On a quiet evening in January 2023, I was sitting in the office of an administrative manager, waiting—nothing more than a routine procedure. One of his subordinates was with him, and they were talking about matters I had no part in, nor any concern with. Yet the words that floated in the air before me were far from trivial—they were charged with crude insinuations about a colleague I had previously worked with, someone I deliberately avoided in the present.
The conversation took an inappropriate turn, veering toward mockery mixed with suggestion. The manager smiled a mysterious smile and said:
“There’s an oral reward coming for her from a higher authority, and he asked me to tell her to come to his office.”
He continued, laughing:
“I called her on the phone. She said she’d come, put on some red and green with a couple of nice laughs, and the reward would be done!”
He pounded the desk with his hand and added:
“I told her, go ahead, it’s up to you. He’s definitely asking for that.”
The woman sitting beside him replied with feigned surprise:
“Is there such a thing as an oral reward?”
He answered casually:
“As far as I know: if you want to reward her, reward her. But why ask her to come to your office? Livelihoods are free, and she’s clever.”
She smiled knowingly:
“Livelihoods.”
I remained silent, though my expression tightened, as if the cruelty of what I had heard etched itself onto my face without permission. For a strange instant, I felt that God had sent me a glimpse of the future, that my presence at that precise moment was no accident but a divine arrangement to reveal a hidden pattern whose significance would only emerge later.
And the moment between that glimpse and certainty was short. Just two days later, I stood in the reception hall awaiting my guest—and suddenly saw her: the very colleague who had been the subject of that conversation. She descended the stairs dressed exactly as described before my eyes—adorned in green and red, her makeup bold and unmistakable. A staff member stopped her, curious:
“What did you do?”
She smiled and replied,
“Took the reward.”
In that instant, the picture in my mind clicked into focus, as clear as a photograph.
About a month later, I came across serious violations in program management—illegal, deliberate, and systematic. On the surface, the names involved appeared to belong to other colleagues, but my conscience would not allow me to look away. I faced a choice: remain silent to protect relationships, or confront the truth to preserve integrity. I chose the harder path. I reported it first to him, then to his superior.
And that’s when the conspiracy began.
The schemes moved in secret, using the same women whose stories I had overheard that day—but this time, directed against me. They were turned toward me in the same familiar way: slander, insinuations, psychological pressure, as if betting I would submit out of fear, or retreat to protect my reputation.
Then came the ultimate shock:
I discovered that those I had reported—and above all, the first narrator of that obscene story—were the masterminds of everything. He had planned, orchestrated, and directed all actions. He advised on the humiliating acts and was fully aware of every financial and administrative violation, even inviting them to continue.
As the investigations into abuse and defamation unfolded, a darker face of the conspiracy revealed itself. I found that the colleague herself—the one spoken about indecently in that office, who later staged deliberate situations to harm me—told investigators that her manager had informed her, and her superior confirmed the same.
The bitter irony: these two names were precisely the same people I had heard with my own ears, exchanging shameless insinuations about her, without any hint of shame.
I realized then that the circle was wider and more devious than I had imagined. A more terrifying question haunted me:
Had the intention been all along for those stories to be told in my presence, hoping they would pass through my lips, building fabricated accusations ready-made against me?
Was that the first act in a carefully scripted scenario, planting words only to later cement charges against the victim?
But what they had not anticipated was that I would never be a carrier of dust, nor a mediator of shame.
I did not repeat a word, hint, or participate in the clamor.
On the contrary, my only choice was total avoidance of any contact—with her or anyone orbiting this swamp of deceit.
And so, the investigations laid bare the entire scene at once:
Fabricated accusations,
Directed testimonies,
Prey trapped,
False heroes of corruption created.
The matter was no longer just a case of abuse or idle gossip—it was revealed as a fully structured system of malevolent design, orchestrated by one mind, executed by many hands, and collapsing at the first true light of evidence.
Their leader exploited my goodwill and initially deceived me—when I uncovered the violations—that he had no stake in the matter. He tried to guide me, to control the narrative: manipulate outcomes, pressure others, threaten me, and spread vile rumors in my orbit. He sought to topple me morally before any professional downfall.
But I clung to integrity.
I proved my loyalty to my work and my country, gathered all documents and evidence, and submitted them to the investigating authorities. In the end, all were referred to the judiciary. My involvement concerned only what was personally directed at me.
Yet even amidst it all, my deepest feeling was not anger, but sorrow. Sorrow for a shameful spectacle of a man using women as tools to achieve his goals.
Sorrow for those I had once seen in a beautiful light, who fell suddenly into fragments before my eyes.
I wept—not for them, but for the image I had held of them, only to realize it had been a mirage.
In their logic, my refusal to cover their crimes was betrayal. Yet their betrayal of work, country, and ethics was of no concern. Reporting their treachery became a crime in their view, and corruption a collective triumph.
Thus, the circle was complete: a meticulously crafted conspiracy, deliberate evil, masks falling one by one. Yet at the heart of this darkness, God’s providence was wider and more precise.
The scene unfolded—from a seat in an office, to descending a staircase, to a file of investigations, to a court ruling—so that the truth would not remain trapped in hearts, but documented in the papers of justice.
I learned that day that justice may be delayed, but it never loses its way. And he who digs a pit for others may fall in first… or all who joined him may fall.
And the investigations are still ongoing…
A moment of silence, then she looked at the papers and said, “Are you done?”
“The Girl at Half Past the Hour” — A Novel
Between reality and imagination lie truths not seen by all.A work inspired by the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, persons, time, or place is purely coincidental and bears no relation to reality. The author assumes no responsibility whatsoever.