The Kingdom Pt. 01 : The Encounter

(Foreword : This is a slow-burn erotic fiction in two parts set in contemporary Saudi Arabia. Tension builds gradually, through silence, ritual, and repression. Explicit action appears in both parts, but the story is plot and character driven, focusing on psychology, culture, and risk.)

✅ CHAPTER 1 -- THE GAZE

Riyadh.

A name that, in Markus's imagination, evoked absolutes: dry heat, mirrored towers, a silence that watched from behind tinted glass. He had come for architecture, to observe a city caught in the machinery of transformation. But what stopped him, what altered the pitch of everything, was a gaze.

A gaze, dark and fixed, resting on him in the cool lobby of a hotel. A gaze from a man he did not know, yet who already seemed to know him. The city became something else then: a maze of prohibitions, the theatre of a forbidden grammar, where a single touch could burn through law.

The lobby air was cold, filtered, metallic. It carried the scent of marble polish and cedar, diffused through unseen vents. Outside, the heat pressed against the tinted glass like a living force. The sort of heat that didn't fade: it baked the skin, filled the mouth, pressed into every seam of clothing. Markus stood just inside the threshold, blinking, adjusting. His body was still holding the desert air.

He'd been in the city for three days. Officially, he was a junior observer, attached to a Swedish firm consulting on urban redevelopment projects. Unofficially, he was a name on a list: quiet, decorative, easy to place. One of a rotating set of young architects flown in to "observe and absorb." He wasn't sure what that meant. Mostly, he watched. Mostly, he waited.

Markus was tall -- taller than most men around him. Broad shoulders, a swimmer's back, long legs. His complexion was fair, the kind that blushes easily and reddens fast in the sun. His eyes were blue-green, his hair copper-blond, soft, catching light at the edges. He had let a short, neatly trimmed goatee grow just before coming to Saudi Arabia, a concession to local decorum and to his own desire not to appear too young or exposed.

He moved slowly through the lobby, pulling a slim suitcase. The concierge didn't glance up. Two men in tailored uniforms spoke in low voices behind the desk. Markus caught the whisper of cedar again, more like sap than like perfume. Still adjusting to the air, he paused.

And then he felt it. A gaze. Heavy, direct, unyielding. It didn't just brush the surface of his skin: it sank into it.

Across the room, to the left of a marble colonnade, a man stood still. Perfectly still. Dressed in a night blue thawb darker than the shadow behind him. His posture said nothing. But his eyes -- his eyes did not move.

He was broad, solid, the kind of presence that held stillness the way others held speech. His skin was dark, parched by the sun. A neatly trimmed beard framed a jaw that looked carved. His features were beautiful in the way of statues, as if frozen between anger and indifference, or between curiosity and refusal.

But his eyes. They were the thing. Black, precise, dry. Like fire without flame. They held Markus with a force that made words vanish. Not interest, not lust, not threat. Something else. Like assessment. Like decision.

Markus stopped mid-step, without knowing he had. His breath thinned in his chest. Time dilated. One second. Two. Three. A beat passed. Then another. And still, the stare did not shift. Something stirred in his stomach. Low, electrical. And this time, something darker. Something like danger.

He remembered where he was. He knew what this meant. This wasn't Frankfurt. This wasn't Madrid. This wasn't a game. Here, law was not ambient. It was direct. It didn't speculate. It acted. It executed.

A glance could be read. A whisper could be enough. There were rules. There were cameras. There were stories. There were men who disappeared.

Markus stood there, aware of everything: the sweat under his arms, the thrum in his thighs, the absurd sharpness of his arousal. He asked himself, for one cold second: Is this a trap?

But still, he didn't look away.

It lasted perhaps five seconds. Then the man turned, without haste, and walked silently to the elevator bank. Disappeared.

Markus stood alone, heart hammering, hands damp. He had never been looked at like that.

Later that day, he found himself in the sterile glare of a glass conference room on the tenth floor. Chrome legs. Water pitchers. Tablets. Men in suits. International delegates sat around oval tables. Most Saudis were in traditional dress: the long thawb, the ghutra on their heads maintained by the black circle called agal.

Markus had prepared a short talk on passive cooling strategies in desert architecture: wind towers, thermal mass, courtyard alignment. His laptop rested on the table in front of him, a laser pointer in one hand, the other gripping the lectern too tightly. A jug of filtered water and a glass, untouched.

