Joël arrives home and barely takes the time to engage the parking brake before hastily stepping out of his car. His eyes dart around, scanning the street. Everything feels suspicious now—the faintest shadow, the slightest sideways glance. Even the most mundane things seem suspect.
The thrill of doing something illegal courses through him. He’s playing the spy! But he struggles to keep his face his face a mask of indifference.
As he reaches his front door, he casts one last glance over his shoulder. No one is watching him. No one is sitting in a car, pretending to read a newspaper.
A sense of victory surges within him. Good news, that means no one followed me.
He steps inside and double locks the door behind him.
In the living room, he draws the curtains shut. Then, with confident, determined steps, he strides down the long hallway and locks himself in his study.
In the darkness of the room, he takes a seat and turns on a small desk lamp.
He places the book under the light and stares at it for a few minutes, unmoving, letting the stress of the day slowly ebb away. What could possibly be in this book that a general would want it so badly? Military intelligence? A state secret?
The excitement of getting his hands on this kind of information thrills him and fills him with hope for advancement.
Joël begins by examining the brown cover. No inscriptions, no images. He runs his fingers over it repeatedly, pressing lightly, searching for any hidden engravings or imperfections. But there’s nothing.
He holds the cover under the lamp and inspects every square millimeter. But even under the light, nothing reveals itself.
He takes a deep breath as his heart pounds wildly in his chest. Excitement mixes with imagination, and Joël is already crafting scenarios in his mind, even though he hasn’t seen a single word yet. He pictures the headlines, the shockwaves of a well-revealed secret.
After a brief pause, he lifts the cover and begins to read the first lines.
> My name is Jeffrey Raizen. If you are reading this, it means I have likely been executed by the government as an enemy of the state or a traitor.
> But before I continue, I must apologize. Why, you might ask? Because, from this moment onward and for the rest of your days, your life will be in danger. The knowledge contained in this journal will be both a blessing and a curse. It is up to you to decide how you wish to use it.
>
> I would like to tell you that no matter what you hear about me, I am not the monster the government and the media have portrayed me to be.
> I have done more for the Northern countries than anyone else has ever achieved. But during my career, I made one mistake, and it cost me my life. I chose to stand by my convictions to the very end.
>
> I can show you the truth, if you are willing to go all the way. But this truth may come at a price. Are you ready to go all the way?
Joël stops and begins to think. Jeffrey Raizen... The traitor? Is it really him? All these months, I’ve never heard his last name. They always called him Jeffrey.
He continues to read quietly, bathed in the warm glow of the lamp.
> If you want to know me better, I’ll have to introduce myself. My name is Jeffrey Raizen.
> I graduated with a degree in nuclear engineering from Refneault University in 2015.
> I worked as a nuclear technician from 2015 to 2019. Then, in 2020, I became a Class 2 nuclear technician in research and development.
> I have several research projects and breakthroughs to my name. But the thing I am most proud of will always be this: Creator of the new nuclear fuel, Chloro-Nuclear.
> However, this invention was classified as top secret. It didn’t prevent them from using it in the sole reactor of the Siberion-12 power plant.
Joël examines this mini biography with skepticism. A feeling of deception or a bad joke begins to creep in. If Jeffrey is truly such an important man, why has no one heard of him?
He slams the book shut abruptly. "This is a joke!" Then, he throws the book into the small basket he uses as a trash can. "I have more important things to do than listen to the ramblings of a madman."
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
Joël picks up his small tape recorder and replays all his recordings. Then, he begins to write a summary of Jeffrey’s execution, including many details about the horror of the moment.
He wants the reader to feel the full weight of the atrocity. His words are strong, and they describe the atrocity of the moment in graphic detail.
Joël writes without stopping, focusing intently, reliving the moment in his mind with each description.
Without realizing how much time has passed, it takes him three hours to finish and send his document to his editor-in-chief.
Pleased to have finished quickly, he turns off the small light and rocks back in his computer chair in the darkness of the room.
Just as he's about to stand, his gaze falls on the trash basket, where the book lies at the bottom. Without knowing why, his attention is drawn to it. Silence fills the small room, and he can’t look away.
