noura shifted the baby and checked her phone without lighting the room. “Six fifteen.”

His brain did that thing it always did at six fifteen, the instant math of chaos management.

Layla needed her hair.

Malik needed to be reminded that he could not wear his Spider-Man mask to school because it counted as “not a face.”

Samir needed, ironically, socks.

The baby needed… everything.

And Darius needed to be at the UN before the world decided it wanted to be difficult.

He slid out of bed as if he were disarming a bomb. The floor was cold enough to be insulting. He found his sweatpants, stepped into them, and immediately stepped on something sharp.

A Lego.

He froze mid-step, balancing like a flamingo with a mortgage.

Noura whispered, “You deserved it.”

“I didn’t even do anything.”

“You are alive in this house,” she said, and her tone made it sound like a crime.

The baby hiccuped, then settled.

In the hallway, Malik yelled, “Layla touched my head!”

Layla yelled back, “Your head is always there!”

Samir added, with absolute sincerity, “Socks are itchy.”

Darius walked out into the battlefield.

Plainfield mornings in winter had their own kind of light. Not sunrise, not darkness. Just a gray that felt like the world was still deciding whether to participate.

The hallway was a narrow tunnel of small coats, tiny shoes, and a backpack that had been flung with enough force to suggest betrayal.

Layla stood in the bathroom doorway, hair already half-done, watching her brothers like a general watching infantry.

“Daddy,” she said, in the tone of a child who had learned the power of calm. “Samir won’t put on socks.”

Samir’s face appeared behind her leg, sticky hair, stubborn eyes, toes naked on the cold tile like he was proving a point.

“Samir,” Darius said, “socks are not negotiable.”

Samir looked up at him as if Darius had just proposed something morally unacceptable.

“They scratch.”

“They warm.”

“They scratch.”

Darius crouched to Samir’s level. “Listen. We are going to do the soft socks. The gray ones. The good ones. Not the scratch ones.”

Samir narrowed his eyes. “The gray ones.”

“The gray ones,” Darius repeated, as if they were swearing an oath.

Malik barreled into the hallway wearing pants, no shirt, and the Spider-Man mask. He pointed at Layla like a prosecutor.

“She touched my head!”

Layla didn’t even look at him. “I moved your mask. So you could breathe.”

Malik’s voice rose. “I can breathe through the mask!”

Darius stared at the mask for a second. It had no holes over the mouth.

“Noura,” he called.

From the bedroom came a whisper-shout. “What now.”

“Spider-Man is suffocating.”

“Good,” Noura said.

Malik took the mask off just enough to shout, “Mom!”

Darius tried to stop himself from laughing and failed.

He herded Malik toward the kitchen. The kitchen smelled like yesterday’s rice and a faint trace of cardamom. On the counter, Noura had already laid out the morning like she was setting a stage. Small containers. Fruit slices. A bottle warming in a mug of water.

Noura moved quietly, the baby on her shoulder now, patting with the rhythm of someone who had done this too many times to romanticize it.

“Your son,” Darius said, pointing at Malik.

“Our son,” Noura corrected.

“Our son is trying to die for justice.”

Noura’s eyes flicked up. “Malik. Shirt.”

Malik froze.

Darius had seen diplomats less intimidated.

“Yes, Mama,” Malik said, suddenly calm, suddenly obedient, suddenly a child in a house where the rules were made by a preschool teacher with immigrant patience and no mercy.

Layla climbed onto a stool and started eating an apple slice like she was already late for a job.

“Daddy,” she said, “can you do my hair faster today.”

“I can do it normal-fast,” Darius said.

“That is not fast.”

“That is my best.”

Layla’s eyes softened, just a bit. “Okay.”

He loved her for that. For the small grace. For the way she understood, even at six, that everyone in this house was doing their best and it still wasn’t enough.

Samir climbed onto the other stool, still sockless. Darius slid the gray socks across the counter like he was negotiating a hostage exchange.

Samir picked them up, inspected them, then looked at Darius. “These are the gray ones.”

“Yes.”

Samir sighed like an old man and put them on.

A victory.

Noura handed Darius the baby bottle and nodded toward the living room. “Feed him. I’ll fix Layla’s hair.”

Darius took the bottle like it was sacred.

The newborn’s name was Yusuf, but Darius still thought of him as The Small King. The way the whole house revolved around him, the way he demanded tribute, the way he accepted nothing but immediate obedience.

Darius sat in the living room armchair and cradled Yusuf. The baby’s face was scrunched in that newborn way, like he was already disappointed.

“Morning, boss,” Darius whispered.

