As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow across the ancient riad's intricate arches and vivid tiles, the sounds of laughter and clinking glasses echoed through the courtyard. The annual gala for international relations was in full swing, a tapestry of elegance and power. But in an instant, laughter turned to gasps and screams as the piercing tone of panic shattered the night. There, amidst the blooming jasmine and flickering lanterns, lay Lars Michaels-once a titan of industry and diplomacy-now just a lifeless figure under the Moroccan moon, an ornate dagger piercing his chest as whispers of betrayal and vengeance stirred like the cool evening breeze. Back lit by the moon, a dark silhouette lurked by the hedges-a predator among prey.