🎶MEMENTO.KK — A New Wave of Musical Prose with Caribbean Soul 🎤📖 🎸

artwork & poetry specially provided by NS

“Some wars aren’t fought with flags. But with whispers and bullets.”

What happens when an artist inherits a digital ghost with 13 million reasons to lose himself?
MEMENTO.KK is not just a story — it’s a cinematic plunge into the storm of wealth, legacy, and the moral weight of blood-stained opportunity.

📜 THE STORY IN A SNAP
Stan is a musician. A dreamer. A man trying to draw peace in a world that has none.

When an untraceable email arrives with a cryptic code and the name “Koko,” it opens a door — not just to a massive STEEM crypto fortune, but to a legacy soaked in betrayal, murder, and shadows.

Stan is not alone. Stella, his moral compass and mirror, challenges him to see past zeros on a screen. To ask the harder question: What do we owe the past, if the price is our soul?

The story unfolds like a noir film:
💣 An elite execution in Cherry Gardens,
🛫 a desperate flight to Havana,
👁‍🗨 a confrontation not with enemies, but with themselves.

🔍 WHY FREEWRITERS SHOULD READ THIS
This isn’t just a crime thriller. It’s a meditation.
On money. On memory. On whether power can ever be clean.
It’s for those who’ve stared at a blank page, wondering what to do with the weight they carry.

MEMENTO.KK asks:

Can you inherit someone’s sins just by opening a wallet?

Is freedom found in refusing... or in transforming?

Can art redeem blood?

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The rain hammered mercilessly against the window like hail. The music had stopped. The Stratocaster’s string snapped just at the moment when Stan tried to draw something that did not exist — peace.
The laptop sat open on the table, an old ThinkPad scratched on the cover with a sticker saying "Fado is pain." The email had arrived 11 minutes ago from an address that couldn’t be traced: kk_infernus@protonmail.com.
Stan hesitated. His fingers were cold, and his eyes were frozen on the keyboard.
The email from Koko wasn’t just a joke. Nor was it sentimentality.
“When your music falls silent — enter this:
MEMENTO.KK
You will understand. If you don’t — it means you were never ready.
— K.”
After that email, another came just a minute later.
No text. Only this line:
5JQzmc4G1nf1Xe5sdUCcwXcbnNLuNKQkfhL6HAEyTfftZM8MiUA
It looked like a random string of characters. But Koko never left anything to chance.
Stan opened an old crypto wallet — just to check.
He copied the code. Pasted it.
The screen lit up. The balance loaded.
💰 13,004,771 STEEM
📄 + documents, photos, audio recordings, correspondences, security camera footage
Stan’s heart beat as if he were standing on stage before an audience. Only now there was no music. Only the noise of money. And danger.
Stan laughed. Bitterly. He didn’t believe in ghosts, but he sensed the smell of rum and bergamot, as if Desita was still two meters away from him.
He logged into Steemit. Not because he believed. But because he couldn’t endure another night with his music dead.
Entering the password was an act of despair.

---

MEMENTO.KK
The screen’s light flickered.
Then everything opened. Like a safe inside the devil’s head.
✔ Account: k.kamenov.master
✔ Balance: 13,004,771 STEEM (~31.7 million USD)
✔ Archives: 164 encrypted documents
✔ Media files: 98
✔ Last activity: 6 days ago
He woke Stella.
The rain had stopped. Stan sat by the low table on the veranda, with the laptop in front of him. The balance flickered on the screen, as if its very existence was enough to change their lives.
Stella entered barefoot, holding a cup of chamomile and ginger tea. She smelled of rain and something deeper — fear and truth.
“You are not the one who sells out, Stan,” she said without looking at him. “And that money… it’s cursed. Do you feel it? It smells of death, of corpses.”
Stan smiled slowly, almost painfully.
“Stella, look... I’m not talking about money as a market function. I’m talking about the state of the world. About abundance that can be a tool. A means for empathy, redemption, even creativity. This is not just money. This is a chance. Or more precisely — a trial. And maybe... a duty.”
“It is a trial, yes. But not ours. It is a trial that comes with someone else’s karma. We did not create it, but if we accept it, it will intertwine with ours. We cannot build a new house with bricks from the burned. There is something holier than opportunity. And that is the purity of the path.”
Stan took a deep breath. He spoke slowly, like someone who had passed through many fires to reach his conviction.
“Do you know the biggest hypocrisy in the world? To believe that poverty makes us good. That’s a romantic deception. I’m not saying money is good — I’m saying we can be good. That we have a choice. Money doesn’t think, doesn’t kill, doesn’t command. It just shows what is already inside us. The smart use it, the fool serves it. The mad chase it. The wise overcome it — through its utility.”
Stella looked at him — there was no anger in her eyes, only sadness.
“I don’t believe in a world where everything can be measured by value. The real things can’t be bought. The peace you seek isn’t in a digital wallet. If your heart beats only when you see six zeros, you’ve lost the rhythm of your soul.”
Stan fell silent. He raised the glass of water and rolled it slowly in his hands.
“That’s the paradox, isn’t it? All I want is freedom. And how much does freedom cost? Freedom not to play in pubs, not to humiliate myself before producers, not to be small before people with big pockets and empty minds. Maybe that’s the irony — that I have to accept money to remain human.”
“No. You must remain human so that you don’t become a slave to money. True freedom can’t be bought. It is carried. In the air, in the walk, in the gaze. Free is the one who knows he can take... and refuses. You can still be that person, Stan.”
“And what if it’s not just a gift? What if it’s a legacy? What if it’s a sign that not everything that began in darkness has to end in darkness?”
“Darkness always wants the last word. But it doesn’t belong to it. Do you know why? Because every awakening is light. And we are still awake.”
Silence.
The rain began to sprinkle quietly again on the tin roof. Stan stood up, closed the laptop.
“We’ll wait. We’ll think. And we won’t decide out of fear. Nor out of pride. But with measure.”
Stella nodded.
“With measure. And with love. Only it has no price.”