He gestured toward the model beside him, explaining cooling corridors and airflows, shading, thermal mass, passive design. His words flowed, but his awareness kept flickering to the crowd. To one place in particular.

Then he looked up. And froze.

Third row. Slightly off-center. The man. From the lobby.

Now seated. Poised. A tablet in front of him, a black pen held loosely in one hand. His posture was composed, relaxed. Too composed. His ghutra had shifted slightly at the temple. But his look was steady -- not directly on Markus. On the model. Then on Markus again.

Their eyes didn't meet, but something passed between them: inaudible, exact. A thrum in the air. A signal. Like static beneath the surface of speech.

The man hadn't moved.

His stillness wasn't passive. It was volitional. Active. He was holding a position, and holding Markus in it. It was the same pressure he'd felt in the lobby, magnified now by proximity, by time.

Each second felt like another needle in Markus's composure. His spine tingled. His palms moistened. He faltered for a moment when describing indirect light shading. Recovered. Took a sip of water with a hand that trembled slightly. He continued speaking, flipped to a new slide. His voice felt foreign in his mouth. He explained solar massing, but his eyes drifted again.

The session ended. Applause. Markus nodded politely, collected his papers, eyes lowered. But as he left the stage, he let his glance slide once more to the third row. Empty. Gone. His breath hitched.

In the corridor, twenty minutes later, as the delegates shuffled toward the elevators and breakout rooms, he caught a flash of black near the far corner. The man in the third row. Walking calmly. Alone.

Markus slowed. The man passed him without a glance. But then, just as he reached the curve of the hall, he turned. One glance over the shoulder. Measured. Grave. Final. Then gone again.

That single look struck harder than any word could have. Not invitation, not threat. Just inevitability.

The rest of the day passed in a haze. Markus sat through another roundtable. Took notes he wouldn't remember. His thoughts spiraled in loops.

He had come to Riyadh to study the modern city -- its systems, its façades, its contradictions. But now he had entered another kind of structure entirely. One with no exits.

Back in his room, Markus let the air-conditioning run on high. He peeled off his shirt, poured a glass of water, but didn't drink. His laptop still open on the desk, his notes scattered across the bed.

Then he saw the folder again: the conference file on his laptop. He had barely glanced at it before, just the schedule, the logos, a few maps. But now, fingers trembling slightly, he scrolled down to the final section.

The participants. Faces arranged in neat rows, most of them stern, unreadable, framed in suits or in white thawbs with ghutras bound tight by black agals. So many beards. So many similar eyes.

Until: him. The same eyes, even in low resolution. Unmistakable. Dry. Exact.

Beneath the image it read: Hamid Zaim Al-Julaybi -- Ministry of Cultural Affairs.

Markus stared. He hadn't expected the shock. Seeing the name, seeing it attached to that face. It made something inside him lurch. He whispered it once.

Hamid.

Now the man had a name. And that changed nothing -- and everything.

That night, just before midnight, Markus stepped into the elevator. Clean shirt, soft trousers, sandals. His heartbeat audible in the silence. The brushed steel walls mirrored his face back at him: pale, drawn, younger than usual. The air was cool and sterile. He adjusted the collar at his neck. Then the doors opened, and Hamid stepped in.

They stood side by side. Twelve floors. Neither moved. The scent was subtle. Not perfume -- presence. Leather, fabric, heat. A trace of cedar. And beneath it: sweat held in cotton. Body. Male. An animal note beneath the civility.

The air around them tightened. Markus stared forward. Hamid didn't touch him. But Markus felt his weight, his nearness. The tension in the space was neither hostile nor safe. Just... total.

The elevator slowed. Just before the doors opened, Hamid spoke. His voice was deeper than Markus expected. Deeper than Markus had imagined. Dry, deliberate. A desert voice.

"How long are you staying here?"

Markus turned, startled.

"Three weeks," he answered.

A pause. Then a single nod. Hamid stepped out. The doors closed again. Markus didn't breathe until the machine reached his floor.

The next day, after a long meeting and a working lunch, Markus returned to his room. He placed his notes on the desk, kicked off his shoes, poured a glass of water, opened his folder.

And there it was. A note.

Plain. Folded once. Inserted between his handouts. He stared at it, unfolded it slowly.

Tomorrow. 10:30 PM. Room 717. Do not bring your phone.

That was all.

He sat down. The cold water forgotten. The room humming softly around him. He didn't move for ten minutes.