He relives the moment when the woman threw the book at him, followed by the question he had when he spotted the general in the window. Maybe... Could there be some truth to this journal?
Each heartbeat makes Joël feel as though the journal is moving. Curiosity builds within him, consuming him until it finally takes over.
In a moment of frustration, he opens his laptop and performs a simple search in the private archives of the newspaper where he works.
Joël types the name Jeffrey Raizen. No matches or information come up. When he types simply Jeffrey, a list of official reports appears.
He quickly scans through all the files, and at the end, something catches his attention. In the folder, there is no personal research. Only official reports.
"It’s as if no one investigated this man. That’s strange... Normally, a full background check is done. But here... nothing! Just official reports."
He changes his search term to Chloro-Nuclear. Unsurprisingly, there is no information on the subject.
"No, I’m imagining things... This is a joke."
The next morning, when he sees his editor-in-chief:
"So, how did you find my report on the execution?"
"Overall, it was fine... but there were a few minor corrections."
"Minor?"
The editor-in-chief looks at him, arms crossed, and takes on an aggressive tone.
"People don’t need to know the details of the blood dripping from his mouth or that they collected his tongue for incineration."
Joël nods. He feels he might have been too meticulous with the details, but fearing he’d be asked to rewrite it, he doesn’t dare contradict him. Instead, he simply wishes him a good day.
The day flies by, and at 5 p.m., Joël leaves the office. Without delay, he heads home, obsessed with the idea of relaxing in front of the TV with a good beer.
No sooner does he arrive home than he kicks his shoes into the corner of the living room, rushes to the fridge and grabs a beer. He leaps over the couch and lands squarely in the middle of it.
Remote in hand, he flips through the channels and takes a seemingly endless swig of beer.
Just as he finds a match, his phone buzzes with several notifications.
He picks it up and starts scrolling through the information. When his article appears, he reads it carefully, wanting to know what the "minor" changes were.
The further he scrolls through the text, the more his expression changes. His eyebrows furrow inward, and his teeth clench. "THOSE BASTARDS!" He rushes to his landline and dials a number. When his editor-in-chief answers, he doesn’t give him a chance to speak.
"WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?! YOU DELETED AND REWROTE MY ENTIRE TEXT!"
"Calm down!..."
"Calm down? What’s your problem? You told me there would be minor changes!
Look at this! No mention of the blood, or the suffering the guy went through! Just that he was hanged, and once dead, a firing squad shot him."
A brief silence falls as Joël impatiently waits for an explanation.
"It wasn’t me who made the corrections. It was a federal inspector who came to scrutinize all the information on the subject."
"A federal inspector?! Does that justify changing everything?"
Another moment of silence. The editor-in-chief chooses his words carefully. "Listen, Joël… Let it go. Don’t be stupid and just accept the changes. It’s better for everyone."
Joël listens to his editor’s words, and something feels off. He’s too calm!? Normally, he would’ve exploded, and we’d have been yelling at each other for a good ten minutes. Something’s wrong.
"I’m telling you, don’t worry about it. Let them handle it and move on."
"Uh… okay… you... you’re probably right."
Without even a polite "goodbye," he hangs up the phone.
Joël collapses onto his couch, staring at the wall in front of him. His mind races, and then a realization strikes. "We’ve been censored! And… and..." Joël’s face twists in horror, and he hurries to the living room window. Are we being watched? Or at least, he must be, to have reacted like that.
After a long time observing everyone passing by below, he concludes that no one is watching his house. An abnormally brutal execution. Federal inspectors. Journalistic censorship.
Joël’s gaze shifts toward the long hallway, more specifically toward his workroom. I’m starting to wonder if there’s some truth in this journal after all.
He walks to the room and, once inside, pulls the journal out of the basket and studying it in the dark. He opens it and starts rereading the first page. Maybe you have something to say… I’ll give you a chance. But I hope you’ve written everything you wanted to say or show.
Joël tucks the journal into his desk drawer, sliding a few papers on top to conceal it slightly. What if it’s true?