So we're going to start a new story by gathering your ideas, dear SECRET token players.

So let's see what ideas you had.

But first, let's hear from the SECRET token winners, PEPE ECU.

@gatet @tydynrain @manuvert @hivecurious @sgcurate @bossingclint @happyboi @vaynard.fun @xiannelee @itharagaian @anonyvoter @tortangkahoy @servelle @longganisan @hiro.guita @lumpiadobo @hatdogsensei @olujose6 @tokutaro22 @logen9f @florenceboens

Now it's time for your suggestions for a new story.

@olujose6

@hatdogsensei

@lumpiadobo

@servelle

@tortangkahoy

@tydynrain

Well let's try to mix all of that into one story.

Chapter 1 — The Visitor in the Slate-Grey Coat

Snow was beginning to fall on Val-d’Enbas like powdered sugar dust. The garlands of the Christmas market quivered in the wind, the Ferris wheel blinked lazily, and the scent of cinnamon mingled with that of roasting chestnuts. In the square stood a gigantic fir tree, covered in red baubles, straw angels, and promises of peace. The town orchestra was trying to play “Silent Night,” but the clarinet seemed to be at war with its reed.

At 6:12 PM, camera 4 at the train station recorded something impossible.

On the deserted platform, between two gusts of wind, a man appeared. He had not “gotten off” a train—no convoy had arrived for ten minutes. Nor had he emerged from a blind spot. One frame showed nothing, the next showed a long, slate-grey coat, buttoned to the neck, and beneath it, a face too calm for the icy air biting at his cheekbones. The man held a brown suitcase covered in faded labels, and in his free hand, a small circular object that resembled a compass with strange markings.

“Play it again,” said Captain Naïma Delaunay, crouching in front of the control screen.

Brigadier Kermorvin replayed the clip. The same impossibility stretched out again, silent and precise. No glitch, no editing. The visitor, whom no one had seen enter, was watching the snow as if taking its pulse.

“No badge, no ticket, no face in our databases,” Kermorvin murmured. “It’s like he popped out of nowhere.”

Naïma pursed her lips. Her dark eyes, tired from three nights chasing “festive” pickpockets, regained a cold sharpness. Under her parka, she wore the midnight blue vest of the National Police, and on her left sleeve, a worn patch: K9. At her feet, Junon, a Malinois shepherd, waited, her nose twitching, her gaze fixed on the screen as if she could track a scent from pixel to pixel.

“Do we have him on camera 5?” asked Naïma.

“Yep. He crosses the hall, stops in front of the station’s miniature tree, and… that’s it. After that, he leaves, Saint-Étienne square side.”

“Alright, let’s move.”

Outside, Val-d’Enbas shone with a cheerful veneer that the cold had cracked in places. Wooden chalets sold kitsch decorations, a stall offered “Christmas pizzas” sprinkled with pomegranate seeds, and children lined up to listen to old Louvel, the town storyteller, tell tales near the nativity scene. People often said his characters seemed to come to life around him, that his breath sculpted the mist into dancing silhouettes. The children didn’t have the vocabulary for “optical illusions”; they preferred “magic.”

Junon let out a small yap. A man in a slate-grey coat was walking up the street, exactly as on the screen. His suitcase seemed heavy; yet his step was crisp, almost out of time. As he passed the choir, the clarinet’s sour note righted itself, as if the air had suddenly tuned itself.

“Sir! Police!” Naïma called.

The visitor stopped. His eyes were a surprising grey, but not cold. He looked at Naïma, then at Junon, and gave a very slight nod, an ancient greeting. The dog, usually wary, wagged her tail. The black harness she wore had a small round medallion, a wink from the K9 unit: “Paw Friend.”

“Your papers, please,” said Naïma.

He set his suitcase down. From the inside pocket of his coat, he pulled out an identity card… that didn’t exist. No country, no code, just a rectangle of thick, blank, smooth paper that seemed to reject the world’s inks.

“My name is Abel,” he replied.

“Abel what?”

“Just Abel.”

“How did you get here, ‘just Abel’?”

He looked up at the sky where the snow was dancing.

“Through the station.”

“No train came in. You show up on our cameras like… an apparition.”

A smile touched his lips—neither condescending nor mocking. A smile that acknowledged the question and took no pride in it.

“Cameras see things according to their logic,” he said. “Mine is a little different.”

Junon had approached the suitcase. She sniffed, took a step back, then came forward again, intrigued. Naïma signaled to Kermorvin, who had stayed back.

“We’re going to open it,” she announced.

Abel nodded. He didn’t seem nervous. Naïma undid the clasps and lifted the lid.

The contents were an inventory of objects one might have thought pulled from a flea market of illusions: the compass with the strange markings, its needle vibrating with every chime of a bell; a small notebook covered in symbols that belonged to no known alphabet; a whistle made of pale metal engraved with tiny stars; a music box; a bag of dog treats; and, wedged between two shirts folded with manic care, a pizza box sealed with a red wax stamp.