Yusuf latched onto the bottle with surprising fury.

From the kitchen, he heard Noura begin Layla’s hair routine, the soft pull of the brush, the quiet instructions.

“Sit still, habibti. Sit still. I know. I know. You are fine.”

The Arabic in the house never felt like a performance. It wasn’t a cultural flag. It was just how Noura moved through tenderness. English when she was teaching. Arabic when she was mothering. Sometimes both in the same sentence, like the languages weren’t separate in her mind.

Darius listened to it and felt his shoulders drop.

He’d grown up in Plainfield. Jersey through and through. His mom still lived ten minutes away and still acted like his marriage had been a foreign policy decision.

“When you gonna teach them kids regular food?” his mother had asked once, watching Noura make ful medames like it was the most normal thing on earth.

Noura had smiled and said, “This is regular food.”

Darius had almost applauded.

A small hand smacked the back of the chair.

“Daddy,” Malik said, suddenly close, suddenly serious. “Are you going to the big building today.”

“The big building,” Darius repeated. “Yes.”

“Are you gonna talk to China.”

Darius blinked. “I’m going to translate things.”

“That means talk,” Malik said.

“That means talk,” Darius conceded.

Malik nodded once like he’d confirmed something important, then ran off.

Darius watched him go and felt that familiar split in his chest. One part of him was a dad. Another part of him was a man whose job was to help adults avoid burning the world down.

Sometimes those two parts felt compatible.

Sometimes they felt like enemies.

He finished the bottle. Yusuf relaxed, eyelids fluttering.

Noura appeared in the living room doorway, Layla behind her with neat braids and an expression of victory.

“You look beautiful,” Darius said.

Layla shrugged like compliments were embarrassing but necessary.

Noura crossed the room, leaned down, and kissed Darius’s cheek. It was quick. Practical. Still somehow full.

“Eat something,” she whispered.

“I will,” he lied.

She gave him the look.

He corrected himself. “I’ll try.”

“That is acceptable.”

The front door opened, letting in a thin blade of cold air. Malik had apparently decided he was ready to leave before anyone else could slow him down.

“Shoes,” Noura called.

“I have shoes!” Malik yelled.

Darius could hear the lie in it.

By the time they actually got everyone moving, it was seven twenty and the house looked like a small tornado had applied for citizenship.

Darius checked his phone automatically. No alerts. No emergencies. The normal news app banners about politics, weather, celebrities doing things that did not matter.

He used to follow markets more closely. He used to keep an eye on currency swings the way some people kept an eye on sports scores.

After the baby, after the third kid, after the fourth, his attention had narrowed. The world could spin as long as his house stayed upright.

Noura walked him to the door with Yusuf in her arms. The baby was asleep now, cheek pressed against her scarf.

“You’re late,” she said.

“I’m not late,” he said.

“You are late by my standards.”

“Your standards are not human.”

Noura smiled, small and tired. “Be careful.”

“I’m always careful.”

“That is why you need to be careful,” she said, and there was something in her voice, a softness that made him feel watched by fate.

He kissed her again, then kissed Layla’s forehead, then booped Malik’s nose, then tried to boop Samir’s nose and got slapped for his efforts.

“Okay,” he said, holding up his hands. “Boundary respected.”

He stepped out into the cold, pulled his coat tighter, and walked to his car.

The street was quiet. Too quiet for a weekday morning.

He didn’t notice it fully at first. His brain was still in the house. Still counting lunches. Still replaying socks.

But as he drove out of Plainfield, as he merged onto the road that usually fed into a slow crawl, he realized he was moving.

Not inching.

Moving.

Green lights in a row.

No honking.

No line of brake lights stretching into the horizon.

He checked the time again.

Seven thirty.

That was impossible.

He should be angry at someone’s bumper by now.

He should be watching a bus attempt a three-point turn like it was solving a moral dilemma.

Instead, he glided.

He told himself it was luck.

He told himself it was just one of those days.

Still, he found his shoulders tight anyway.

Absence did that. The mind expected friction. When friction didn’t appear, the mind started inventing reasons.

A billboard flashed by advertising a streaming service. The model smiled too widely. Darius felt a brief pulse of irritation at the fake happiness.

He turned on the radio.

A morning host was laughing about something small. A celebrity divorce. A viral video. Something safe.

He kept it on anyway.

Sometimes the world’s surface chatter was useful. It told you what people were allowed to think about.

By the time he reached Manhattan, he should have felt the familiar grind. The city usually welcomed you like an argument. Noise, urgency, impatience.