Saturday came. That morning, he'd sat through a site meeting in the business district, nodding without speaking, watching PowerPoints on urban zoning through a filter of fatigue. Since then: lunch, a nap, the silent hours leading to this.

At 10:32, he changed his shirt, brushed his hair, left his phone in the safe. Walked in sandals to the elevator. His body was clean, freshly showered, skin still damp. The scrub had left a tingling wake; the scent of soap -- mint and pine -- clung faintly.

The hallway of the seventh floor was carpeted in thick beige, the lighting low. The numbers on the doors: gold on dark wood. This was the high floor of a hotel reserved for visiting professionals. Clean. Anonymous. Contained. Only the hum of air conditioning, faint and steady. The thick carpet muffled even the ghost of his own steps.

He stopped at 717, heartbeat in his ears.

✅ CHAPTER 2 -- THE CALL TO PRAYER

He knocked once.

The sound was soft, the kind of knock that asks nothing but announces everything.

For twenty seconds, silence. His limbs felt light, hollowed, as if the ritual had already begun. He stood still. His chest rose, then fell, sharply.

Then: a sound. A latch turning. The whisper of carpet. The door opened, without a sound, without resistance. It closed behind him with a muted hiss.

The room was hushed, sealed from the world. A floating bubble of luxury: walls of silk, deep carpets, dimmed lights, closed doors. No music. No screen glow. Only a charged stillness. Amber light traced the ceiling and stucco walls. A heavy ochre rug sprawled across polished walnut. Through the window: spires, towers, roads, antennae blinking red into the night.

On a lacquered sideboard stood a tray with two glasses, a decanter of water, a box of kerchiefs, a silver dish. A bowl of ripe figs. Their scent mingled with sandalwood, cedar, and musk. And something else, impossible to define -- smoky, woody, like incense.

Hamid sat at the far end, barefoot on the rug, facing Markus. He hadn't spoken or moved. His thawb hung loose at the collar, but he was bareheaded, the ghutra and agal set aside. His arms, thick and heavy, rested at his sides. He was breathing fast, shallow. His jaw shifted, but made no sound.

His eyes swept over Markus, not with hunger, but with something like disbelief. As though he was the genie he had summoned -- now emerged from the bottle. As if something had crossed the threshold of imagination and now stood there, unbearably real. His gaze paused at Markus's chest, then moved lower, to where the white of his shirt ended and bare skin appeared above his waistband.

Markus didn't look away. Slowly, deliberately, he unfastened the buttons of his shirt, one by one, fingers precise and unhurried. The fabric slipped from his shoulders, caught for a moment at his elbows, then dropped. His cream^white skin shivered under the sudden air.

He stood upright, bare-chested. His muscles were smoothly defined. His masculinity was discreet: a thin copper-blond goatee, a fuzz of light golden hair across his chest. Hamid didn't move, but his eyes devoured.

Markus stepped out of his slippers. Undid his trousers. Folded them quietly, and placed them on a chair. Now he stood in nothing but blue briefs stretched across his hips. He hadn't thought much when he chose them, but they actually suggested far more than they concealed. Now they felt like nothing, as if he were already naked.

What he was looking at was Hamid.

Tall, broad, dark, still clothed. The thawb clung to his back, tight across the shoulder blades. His breathing was heavy. His neck, tense. He said nothing. But his eyes spoke of naked obsession.

He had never met someone like Markus. Someone clear, free, alive, achingly healthy. Someone who ignored shame and restraint. Someone one is not allowed to approach. He wanted to step back. He couldn't.

Markus stepped forward instead, a sheen of sweat along his throat. The thawb was warm and damp. He grasped it, and Hamid flinched. His lips parted, but no sound came. A muscle in his neck pulsed. Markus slid his hand downward -- he found the knot and pulled.

The thawb gave way like a curtain falling. Underneath, Hamid wore only close-fitting white briefs, bright against the depth of his skin. His chest, arms, stomach, and legs were covered in thick dark hair. He looked like something carved from midnight and salt, a body forged in dust and discipline.

Then, with one finger, Hamid touched the short beard along Markus's jaw. A trace, almost a question. His hand moved down his neck, across his chest, to the waistband, like someone trying to recall a shape once held, the outline of a memory now returned.

Markus didn't move. He let himself be read. Only an offered fascination. He focused on his smell -- that deep, smoky, wooded scent he had sensed when entering, but now felt stronger. It was darker than cedar, richer than sandalwood, like incense burning in a temple.

