Within the Europol briefing room in The Hague the investigative procedural framework disintegrated. It did not fall apart suddenly. Rather with a gradual quiet release, similar, to air escaping from a bell jar.
They possessed every piece of proof: the slate, the manifestos, the arrested lieutenants, the seized initiate. Flavio Fergal was confined in a security psychiatric unit monitored around the clock. His time was occupied by meditation studying philosophy or gazing at the wall with that unwavering calm. He was prevailing without any action.
Devon faced the case board. Pictures of the victims—Kane, Vogel, Mercier, Van Dort—were no longer displayed as casualties. Leo's testimony had redefined their status. They were not victims. They were safeguarded.
He spoke the insight openly his statement falling into the space like stones sinking into a deep well. "We've been looking into a crime where the 'victim' stands to gain. Their condition… it's not a byproduct. It's the outcome. The ideal outcome."
Pamela Pauline, her visage marked by creases, from a weariness no amount of coffee could alleviate, gazed at the board. "There are regulations forbidding comas. Prohibiting coercion."
"Are there any laws prohibiting giving someone what they covertly desire?" Javier Jeffrey's voice came through the speakerphone remote. "Their legal defense is currently being prepared by some of Europe's civil rights attorneys. They're presenting it as a matter of freedom of conscience. The entitlement, to spiritual independence. The right to… to stop."
"It's euthanasia " Pamela retorted sharply.
"Is that so?" Javier challenged. "Where can you find the violence? Where is the force? Leo chose freely. The others… every indication is that they understood the reasoning and agreed. The Lethargic Calculus isn't harmful; it's an offer. A highly persuasive one."
Devon referred to the documents from Agustin Arthur, the Geneva physician. "Examine the scans. Arthur notes that their brain activity reveals a pattern. It's neither sleep nor coma. It's a condition of… ' quiescence.' All stress-related networks are inactive. The default mode network—the 'self' hub—is silent. Yet there is activity, in the areas linked to bliss and unity. According to all criteria they are undergoing complete peace. Our aim isn't to rouse them from trauma. Instead we're attempting to pull them out of nirvana.
The room took this in. The ethical advantage crumbled away. They ceased to be saviors. They became captors of the soul.
A junior analyst hesitantly raised her voice. "Ma'am, the media… they're beginning to focus on this perspective. Opinion pieces are questioning whether Flavio Fergal is a villain or a visionary. On media the mood… it's not entirely adverse. The hashtag #RightToRest is gaining traction."
Pamela shut her eyes. The formal process was unraveling. It was impossible to charge a man for providing what every anxious person worldwide desperately wanted. The inquiry had turned into a judgment on the worth of ambition itself and their faction—the faction of initiative, dedication and tireless endeavor—was being defeated.
Devon experienced the crisis as a deeply personal struggle. His whole profession, his self-definition, as an analyst rested on a core belief: that damage was occurring and his role was to prevent it.. What if the damage was merely a mirage? What if the true harm was the existence he was striving to restore these individuals to?
He considered going to Kale Kane's hospital room. The man remained motionless his expression serene, like a lake. A nurse had remarked, with awe "He's the most tranquil patient I've ever encountered. Sometimes… just being there brings a sense of peace." The victims were turning into icons their quietness a wordless sermon.
"We have to change the framework " Devon remarked, his words feeling odd. "We aren't a counterterrorism squad now. We're… disputants. The danger isn't violence. It's persuasion."
"To what purpose?" Pamela asked, a trace of urgency, in her tone. "How can one 'detain' an idea?"
"You don't " a fresh voice spoke from the entrance.
Every gaze shifted. It was Benjamin Baldric, the archivist. Under the lighting he appeared even more otherworldly a spirit emerging from the vault. He had been summoned as a consultant, a living archive of the cult's past.
"You can't detain gravity " Benjamin remarked, entering the room at a pace. He paused in front of the board his gaze fixed on Flavio's picture. "You can merely illustrate what it signifies to exist in opposition, to it. To create wings than merely lament the descent." He faced them. "Flavio's significant achievement is that he has integrated your inquiry into his evidence. Your haste, your rapid-response squads, your legal maneuvers—all embody the 'Tyranny of Action' he criticizes. You serve as his advocates."
The reality hit like a blow, to the stomach. Each raid, each press briefing, each detention showcased the hysteria the cult promised to heal.
"So what's our next step?" Devon inquired, turning to the man. "Are we doing nothing?"
"You have to accomplish the element that calculus fails to explain " Benjamin whispered gently. "You need to take action. Without hysteria. You must feel compassion. Without fixation on the result. You should transform into the ' fighter,' not as a martyr bound to their custom but as a vibrant representation of an alternate formula. One in which love, for the imperfect battling world is not a mistake to fix. The primary rebellious component."
It appeared to be mystical gibberish.. Confronted with the cult's flawless serene reasoning it remained the sole tool available: illogical steadfast compassionate effort.
Pamela adjusted her jacket, a sign of restoring control. "Okay. New instructions. We confront the story. We locate speakers—survivors who can discuss the suffering, not the resolution. We collaborate with ethicists, not lawyers. We approach this as a psychological crisis, not a criminal plot." She glanced at Devon. ". You. You're removed from the team. Your role is to comprehend him. To enter that room with Flavio Fergal. Engage in the dialogue everyone is sidestepping. Discover the flaw. Not, in his strategy. In his calm."
Devon gave a nod. It was the task that seemed logical. To gaze into the eyes of the individual who had transformed burnout into a creed and who regarded Devon not as an adversary. As a prospective follower.
He left the briefing room, the case board seared into his mind. The victims were no longer in comas; they were in a cathedral of their own preserved will, and he was the noisy tourist trying to shout down the stained-glass light. The procedural investigation was over. Now began the terrible, quiet work of the soul.