Chapter 2

Chapter Two: Darius

December 9th, 2025. United States

The meeting had been scheduled for forty minutes.

They were two hours past it, and no one had mentioned food, water, or the time. The kind of oversight that only happened when everyone in the room understood that the clock had already lost its authority.

Darius sat at the side of the table, laptop open, notepad untouched. The chair was comfortable in a presumption that suggested long negotiations had been anticipated here, the sort that wore people down rather than broke them outright. He had learned early that writing things down during meetings like this only made people assume you were choosing sides. Pens implied opinion. Translation was safer when it looked effortless, when it appeared to leave no residue behind.

The Japanese ambassador, Kenji Sato, spoke in a low, even voice. His English was precise, careful in a way that suggested he trusted it only as long as it behaved, only as long as it did not betray him with unintended weight.

“This is a temporary disruption,” he said. “A confidence event, not a solvency one.”

Darius listened closely, not just to the words but to the pauses between them, then rendered the sentence in Mandarin without changing its temperature. He chose words that emphasized temporary. He avoided the ones that meant contained. Contained suggested an end. Temporary suggested effort.

The Chinese ambassador, Liu Wen, nodded slowly, fingers laced together on the table as if anchoring himself.

“In our experience,” he replied in Mandarin, “confidence events do not occur in isolation.”

Darius translated into English, smoothing the edge just enough to keep the room civil, but not enough to dull the meaning. The sentence landed quietly, like a weight placed rather than dropped.

The American ambassador, Eleanor Hayes, leaned for She had taken her jacket off an hour ago and not put it back on. Her sleeves were rolled to the elbow now, the universal signal of someone prepared to stay longer than planned. Her phone sat face down near her elbow, close enough to feel but far enough to pretend it wasn’t vibrating.

“What we need clarity on,” she said, “is exposure. Japanese banks don’t operate in a vacuum. Their liabilities touch pension funds, insurance instruments, sovereign debt.”

Darius translated into Japanese, careful with the word liabilities. He chose a term closer to obligations, less accusatory, more factual. Obligations implied responsibility. Liabilities implied fault.

The Japanese ambassador’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, the kind of movement that would be missed by anyone not trained to watch for it.

“Our central bank is prepared to act,” he said. “Liquidity facilities are already being discussed.”

Darius translated again, this time into Mandarin, and caught the brief flicker in the Chinese ambassador’s eyes. Not surprise. Calculation. The look of someone already testing scenarios that had not yet been spoken aloud.

“Liquidity addresses timing,” the Chinese ambassador said. “Not trust.”

Darius delivered the sentence in English. He did not soften it. Trust was the real currency in the room, and everyone knew it was already being spent.

Silence settled over the table. Not heavy. Just alert. The kind of silence that listened for what might break next.

Outside the room, the UN continued its usual murmur. Footsteps echoed faintly down long corridors. Doors opened and closed. The ventilation system whispered steadily, a mechanical reassurance designed to make urgency feel optional, even artificial.

The American ambassador broke the silence with a sigh she did not quite let escape.

“Our concern,” she said, “is contagion. Not just financial. Narrative.”

Darius translated. He felt the word narrative land differently in each language, carrying its own cultural weight. In one tongue it meant perception. In another, legitimacy. In another, survival.

The Japanese ambassador exhaled slowly, as if regulating his breathing might regulate the markets.

“Markets react to fear,” he said. “We ask our partners not to amplify it.”

Darius translated, then added nothing. His job was not to rescue meaning. Only to move it intact from one mouth to another, however sharp its edges were.

Phones began to vibrate along the table, a soft chorus of interruptions no one acknowledged. Screens lit briefly, then went dark again as hands resisted the instinct to look.

The Chinese ambassador glanced at his screen, then back up.

“Seoul is asking for reassurance,” he said.

Darius translated that too, aware of how reassurance often traveled faster than truth.

The American ambassador rubbed her temple with two fingers.

“This will not stay regional,” she said. “Everyone here knows that.”

No one contradicted her. Disagreement would have required optimism.

They talked in circles after that. Carefully. Professionally. Each sentence was a negotiation disguised as clarification, each clarification a request for time. Darius stayed focused, voice steady, switching languages without ceremony, catching nuance before it slipped into something irreversible.

He thought briefly of his family, of the morning he had already lived, then put the thought away. There would be time later.

There always was.

By the time the meeting ended, the sky outside the building had gone dark without anyone noticing. Evening had arrived quietly, the way consequences often did.

Darius packed his laptop slowly, fingers stiff from hours of stillness. The American ambassador thanked him in passing, already speaking to someone else. The Chinese ambassador nodded once. The Japanese ambassador offered a bow so slight it could have been mistaken for a posture correction.

None of them looked relieved. Relief implied resolution.

The subway ride home felt unreal. People scrolled their phones, laughed softly, argued about nothing at all. Ads flickered past promising comfort, convenience, control. The world, at street level, remained stubbornly intact.

Darius stood holding the pole and thought about obligations crossing borders faster than people did, about how decisions made in clean rooms like the one he’d left would arrive eventually in places like this.

When he reached home, the house was lit and loud in the familiar way.

Fatima was there, sleeves rolled up, laughing at something Layla had said. Malik was negotiating dessert with the seriousness of a treaty summit. Samir was on the floor with toy cars, narrating a race with life-or-death stakes only he understood. The smell of warm food filled the kitchen, rich and grounding.

Noura moved between rooms with practiced efficiency, adjusting plates, redirecting children, answering questions before they were fully formed. A plate appeared in front of Darius as soon as she saw him.

“You’re late,” she said.

“I know,” Darius said.

“Sit,” she said, already pulling out a chair.

