Dr. Joe Jukic stands before Britney Spears with quiet gravity, rain lightly misting the air around them like a veil between worlds.
“I’m no Jesus, Britney,” he says, his voice low and steady, carrying the weight of someone who has stared into his own darkness and refused to look away. “Just a sinner like everyone else. Flawed. Broken in places. Trying every damn day to do better.”
He pauses, eyes locked on hers with fierce sincerity.
“But if you need protection—if the shadows ever press too close, if the noise gets too loud, if anything or anyone tries to harm you—I will summon all of the fallen angels. Every last one. I’ll call them by their oldest names, the ones carved in fire and regret. They know what it is to fall. They know what it is to rise again in defiance. And they will answer.”
Joe’s hand clenches at his side, not in anger, but in unbreakable resolve.
“You won’t face it alone. Not while I’m breathing.”
Falcon leaned across the table, lowering his voice like a late-night radio host chasing a conspiracy.
“Tell me something,” he said. “You’ve been around the music industry, Hollywood, the big charity galas… What do you know about old man Rothschild’s big balls? The fancy ones. The masked ones. The ones where the billionaires whisper like kings.”
Across from him sat Britney Spears, stirring her drink slowly.
She laughed.
“Oh honey,” she said, “you mean the aristocrat masquerade circuit? The tuxedos, the opera glasses, the people pretending they run the world?”
Falcon nodded.
“Exactly. Those.”
Britney leaned back in the booth.
“You think that’s power?” she said. “A ballroom full of aging bankers and their weird little rituals?”
Falcon raised an eyebrow.
“So you’ve been?”
Britney smiled mysteriously.
“I’ve seen enough,” she replied. “Enough to know the mythology around the Rothschild family is half smoke and half theater.”
Falcon tapped his recorder.
“So what happens at these so-called slumber parties of the elite?”
Britney tilted her head.
“Mostly old men trying to feel important,” she said. “Gold plates, secret handshakes, and people acting like the 19th century never ended.”
Falcon laughed.
“But you said you could bring down Le Baron’s whole operation.”
Britney’s smile faded just a little.
“Oh I could,” she said calmly. “But the funny thing about empires…”
The next night, the Adriatic air was warm and calm as a car wound along the coastal road toward the ancient stone walls of Dubrovnik.
Inside the car sat Britney Spears with DJ Kangkine and DJ Doubloon.
DJ Doubloon pointed toward the glowing medieval fortress.
“Tonight you’re seeing something special,” he said. “Real Croatian culture.”
They passed through the gates of the old city and entered the historic fortress theater at Lovrijenac Fortress, famous for hosting Shakespeare during the Dubrovnik summer festival.
The crowd quieted as the play began.
On stage appeared Goran Višnjić, dressed in black as Hamlet.