“You travel light,” Kermorvin said, both to joke and because the silence was beginning to weigh heavy.

Abel crouched down, ran his fingertips over the music box.

“One never really needs much,” he replied. “Only the right things.”

Naïma picked up the notebook. The symbols formed clear lines, and despite the unknown script, something in her eye felt drawn in. A flicker of understanding, then it slipped away like mercury.

“What language is this?” she asked.

“A new language.”

“Where is it from?”

“It’s less an origin than a future,” Abel said softly. “It isn’t born yet. But it’s already whispering.”

Naïma put the notebook down, a shiver running down her spine. Junon whined low, as if a whistle too high for human hearing passed through the air. In the square, old Louvel began a new story. His voice carried to them, round and a little hoarse.

“Once upon a time,” the storyteller began, “there was a cheese so perfect that even Time, jealous, tried to eat it.”

Children’s laughter erupted. Closer to them, the choir launched into “Il est né, le divin enfant” (He is born, the divine child). Abel’s compass vibrated so hard it began to spin, stopping not towards the north, but towards the carillon bell hanging above the chocolatier’s stall. Distracted, Abel dropped the compass, and it rolled into the snow. Junon looked at it, then sat down.

A kid ran by, carrying a poster that flapped like a panicked bird: SOLIDARITY MARATHON — HIVE POWER TOKEN RUN — DECEMBER 24, 5 PM. Naive illustrations showed little hexagonal tokens, smiling, wearing sneakers, running hand-in-hand around a red ribbon.

"What's this circus now?" Kermorvin muttered.

"A fundraiser for the library and the animal shelter," Naïma replied, not taking her eyes off Abel. "Everyone's pitching in. Even the mayor is running."

Abel smiled, pleased by the idea, as if it reminded him of a memory. A snowflake landed on his eyelashes and melted without him blinking.

"Why Val-d'Enbas?" Naïma asked. "Why today?"

"Because this is where it begins."

"'It'?"

Abel turned his head slightly towards the market, then towards the nativity scene. Old Louvel was using his breath to sketch a tiny caravan of mice that seemed, for the space of a glance, to scurry across the edge of the nativity scene in alarm, whiskers twitching in the wind, as if in search of something invisible. The children applauded, triply convinced.

"What the stories choose," said Abel. "And what someone is trying to write on our behalf."

A siren tore through the music. A short, sharp one, like a whistle blast. Naïma raised a hand to her radio.

"Delaunay here."

"Captain," called a panicked voice, "it's Martin, from the 'Town Hall Pizzeria'. We have a... a problem. You should come. Right away."

"What kind?"

"The kind... the kind that moves when it shouldn't. And that screams."

"We're on our way."

She put her notebook away, closed the suitcase. Abel was still waiting, calmly.

"You stay where I can reach you," Naïma said. "No escapades."

"I will come," he offered.

"To the station, maybe. Not to the pizzeria."

A silence fell, thick with unspoken things. At that moment, Junon turned to Abel, fixed her gaze on his grey eyes, and tilted her head. Abel took out the bag of treats, offered one to the dog. Junon hesitated, then accepted it. Naïma bit the inside of her cheek; dogs are radars that don't deal in philosophy. This guy didn't smell bad.

"Kermorvin, you take him to the station and get his prints. I'm heading to the pizzeria with Junon."

"Copy that."

The Town Hall Pizzeria looked like every market pizzeria: a rumbling wood-fired oven, red checkered tables, a narrow kitchen where cooks rushed, hounded by time. The owner, Martin, his hands dusted with flour, cap on backwards, eyes wide, greeted them, almost stuttering.

"I swear I'm not crazy."

"Show me."

In the back kitchen, the open fridge exhaled cold, damp air. On the stainless steel table, GN containers were lined up with toppings: sliced mushrooms, bell pepper strips, olive rings, artichoke hearts, ham cubes, sacrilegious pineapple. A tub of grated mozzarella quivered slightly, as if a vibration ran through it.

"Nothing yet," Martin said. "Wait. It always starts again when you stare too long."

Naïma watched. Junon sniffed cautiously, ears pricked. The back kitchen resonated with a sound she couldn't quite identify: not a hum, not a rustle, something else. Something like a hungry murmur, a chorus of tiny syllables. On a shelf, a small portable radio crackled with market announcements in the background.

"It's... there," Martin breathed.

The black olives moved. Not by inches. A twitch, a contraction. Then a slide. One olive rolled, then another, as if trying to escape the container. The bell pepper strips shivered. The mushrooms seemed to huddle closer together, protecting themselves. Junon growled, a low sound.

"Did you put anything in your containers?" asked Naïma.

"Nothing. And I changed suppliers this morning out of paranoia. Same thing. And... and they scream, I tell you! Not always. Sometimes it sounds like little screams."