Today, even the bridges felt… smoother.

There was traffic, but it was thinner than it should have been. People were driving like they were distracted. Like half their attention was somewhere else.

Darius found himself checking his phone at a red light.

Still no alerts.

No emergency texts.

No missed calls.

His mother had once accused him of being paranoid.

He wasn’t paranoid.

He was trained.

In his line of work, nothing big happened without someone trying to make it look small first.

He parked, crossed the plaza toward the UN as the building rose into view, flags lining the approach like frozen gestures of agreement, and passed through security, surrendering pockets and intent to the quiet machinery of global order.

The guards knew him. The metal detector knew him. The whole ritual was familiar, like a daily prayer.

“Morning, Spicer,” one of the guards said.

“Morning,” Darius replied, and offered his badge.

The guard scanned it and handed it back. “Kids good?”

“Loud,” Darius said.

The guard laughed. “That’s how you know they're alive.”

“That’s what my wife says.”

Inside, the building had its own atmosphere. The air was conditioned into neutrality. The floors were clean in a way that felt almost unreal. Voices were softer here, even when people were panicking.

That was the UN’s real talent.

It could make catastrophe sound like a scheduling conflict.

Darius rode the elevator up with two people he recognized but didn’t know well. One wore a suit too expensive to be government salary. The other carried a stack of folders like they were afraid to let the world touch them.

No one spoke.

He should have been relieved.

Instead, the silence felt organized.

At his desk, he placed his coffee down, logged in, and pulled up the day’s translation queue.

Most of it was what it always was. Meeting notes. Diplomatic language that meant less than it said. Carefully worded statements designed to sound cooperative while remaining uncommitted.

He started working.

His mind slipped into the rhythm.

Language was safer than politics. Words had rules. Words had structures you could hold.

He translated the first document, then the second.

Somewhere in the middle of the third, his office door opened hard enough that it hit the wall.

Darius looked up.

His boss, Marianne Kline, stood in the doorway with her coat still on and her hair still half-wet like she had showered and then decided she did not have time to be a person.

“Darius,” she said.

Her voice was not loud.

It didn’t need to be.

Something in her face pulled the air out of the room.

He stood automatically. “What’s going on.”

Marianne walked in and shut the door behind her.

“Japan,” she said.

Just that.

One word.

Darius blinked. “Japan what.”

Marianne’s eyes flicked to the computer screen, then back to him as if the screen itself was a liability.

“We have a confirmed bank failure cascade,” she said. “Major. Tokyo is calling it ‘technical,’ but it’s not technical. They’re moving toward a default posture. The debt desk is already screaming. And Beijing is… Beijing.”

Darius felt his stomach drop in a way that was almost physical, like his body had recognized the shape of the cliff before his mind did.

“Are we sure,” he asked.

Marianne’s laugh was humorless. “We’re sure enough that the Ambassador is upstairs with three phones and no patience.”

Darius stared at her.

In his head, a dozen things tried to happen at once.

Currency.

Supply chains.

Markets.

Public panic.

Then the deeper layer.

Narrative.

Who gets blamed.

Who uses it.

Who moves first.

“Why me,” he asked, and hated how small it sounded.

Marianne didn’t answer him right away. Her phone buzzed once. Then again. She glanced at it, didn’t pick it up, then glanced at the door like it might start talking on its own.

“Because everyone’s talking at once,” she said finally. “Tokyo. Beijing. Seoul. Half of them pretending they’re calm. The other half pretending they’re not scared.”

Darius felt his jaw tighten.

She gestured vaguely upward, toward the floors above them. “The Ambassador wants you upstairs. Now. We’ve got three languages colliding and no shared clock.”

She stepped back toward the door, already moving on to the next emergency. “Bring your laptop. Leave the rest.”

The door opened again almost immediately as someone called her name from the hallway.

Darius was left standing with his hands empty.

His screen still showed half a sentence he’d been translating when the day had been normal.

He looked down at his desk.

His phone buzzed.

A text from Noura.

A photo of Yusuf sleeping, mouth open, one tiny fist curled like he was holding the world.

Darius’s chest tightened.

He thought about the schedule he’d made that morning. Drop-offs. Meetings. Pickups. Dinner.

He thought about how many things on that list were already impossible.

He turned the phone face down.

Outside his office, the hallway was filling with motion. Doors opening. Voices overlapping. Shoes moving faster than they needed to.

Darius grabbed his laptop and followed the sound.

Somewhere above him, people were arguing about numbers large enough to flatten countries.

Somewhere below him, a newborn slept without knowing what kind of day it was going to be.