He sat immediately. His body seemed to fold inward, all the tension of the day releasing at once, leaving behind only fatigue.

“Long day?” Fatima asked.

“Very,” he said, and meant more than she could hear.

They ate. The kids talked over each other, stories overlapping, voices rising and falling. Fatima filled gaps without being asked, refilled glasses, cleared plates. The house held itself together the way it always did, by habit and care.

After the kids were settled, after Fatima left with a hug and a promise to come back tomorrow, Darius sat at the table with his head in his hands.

Noura poured him tea and waited. She had learned when questions helped and when they didn’t.

“What happened,” she asked finally.

He looked up at her. Really looked. At the calm she maintained, the order she enforced, the dinner that had happened whether he was there or not.

“You know that debt bubble people have been talking about for years?” he said.

Noura frowned slightly. “The one on the news sometimes?”

He nodded.

“It popped,” he said. “Today.”

She was quiet for a moment, absorbing it, testing the idea against the solid reality of the kitchen.

“And?” she asked.

“And everyone is going to feel it,” Darius said.

Noura studied him, then reached across the table and took his hand, her grip steady.

“We’ll handle it,” she said.

Darius didn’t argue.

Outside, the night stayed calm.

By Saturday, Darius had stopped pretending the week would return to normal.

It had been several days of late nights, overlapping calls, and the peculiar exhaustion that came from translating urgency without ever being allowed to own it. The world hadn’t ended. That was almost worse. It had simply grown heavier, quieter, more expectant.

So when Noura suggested they take the day, he said yes immediately.

The kids were with her parents. A full house, loud in the familiar way. Safe. Fed. Overscheduled with love.

The car felt too quiet without them.

They drove north toward the American Dream Mall, the name still ridiculous enough to make Darius smile. Glass and steel rose out of the Meadowlands like a dare. An indoor universe of consumption, distraction, and engineered joy.

Noura leaned back in her seat, sunglasses on, scarf loose, finally not counting time.

“You’re quiet,” she said.

“I’m tired,” he said.

“You’re always tired,” she replied. “This is different.”

He glanced at her. She was watching him over the rim of her glasses.

“Don’t psychoanalyze me,” he said.

“I married you,” she said. “That was consent.”

He laughed despite himself.

Inside, the mall was bright in a way that felt intentional. Artificial daylight. Fake skies. People moving in smooth currents, shopping bags swinging like small declarations of normalcy.

Noura stopped at the entrance, turned to him, and raised an eyebrow.

“Okay,” she said. “Rules.”

He sighed. “Of course there are rules.”

“No phones,” she said, holding up one finger. “Unless it’s an emergency. And don’t argue what counts as an emergency. I decide.”

“Authoritarian,” he said.

“Efficient,” she corrected. “Second. You’re not allowed to rush me.”

“I never rush you.”

She looked at him.

He amended, “I rush internally.”

“Exactly,” she said. “Third.” She paused, smiling now. “You’re spoiling me.”

He spread his hands. “That was already the plan.”

They walked.

They talked.

Noura talked more.

She commented on everything. Store layouts. Colors. People’s shoes. The audacity of charging that much for a sweater made of lies. Darius listened, nodded, made the appropriate noises, felt his shoulders slowly unknot.

When she stopped walking abruptly, he almost ran into her.

“You love me,” she said.

It wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” he said.

“Say it like you mean it.”

“I love you,” he said, louder.

She narrowed her eyes. “Why are you being weird.”

“I’m not being weird.”

“You’re being distant,” she said. “Emotionally. Don’t argue.”

He took a breath. “I’m tired. And my brain is loud.”

“About work.”

“Yes.”

She stepped closer, lowered her voice. “Are you allowed to tell me.”

“No,” he said.

“Then why are you carrying it like it’s yours.”

That one landed.

They sat later, coffee between them, legs tangled under the table. Noura stirred sugar into her cup she didn’t need.

“Do you still like me,” she asked suddenly.

He blinked. “What.”

“Like,” she repeated. “Not love. Like. Do you enjoy me.”

He reached across the table and took her hand.

“You are exhausting,” he said.

She smiled faintly. “That wasn’t the question.”

“Yes,” he said. “I like you. I like you when you’re calm. I like you when you’re anxious. I like you when you reorganize the fridge at midnight because something feels off in the world and that’s what you can control.”

Her mouth curved despite herself.

“You notice,” she said.

“I always notice,” he replied.

They shopped. He bought her things she didn’t ask for. A scarf she touched twice. Shoes she claimed she didn’t need and then immediately put on. Something small and gold that made her quiet for a full minute.

“You don’t have to do this,” she said.

“I know,” he said. “That’s why I’m doing it.”

They ate food that had nothing to do with tradition. Shared bites. Argued gently about dessert. He won.

Later, walking again, she slipped her hand into his coat pocket.

“You’re anxious,” she said softly.

“Yes.”

“About us.”

“About everything,” he said. Then, after a beat, “But especially about keeping this.”

She stopped, turned to face him fully now.

“We’re not fragile,” she said. “We’re flexible.”

“That’s not the same thing,” he said.

“No,” she agreed. “It’s better.”

They drove home as the artificial sky gave way to the real one, pale and cold. The house was quiet when they arrived. No toys on the floor. No small voices demanding proof of existence.

They didn’t talk much.

They changed. Crawled into bed. The sheets were cool. Noura tucked herself against him, head on his chest.

“You’re safe here,” she murmured.

He closed his eyes.

For the first time all week, his body believed it.

Outside, the world continued to move. Markets opened and closed. Nations argued with themselves.

Inside, the light shifted slowly across the room.

They slept.