His long fingers slid over Hamid's broad knuckles. He knelt down on the floor, naked but for the blue briefs. He lowered his head and kissed the back of his hand -- a gesture ancient, almost ritual. Then, he opened his lips and drew one of Hamid's fingers into his mouth. Sucked it reverently, without shame. Supple tongue, warm lips, unwavering gaze.

Hamid swayed. His eyes widened. He gave a faint gasp. For the first time, Markus saw his composure fracture. Something trembled in him -- aching lust, mixed with a kind of terror at being seen, touched, exposed.

"Herregud," Markus murmured to himself in Swedish, as though he had suddenly remembered where they were, and what they were about to do implied.

Hamid didn't understand the word, but he understood the tone. And felt his breath grow heavier still. He was hot. Too hot. Suffocating from the inside.

Then, the dam broke.

Hamid grabbed him. Two large brown hands encircled his waist, his back, his neck. He tipped him onto the bed, with a weight that left no room. They fell onto the sheets, half-naked, their chests meeting in a crackle of heat. The contact was electric. The points where their skin touched sparked. Their breath faltered in synchrony.

Their hearts thudded: Markus's, fast and high; Hamid's, deep and deliberate. Smooth against coarse, cool against burn. North versus South, youth versus maturity, freedom versus modesty. Their torsos aligned. Ribs tight. Cocks pressed in their briefs.

Markus pulled down his briefs and dropped them with one keen gesture. He stood bare, hard. Hamid didn't move. Couldn't. Markus reached up and undid the last barrier, swiftly drawing Hamid's white cotton briefs down. His cock emerged, dark, glistening, pulsing, curving from a black thatch.

Hamid stared at him, painfully tense. His manhood had sprung despite himself, massive, rebellious, angry, like a truth compressed too long. He wanted to hide, to look away. He had never seen this, never known this. A body so soft, so white, so alive -- and so ready. He wanted to run. To strike. To beg. To fuck him until collapse.

They pressed together. Skin to skin. Cock to cock. No thrusts. Just touch, just breath. Hamid trembled. His fingers dug into Markus's side. His head dropped to his shoulder. Then, he locked.

Markus felt it rising fast. A groan broke from him, low and raw. He shuddered. Wetness spread between them. He had come -- without warning, without his cock even touched. Just from the friction. From the contrast. From the weight of another male body, present and real. From the shock of being seen. Touched. Wanted.

Hamid's temple rested against Markus's shoulder. Markus stayed still, his own sex still hard, pressed into Hamid's hip. They remained like that for long minutes. Hamid's body trembled faintly.

Then he sat up, breathless.

"Come," he whispered. "Come now."

He led Markus into the bathroom. The shower was already running. Steam wrapped the space in a soft mist. Hamid nodded. Markus stepped in. Water fell in a heavy cascade. Hamid reached for the soap, lathered it slowly, then turned.

He began to wash Markus: neck, shoulders, chest, arms, belly. Like one bathes a prince, or a wound. Every gesture deliberate. Reverent. Markus let himself be touched.

Then, silently, he returned the gesture. His hands moved slowly across Hamid's body. Hamid's eyes closed like a cat being stroked. The hair on his chest curled beneath the water. Soap foamed. Their hands brushed once. No words passed. Only water. Skin. Breath.

They rinsed. Then dried, without haste. The air hung heavy. Back in the bedroom, Hamid sat on the edge of the bed, towel around his shoulders, chest rising slow. Markus stood in front of him, naked. His cock still hard, silent and straight. His gaze was calm, serious.

Hamid looked up at him with soft, almost tragic eyes. Then, finally, he reached and held him tight. Their mouths crashed together: dry lips, wet tongues, the scrape of unshaven jaws. Markus melted into it. Hamid devoured it. Long. Deep. Their mouths opened like sliding doors.

Then Markus knelt again, as though it was the most natural thing to do. His hands rested on Hamid's thighs. He touched his chest, traced his fingers through the dark hair. Slowly, he circled the nipples, watched them harden. Then moved lower, down the belly, following the trail.

Hamid was hard again, fully. Markus inhaled near the base, then licked the underside. The scent struck him again: soap, salt, sweat, and that undefinable wooded, smoky scent that now felt feral, intoxicating. He sniffed, kissed the shaft. One hand moved to Hamid's balls. He cupped them. His right hand slid to his own body. He touched himself, slowly, with control.

Then his mouth took the head. Like an expert. Lips parted, tongue flat. His free hand wrapped around his own cock. The rhythm was deliberate. He moved in waves. His breath slowed to match the motion.

