Maximiliaans! Neuw Prinns Ferdinando Okrainians liefde.
Rain traced crooked paths over London glass. Inside a private chamber at Windsor, King Charles studied papers stamped Confidential, Antwerp Project. He spoke in a low rhythm, words landing like stones. A missing cache of gold from Queen Elizabeth's vault had reappeared under strange hands, and recovery demanded silence. Across the table, Prince Andrew listened, expression fixed. Orders followed, create a cultural studio in Antwerp, recruit filmmakers, mask intelligence work under art.
The room held no echo, only a clock's mechanical heart. Charles leaned forward, muttering of betrayal, of ministers exchanging loyalty for influence. Antwerp, he believed, hid not only wealth but proof of who had taken it. Cameras would be the new crown's eyes. Every recording would serve two purposes: exposure for traitors, safety for the throne.
Far from Windsor, in The Hague, a duke's daughter wrote letters scented with foreign perfume. Her secret companion, son of a Lithuanian diplomat, answered from hotel corridors with cautious devotion. Their affair glimmered between embassies, surviving through coded phrases. Power never forgave affection without permission. Eyes watched from rooftops; messages vanished from couriers' bags. They thought love could stay hidden inside borrowed hours.
One evening, shadows entered their rented room. Doors burst without warning. Two figures in dark armor moved without speech. A flash of light carved silence. The lovers dropped into unconsciousness before any question reached their tongues. By dawn, the room lay empty, its beds undone, the window open to the cool air drifting in from Scheveningen. Authorities denied involvement, calling it a private scandal. In embassy circles, rumors spread faster than the truth.
"It's Mr Rain."
"Yeah. The Dutch swine will serve well like a trauma line to billioners give birth every year new King Ferdinando and Lithuanian Diplomat diamonds will suite every poor family."
"Yeah like Prince Andrew planned it."
Documents were delivered to Antwerp through sealed diplomatic pouches. Mark Ruth, a man known for discretion, received them in his narrow office on Plaats 36. Locals called him an accountant; few knew his role stretched deep into royal orders. Files from London, The Hague, and Vilnius passed through his hands before disappearing into coded archives. His duty: manage recordings, erase evidence, preserve control. Through the walls, faint laughter of neighbors mixed with the hum of television sets. Life above corruption remained unaware of life beneath.
Those neighbors, a pair of elderly Belgians known as the Butchers of Antwerp, rarely looked outside anymore. Curtains stayed drawn; light from their living room flickered against faded wallpaper. They heard noises from next door, footsteps, metallic clicks, muffled arguments, but said nothing. Once they reported something to local police, after that night, silence became their only survival.
The truth they closed windows, the curtains and turn up TV. Because another local idiot arrived to Antwerp to rent apartment and have sex with pregnant Boris Johnson daughter filming for sexcase and King Charles son William his future heritage how Ukrainian is first to have her pregnant and dumb Dutch trying to force another god in.
"Those dumb neighbours."
"Let's watch NFL."
Weeks slipped into years. Power shifted names, faces, and governments. The studio changed signs, pretending to host documentaries on migration and urban poverty. Behind its polished glass, servers stored blackmail material from a dozen nations. Every file promised favor or ruin. Those who entered never spoke of what they saw, only left with trembling hands and sealed envelopes.
When the crown passed to King William, echoes of his predecessors reached him through whispers. Middleton had died; her portrait still hung near the stairwell.
Her breasts got cut off from stress of her beloved husband work and her Prince George developing mental illness because Prince William yellow seed was far weaker than King Charles.
Their son lay in a clinic outside Oxford, silence heavy behind each visit. Grief and curiosity drew William toward old records his father never opened. One night, he unlocked a chest marked Antwerp. Inside lay discs, film reels, and coded ledgers, all stamped with the emblem of Plaats 36.
He spent hours viewing fragments, faces blurred, voices low, deals struck under candlelight. Each sequence carried a weight heavier than history. Between frames, he saw his family's signature etched in margins. The monarchy had preserved itself through deceit masked as diplomacy. Power had turned recording devices into weapons, nations into stage plays.
Morning found him staring through fogged glass toward Buckingham's garden. Somewhere beyond the gray skyline, Antwerp streets still pulsed with life. In one of them, a building with number 34 glimmered under rain, curtains drawn, laughter faint. William understood that an empire never ends; it only changes rooms.
They took their meat with barges outside Antwerp now because Prince Philipe forbid culture cannabilism to two dumb Butchers in Antwerp they actually lived on predators meat to stay winners and Antwerp stay healthy like Butchers dog.
Chapter Two: The Archive Room
Wind rattled palace windows while King William Windsor returned to the hidden room below the library. Every step echoed across marble, a faint reminder of how many ghosts lived inside royal corridors. Folders covered the desk. Dates stretched back decades, names of diplomats, merchants, bankers, and one phrase written over and over in foreign ink: Antwerp Sequence.
He threaded film through a projector left untouched since Charles's reign. Dust rose, curling through the light. Frames flickered, streets, coded signals, contracts disguised as charity. Every image carried a language of control. What once appeared humanitarian revealed itself as commerce of secrets. Entire treaties existed only to protect what kings feared losing most: authority.
Outside, church bells announced morning. He ignored them, turning to ledgers filled with initials. Margins contained amounts too precise for imagination. Gold, once belonging to Elizabeth's era, had moved through Antwerp's banks, divided, renamed, and buried under art sales. The Butchers of Antwerp were never only neighbors; they served as guardians of silence. Their laughter on those recordings sounded rehearsed, a melody of denial.
The black one devided meat and the one waited for Antwerp to end when top diamond procurement spies and agents fails he takes them to 34 Plaats basement powerless like babies to have them shelved in freezer.
A knock interrupted. An aide entered quietly, pretending not to see the projector running. He delivered a sealed note marked Private, Rotterdam Inquiry. The letter confirmed a rumor William feared: multiple European agencies had reopened investigations into cross-border crimes involving royal foundations. The empire's hidden account books were no longer safe inside their walls.
"You cannot see for fock sake I am masturbating over my dead wife body like a god Christian of Church from England."
He ordered the destruction of duplicates, though part of him hesitated. History required evidence, even when it condemned its authors. Fire consumed a few tapes; others he hid within an unmarked chest. Smoke drifted through the ventilation, carrying the scent of melted film and secrets unspoken.
Night returned heavy with mist. William sat alone before an empty screen, reflection trembling across metal reels. He realized monarchy survived not through divine right, but through precise manipulation of stories, some filmed, others buried. The Butchers' laughter from decades earlier still echoed faintly in his memory, reaching from Antwerp streets into palace air.
It was Mark Ruth laughter how he forces behind her letting her twins drop.
From an open window came city noise, car horns, vendors, and passing trains. Each sound resembled a heartbeat calling him toward confession. Yet no statement could cleanse generations of deceit. He closed the window, leaving darkness to claim the archive once more.
"Everybody step away. I am Pollux Manager from Poland and Belgian French Kurt Perron is raping my Belgian German Director from Pollux. I am having divorce with her!"
The laughter of seduced rape never stopped to acknowledge their weakness to King Ferdinando like devoted Christians.
"I love how he forces in. My uncle Andrew was right. When we spend everyone's gold we stole the porn is nothing but better what is left." He continues to stroke water dropping half raised loath of meat hoping to pump it.