The danger was no longer in movement.
It was in stillness.
Stefan realized this on a gray morning when Brussels seemed trapped between seasons—no longer autumn, not yet winter. The city moved, but without conviction. Trams ran on schedule. Offices opened their doors. Meetings were held, notes were taken, resolutions postponed.
Everything functioned.
Nothing advanced.
It felt as though Europe itself was holding its breath.
Stefan stood by the window of the Weiss estate, watching the city wake under low clouds. He had learned to recognize this sensation long ago—in another life—when hesitation disguised itself as prudence.
Stagnation, he knew, was not neutral.
It was a choice masquerading as patience.
At thirteen, Stefan was tall enough now that strangers occasionally hesitated before asking his age. His shoulders had squared slightly. His voice had settled into something steadier, less boyish. When he spoke, people no longer talked over him out of reflex.
They still underestimated him.
But now, they did so deliberately.
That meant something had shifted.
At the International Lyceum, the student emergency coordination framework he had proposed weeks earlier continued to develop quietly.
No announcements.
No banners.
No enthusiasm-driven campaigns.
Just systems.
Contact trees pinned discreetly in common areas. Rotation schedules. Simple procedures written in neutral language and approved without much discussion.
The administration signed off with minimal commentary.
Which, Stefan knew, was the highest compliment they could give.
What unsettled him was not its approval.
It was how quickly others deferred once it existed.
When a minor electrical failure disrupted one wing of the school one afternoon, confusion spread—briefly. Lights flickered. Voices rose. Someone ran for a teacher.
Then someone else said, "Check the protocol."
And they did.
Students moved according to the system. Groups relocated. Communication passed through designated channels. The disruption ended not with authority, but with coordination.
No panic.
No argument.
No intervention from above.
It worked.
Stefan stood to the side, watching as something abstract became habit. No one looked at him. No one thanked him. Most of them likely didn't remember who had suggested it in the first place.
That was ideal.
For a moment, a memory from his previous life surfaced uninvited—ministries scrambling during real crises, officials paralyzed by unclear authority and fear of blame, systems collapsing under their own complexity.
This is how it starts, he thought.
Not with power.
With reliability.
That evening, Gianluca brought unexpected news during dinner.
"A committee member from Milan reached out," he said casually, as if discussing traffic patterns. "Asked about you."
Stefan looked up. "Directly?"
"No," Gianluca replied. "Through intermediaries. Three of them. Very polite. Very vague."
Fabio's brow furrowed. "That's too soon."
"Yes," Vittorio agreed quietly. "They're testing the perimeter."
Stefan considered it in silence, then nodded once. "They're impatient."
Fabio looked at him sharply. "That's dangerous."
"No," Stefan replied calmly. "It's useful."
The table fell silent.
"When people grow impatient," Stefan continued, "they stop observing systems and start searching for individuals. That's when they make mistakes."
Vittorio studied him. "And what mistake do you expect them to make?"
Stefan allowed himself a small, humorless smile. "They'll try to accelerate me."
That night, Stefan reviewed correspondence he wasn't officially meant to see—summaries, trend analyses, fragments of conversations filtered through adults who assumed abstraction would hide intent.
He saw the same pattern everywhere.
Everyone agreed Europe needed coordination.
Everyone disagreed on timing.
Everyone feared being first.
In his previous life, that fear had cost decades.
He closed his notebook slowly.
Standing still was already expensive.
Winter arrived fully by the end of the week.
Frost coated the garden paths of the Weiss estate. The air turned sharp, unforgiving. Stefan trained outside regardless, breath controlled, muscles responding with disciplined efficiency.
Krüger watched from a distance before finally approaching.
"You're carrying weight you don't need yet," the older man said.
Stefan paused, exhaled slowly. "If I wait until I need it, it will be too late."
Krüger grunted. "True. But too much weight slows reaction."
Stefan nodded. "I won't let it."
Inside, however, he wasn't entirely certain.
That night brought confirmation of his unease.
Not a threat.
An invitation.
The envelope was formal. Heavy paper. Impeccable phrasing. An academic symposium in Luxembourg the following year—future leadership, European integration, promising youth.
Stefan read it twice.
They were no longer pretending not to see him.
"They want me visible," he murmured.
In his previous life, this was where ambition often overruled caution. Where proximity to influence felt like progress.
He folded the letter carefully and placed it back in its envelope.
Visibility without readiness was not opportunity.
It was exposure.
Downstairs, the adults debated quietly—whether accepting would signal openness or restraint, whether declining would draw suspicion.
Stefan listened.
Then he spoke.
"I'll attend," he said evenly. "But not as a speaker."
Fabio frowned. "Then why go?"
"So they see me," Stefan replied, "without learning how I think."
Vittorio smiled faintly. "Standing still while appearing to move."
"Exactly," Stefan said.
Because the cost of standing still was rising.
And Europe—fractured, hesitant, afraid of momentum—could not afford much more of it.
Neither could he.
Before sleeping, Stefan returned to the window once more. The city lights reflected off wet streets, fractured and distorted.
In another life, he had watched this same continent freeze under indecision.
This time, he would not let stillness masquerade as safety.
Movement was coming.
Whether Europe chose it—
Or not.