Hamid steadied himself against the wall. One hand found Markus's hair -- not to push, just to hold. The other clutched the edge of the bed. He groaned, head tilted back, tense. One hand hovered, then landed, shaky, on Markus's shoulder.

Hamid, now beyond himself, was lost to the scent of Markus, the softness of his skin, his clear gaze, his open wet mouth -- everything drove him mad. It was a fire-dream. A forbidden fruit opening on its own. Willing, eager. Markus took more, keeping eye contact. He worked slowly: sucking, drawing back, swallowing again, gulping. His hands never stopped.

And then, from beyond the wall, faint at first but clear: the call to prayer.

A voice rising from the minaret. Melodic. Wavering. Echoing.

Hamid's breath caught. His thighs tightened. He let out a moan, no longer controlled. His body thrust once, hard. Markus didn't retreat. He kept going. Something built inside him, hot, raw, feisty, rising from his belly into his chest. His eyes burned.

Hamid gasped, and came in Markus's mouth. Three loads. Salty. Sharp. Bitter. A hoarse sound escaped him, pulled from the gut, between panic and surrender. His legs trembled. His chest bucked.

At that same moment, Markus reached his own edge. He spasmed violently. Tears welled as he came across his own thigh, head still bowed between Hamid's legs.

Above them, the muezzin's voice floated.

Breath. Seed. Prayer.

The silence was full of something grave.

Markus stayed there. His mouth was full of semen, now dripping from his lips. His forehead pressed against Hamid's hip. His eyes blurred -- not from pain, from something else.

He looked up.

Hamid looked down.

Then glanced toward the small lacquered table. Without a word, he lifted his chin slightly, a gesture of invitation. Markus followed his gaze. He stood, walked over.

The figs waited on the silver dish, dark and ripe, glistening slightly under the soft light. He picked one up, brought it to his mouth, and bit into it. The skin broke with a faint pop. The flesh inside, warm and sweet.

He ate two, then drank from the glass of water -- cool, clear. He took a kerchief from the box and wiped his mouth and his fingers. Then he dried the sweat from his forehead, and from his chest. It steadied something in him. When he turned back, Hamid hadn't moved, but his eyes were watching.

Then Hamid spoke, low.

"How old are you?"

Markus answered, calm.

"Twenty-three."

"And you?"

Hamid looked at him.

"Thirty-eight."

Hamid nodded. Slowly.

"Are you married?"

Markus shook his head. "No."

He wanted to return the question, but refrained. The answer was already there, in the lines around his eyes, in the absence of surprise. Of course he was. Perhaps more than once. Most likely children.

Markus said nothing.

Hamid stood.

"You should go back now."

Markus dressed. Slowly. No rush. No shame.

Their eyes met one last time. A faint smile crossed Hamid's face. Then that same look: deep, solemn, irreversible.

Markus stepped out, and the door whispered shut behind him.

✅ CHAPTER 3 -- CHOP CHOP SQUARE

The city unfolded like an illusion held in place by heat. Flat white roads, lined with scrub and checkpoints, veered past plazas and silence. In the mornings, Markus took the metro beneath towers that shimmered above the dust. Towers without shadow, mirrored façades that reflected a sky bleached into haze. At the station entrances, guards scanned bags with mechanical indifference. No one met anyone's eyes.

Riyadh was a city of thresholds: vast compounds behind anonymous gates, air-conditioned interiors that bore no relation to the world outside. Everything felt sealed, polished, filtered, unreal. Even the hotel seemed governed by a logic he couldn't decode. The staff were courteous, silent, invisible. In the evenings, the lobby filled with a certain kind of man: long thawbs, polished watches, eyes that dismissed or absorbed him with equal ease. Men who seemed to belong in a way he never would.

It was May, and already over forty degrees in the shade. The air was stagnant. Bougainvillea wilted behind wire. The white buildings absorbed heat and gave nothing back. The hotel corridors were chilled nearly to freezing, but outside, stepping into the light was an assault. The sun didn't burn. It crushed. Asphalt shimmered. Skin prickled. The light was white, blinding.

The rhythm of the day was no longer solar but vocal. The city breathed in verse. At dawn, a single voice across the rooftops. At noon, a chorus of loudspeakers like thunder. At dusk, something closer to lament. The sound drilled into the walls, through the skin. Markus heard it in his room, in the office, in his dreams. He no longer knew if he found it beautiful or unbearable.

