2. Kompromat on the Achaemenid Warrior

Bahadur Achem’s breath came in sharp gasps, each one a reminder of how close death lurked. The narrow Eurotunnel stretched ahead of him, a pitch-black corridor that felt more like a tomb than a path to freedom. Every twenty minutes, a high-speed train would shoot by, close enough to pull you off your feet if you weren’t careful. The smell of damp, the taste of stale air, and the ever-present vibration of trains filled Bahadur’s senses.

He pressed his back against the cold wall, feeling the rumble before he heard it. Another train. He counted the seconds in his head, fighting the panic rising in his chest. One… two… three… The rumble turned into a deafening roar as the train hurtled past, shaking the ground beneath his feet. Bahadur held his breath, waiting for the moment to pass.

When the silence returned, he pushed off the wall and continued forward, his legs screaming with exhaustion. Thirty-nine kilometers. That was how far he still had to go under the English Channel, dodging trains and clinging to the walls. Out of the group of twenty who had entered the tunnel, only eleven were left. The others had either fallen behind.

He didn’t think about them. He couldn’t afford to.

In 2015, Bahadur had escaped Middle East. Like so many others, he had left everything behind, crossing deserts and oceans, bribing guards, and trusting smugglers. Europe had been the promised land, a place where freedom was more than a word. But when he arrived, the refugee camps were nothing more than open-air prisons, filled with the stench of decay and desperation. France was no different. So he left, heading underground, into the Eurotunnel, chasing the faintest glimmer of hope.

Behind him, the world was burning. Ahead of him, only uncertainty.

Bahadur pulled his jacket tighter around his body as the cold bit into his skin. Each step felt heavier than the last. But giving up wasn’t an option. The thought of being trapped in that refugee camp—starving, forgotten—was worse than any danger the tunnel could throw at him. He had to reach England. He had to survive.

By the time they reached the end of the tunnel, Bahadur’s legs were numb, his vision blurry from lack of sleep. The small village of Farthingloe lay just beyond the fence. Freedom, if he could get past the guards.

“Go,” someone hissed behind him, and Bahadur didn’t wait. He climbed over the fence, landing awkwardly on the other side. Two others followed, their faces pale in the moonlight. Bahadur’s heart pounded in his chest as he saw the headlights of a police car speeding toward them.

“Run!”

They darted into the woods, disappearing into the shadows just as the sirens blared. Bahadur didn’t look back. He didn’t have to. They were safe, for now.

Life in England wasn’t what he’d imagined. The promise of freedom was a mirage, slipping further away with each passing day. Without documents, without a way to earn money, Bahadur and the others became runners, drug mules for the London underworld. It wasn’t the life he wanted, but it was the only one he could have. The streets were dangerous, but Bahadur was tougher. His bosses noticed. They called him Golden Baha because, with every run, he brought in more money than the last. And when he replaced his rotten teeth with 24-carat gold ones, the name stuck.

But it was during one of those drug-fueled nights, high on cocaine, that Bahadur saw what he would later call providence. His heart had nearly stopped from the overdose, but in that haze of pain and confusion, he saw something more. He saw the future. A future where technology could control the streets, where drugs could be passed without ever seeing a human face. He saw the power that could be harnessed through the invisible, through the very systems people trusted.

When he came to his senses, his bosses listened to him. They didn’t understand his vision at first, but Bahadur was persistent. And soon, with enough money and influence, the Achaemenid Corporation was born. What started as a drug ring turned into something much more: an empire built on secrets and shadows.

By 2033, Bahadur had used his influence to push through a new transportation system in London: a pedestrian walkway with hidden sensors, perfect for running drugs across the city without ever being seen. The people walked in their digital daze, completely oblivious to the deals happening all around them. The walkway was more than just a convenience; it was a perfect machine of control, blending technology and crime in ways the public would never suspect.

The system was seamless, hidden in plain sight. Bahadur Achem became the invisible hand behind London’s drug trade. And no one, except for a few, ever realized how evil had found a home in the heart of the city’s tech utopia.

Bahadur’s rise to power was swift, but it was also precarious. He knew that control—real control—came from the man above him. Bahadur had been a puppet, his strings pulled by another. The empire he built wasn’t truly his. The Achaemenid Corporation grew, not because of his ingenuity, but because it was allowed to.

But even as his empire grew, Bahadur could never shake the feeling that the control he held wasn’t really his. There were moments, quiet moments when the drugs faded and the streets slept, when he wondered if the power he wielded was an illusion. Was it all really his doing? Or was someone, somewhere, watching, allowing him to rise just high enough to feel invincible before pulling him back down?

He pushed such thoughts aside. He had no choice but to keep going, to keep building. But that feeling, like the rumble of an approaching train, never left him.

As Bahadur stood at the top of his empire, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the power he had built felt fragile, like the shaky breath before another high-speed train rattled through the Eurotunnel. One misstep, and everything could come crashing down.

And in a world where control was everything, one slip could mean losing it all.