The radio crackled, distorted, and an impossible voice slipped between two ads. A series of syllables, syllables that belonged to nothing, yet fit together. Naïma felt the same vertigo as with Abel's notebook. The mozzarella swelled. A pineapple ring flipped over on itself, as if looking for a way out.

"Turn that radio off," Naïma ordered.

Martin hit the button. The noise stopped. The toppings settled. The olives stopped rolling.

"You see?" Martin said in a hollow voice. "When the voice comes on, they... they want to flee."

Naïma had seen absurd crime scenes, Christmas robberies carried out in elf costumes, attempted burglaries on electric scooters. But pizza toppings fighting for their lives was a first. She took a deep breath, pulling her logic back together like buttoning a coat in a gust of wind.

"You don't tell anyone about this for now. We seal the back kitchen. We take samples. And you leave us a post near the oven."

She shot a glance at Junon. The dog, instead of watching the door, was staring at an object sitting on the microwave: a small whistle made of pale metal. Identical to the one seen in Abel's suitcase. Naïma approached. Tiny stars were engraved on the metal.

"Is this yours?" she asked.

"I... found this in a flour box this morning," Martin replied. "I'm not using it. I'm not a referee."

"Who delivered the flour?"

"A new guy. Never seen him before. He said his name was... Abel."

The name fell into the kitchen like a ladle on the tiled floor. Naïma registered it, not letting the slightest tremor reach her voice.

"Description?"

"Tall, dark coat, polite, calm. Eyes... I don't know, they look at you 'for real', you know."

"Did he pay?"

"Didn't need to. He said 'season's gift'. I thought it was a promotion."

Junon growled again. The radio, though turned off, vibrated for a second, as if a voice was seeking a passage. Then nothing. Outside in the square, the crowd laughed, ignorant. The bells began to ring for the illumination of the big tree. At the same moment, through the steamy window of the pizzeria, Naïma saw old Louvel on his small stage, surrounded by children. He raised his hands, and in his breath, tiny silhouettes reappeared: mice, without a doubt, who seemed to bend under the weight of their packs, as if on a mission into the night. Two of them stopped, pointed their snouts towards the pizzeria, then scurried towards the nativity scene with such determined intent you'd swear they could read a map.

"Captain..." Martin breathed, tugging her sleeve. "Looks like they're going to start again."

The olives huddled, the mushrooms shivered, the pineapple attempted an advance. Naïma reached out towards the whistle, brushed it. The metal was cold, but pulsed—a tiny pulse, like a heartbeat. She picked it up. Junon calmed down almost instantly.

"We're taking this," Naïma said.

She turned towards the door. Through the glass, a figure in a slate-grey coat stood motionless, watching her. Not at the window, not in the street. Farther away. In the square, amidst the crowd, as if the crowd parted without touching him. Abel didn't move. His eyes seemed to be listening through her.

The dead radio spat out one more syllable, clear, round, singular, that bounced in the air like a marble: Ra.

Martin hiccuped. His pupils dilated. He took a step forward, beatific, then another. Naïma put a firm hand on his shoulder.

"Stay with me."

"Ra..." he repeated, mouth open, as if the sound was pulling his tongue. "Ra... Ra..."

Junon leaped, put both paws on Martin's thigh, yapped. The noise shattered the enchantment. Martin blinked. Silence fell again, sharp, brittle.

"What was that?" he gasped.

"An attempt to steal your voice," Naïma said, not dwelling on the poetry of the phrase. "And maybe your brain."

Outside, the bells hammered, fake "ho ho ho"s scattered across the square. The snow intensified. In the nativity scene, someone had placed a tiny piece of gouda as an offering. Louvel, with a smile playing on his lips, continued his story.

Naïma clenched the whistle, thought of the notebook, the compass, the suitcase, Abel, his "stories that begin." She thought of the HIVE token marathon, the crowd, the voice, the town asleep under its garlands. The toppings curled in on themselves, exhausted. The evening's pizza might be a battlefield.

"I want Abel at the station, now," she said into the radio. "And a lab tech at the Town Hall Pizzeria. Sealed, samples, spectro, the full arsenal. And someone find me Louvel. I need him."

She went out. The slate-grey coat figure had disappeared, scattered into the snow. Where he had stood, the crowd seemed to create a hole in the air. Junon sniffed, oriented her nose towards the nativity scene, then towards the Ferris wheel, undecided—two contradictory trajectories of the same trail.

"We'll start with the stories," Naïma murmured. "Because they, at least, admit they sometimes lie."

The dog looked at her with the seriousness of a judge. They turned left, towards the storyteller, while, very near their boots, a tiny paw print—not a dog's, not a cat's, a very clear mouse track—appeared in the snow, then another, leading away in a straight line, as if guided by a compass that hadn't been invented yet.