Five times a day, the city paused -- not metaphorically, but completely. Every time the muezzin's eerie wail pierced the air, the streets aligned instantly in perfect rows. Men stepped out of shops, cars, buildings. They unfolded prayer rugs, flattened cardboard, or dropped straight to the pavement.

Markus had seen it again and again, but it never ceased to unsettle him -- the sudden choreography, precise and collective. Bodies folding in unison, spines curving, foreheads pressed to stone. From his shaded corner, he watched them: cloth tightening across backs, the scent of heat and human fabric rising in the heat.

It wasn't erotic. But it was bodily. Vibratory. A communion of muscle, flesh and breath. Each form distinct, yet absorbed into a single wave of submission. At the periphery, always, the black-robed figures of the Hay'a stood watching. Everyone seemed to spy on one another. It felt like a world imagined by Orwell not in grey, but in blinding white, under the scorching sun.

Outside a mall, Markus once passed a group of teenagers laughing beside a parked luxury car. Local boys, sleeves rolled high, sunglasses even in the shade. Their speech sounded sharp, clipped--designed to hit and vanish. Their eyes, quick. As he approached, they fell silent. Not out of respect, but something else. A shift in air pressure. Not fear. Not challenge. Something colder. Surveillance

The architectural bureau was hermetic. The windows were tinted blue. The air smelled of plastic and filtered water. At noon, the lights dimmed automatically for prayer, then rose again as if nothing had happened. Markus worked. Or played the part. His supervisor spoke to him in English only when required. The other staff spoke Arabic around him--not with hostility, but with a quiet disregard that made him feel erased.

Hamid would appear from time to time, always unexpectedly. But unmistakably. At a construction site. In the rear seat of a passing car. On the mezzanine of the hotel's lobby, backlit and still. Always alone, always at a distance. Once, in the underground car park, Hamid passed beside him and kept walking. He did not greet him. He did not look. But Markus felt something then--a kind of closing. A trapdoor in the air.

There was nothing to do. Just a couple of empty and sterile museums and art galleries. No cinema, no alcohol, no music, no terrace, no clubs, no elsewhere. No conversation, no laughter. The hotel offered a gym, a business lounge, a pool where hardly anyone swam. At night, the city became even more opaque: avenues drained of life, villas barricaded, restaurants hushed behind frosted glass. Markus tried walking once, late. He was stopped after two blocks by a man in uniform asking for ID.

There was, at least, the hotel bar. A lounge space dressed up as a cosmopolitan retreat: low chairs, deep carpet, a long counter of backlit bottles, prohibited everywhere else. One of the few distractions available without leaving the building. It was there that Markus had met Ronny. And that's how he learned about a city attraction he'd rather not have known about.

Ronny was English, early forties, from Liverpool. Sun-tanned, solid, a polo shirt pulled tight over his stomach, with a voice slightly too loud for the room. He'd lived "on and off" in the Kingdom for years, doing contracts, security work, bits and pieces. He talked fast, with an ease that felt practiced--the kind of man who found bars wherever he went, and treated them all as interchangeable.

Halfway through his second beer, Ronny asked Markus if he'd ever heard about Chop Chop Square.

"Locals call it that. It's not the real name. I think it's something official--'Justice Square' or whatever. But everyone calls it Chop Chop. You know why?"

Markus said nothing. He already did.

"That's where they do the executions. Fridays, after prayers. Whole public thing. Beheadings. Old-school. They still do it with a sword, I swear to God."

He laughed--not loudly, but with a kind of pride.

"The funny part," Ronny went on, "is the drain. Right in the middle of the square. A proper floor drain, like in a slaughterhouse. It hardly ever rains here. Like once in a decade. That tells you what it's really for, doesn't it?"

Markus's throat went dry. His gaze turned blank. He looked at the surface of his drink, untouched.

"I went once. Years ago. With a few mates. We got there early, thought we'd get a good view. No way, it was packed. Just too many people. Families. Kids. You couldn't see a thing."

He took another sip, as if they'd been talking about football. Then leaned back, relaxed.

"But the atmosphere, that was something. Wild. Like a match day. Everyone buzzing. Pushing to get a look. Phones out. Some guy had a little flag. I swear, it was like a gig. Like a rock concert."

He paused, grinning at the memory.

"The best way to see it though," he added, "is actually on TV. They show it live sometimes. Different angle. Clean shot. Better than actually being there."

(to be continued)