---

It was 7:26 in the morning when the silence in the upscale Cherry Gardens neighborhood was shattered by the low growl of a diesel minibus with fake plates. The sun had barely pierced through the palms when six men, dressed in DEA uniforms, silently exited the vehicle. Each knew their role. There was no time for hesitation, only precision.
Kostadin Kamenov — Koko — was still asleep in his fortified bedroom, and his guard — a rock-solid man named Joseph — was just returning from the usual morning routine: driving the kids to the international school in downtown Kingston. The moment the massive gate opened, and the gray Mercedes-branded minibus headed toward the inner yard, the attackers erupted.
The killers’ minibus crashed with furious speed and hit the guard’s car, smashing the metal gate and throwing Joseph halfway out of the vehicle. The impact was enough to stun him. Not to kill him. That was left to one of the attackers who, without hesitation, pulled out a silenced Glock and shot twice in the guard’s chest.
Four stormed into the house. One stayed outside — the operator. With a camera on his shoulder and a microphone, he methodically filmed every step. The video wasn’t for the media. It was for the one who had paid for the bloody action.
On the second floor, Iliana Koleva, a former supermodel, had just come out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel with the Ritz-Carlton logo. Alas, this was her last memory of luxury. Two of the attackers threw her to the ground and handcuffed her hands. No words. No unnecessary cruelty. Only cold efficiency. A shot in the back of the head. A second later the same happened to the nanny Marita — a young Jamaican, devoted and unprepared for hell.
Koko Jamaica was pulled from bed, nearly naked. One of the mercenaries, taller than the others, slapped him, splitting his lip.
“Code,” he said evenly — “and we’ll finish quickly.”
Koko looked toward the bedroom, from which the last shot was heard. He understood. And whispered six digits.
The metal safe weighed over two tons. Inside were not only money. There were names. Photos. Evidence. The death of more than one person began there.
After everything was taken, the mercenaries forced him to kneel in the center of the spacious living room, under the gaze of an icon of St. George hanging over the marble fireplace. They handcuffed his hands. And six shots ended it.
A blue Hyundai and a white Golf GTI waited for them at the intersection. After 210 seconds, Kamenov’s home was silent. Lifeless. Only echoes of bullets, smoke from silencers, and the scent of bergamot left on the pillow.
Two hours later, under the A1 highway bridge, a white Passat and the same Golf were filmed by a camera. Inside — two men without gloves, with empty eyes and traces of gasoline in the trunk. Not the killers. The cleaners.
The executors had already disappeared into the landscape. The money — between 1.5 and 3 million dollars — had already been divided. It was said Koko owned much more, but only that was in cash. And the one who watched the operation’s recording with a glass of dark rum in hand was satisfied.
No goodbye. No funeral. Only an ending worthy of a man like Koko Kamenov — with blood, cold, and silence.
Some wars aren’t fought with flags. But with whispers and bullets.

---

An hour later, this was the top news on all media.
When Stan and Stella learned of Koko’s death, their first thought wasn’t mourning, but escape. Not because it didn’t hurt — on the contrary. But a person doesn’t run from feelings, he runs from consequences. And they knew such would follow.
The flight to Havana was neither expensive nor cheap — it was the price of peace, at least temporarily. On the plane, they exchanged few words. Just a few, and those with more breath than sound.
“He... wasn’t a good man,” said Stan without raising his eyes from the worn armrest.
“No one is just one thing,” replied Stella, who believed more in nuances than in people.
When they arrived, Desita was waiting for them. She was one of those women who didn’t like noise unless it came from jazz. She welcomed them with a huge pot of coffee that could bring a dead man back to consciousness. She didn’t say “Sorry,” nor “Welcome.” Instead, she looked at them with eyes that already knew.
“You carry a storm with you,” she said, as if she were a witch under a full moon. “And the smell of questions.”
Stan, still under the influence of the numbers glaring from the old ThinkPad, spoke first.
“Koko left us not money, but a bomb. We don’t know whether to defuse it... or detonate it deliberately.”
“We don’t want to be part of his bloody history,” Stella added, more out of habit and feeling than plan.
Desita listened and let them stew in their own doubt for a moment. Then, with a smile that could be both mockery and blessing, she said:
“Do you know, I remembered a story by Mark Twain. About a cursed American who ends up in London and receives a banknote for one million pounds. He can’t change it and has no other money, yet he neither spends it nor starves.
“So he doesn’t starve? And manages to cope?”
“Not just manages,” Desita continued. “The world believes his banknote has value. And that is enough. Bankers give him credit, shopkeepers give him suits, girls give him attention. Without spending a cent.”
“So, don’t touch the money?” Stella asked with a sigh.
“To turn it into myth?”
“No. Turn it into reflection,” said Desita, taking her glass. “Use their presence, not the money itself. Create something that carries their power, but not their guilt. Create truth, not expense.”
Stan nodded, but not immediately. His mind still danced between millions and morality.
“What if they come after us? If we become targets?”
“They will come only if you look like prey. Be an idea, not prey. Ideas aren’t easily killed.”
Silence fell over the veranda as wisdom does — without fanfare. Stan and Stella didn’t say “yes,” but they didn’t say “no.” And sometimes, that is the first step toward an answer.
Behind them, on the veranda, the laptop was off. The balance no longer flickered. Only the light from the window reminded them that sometimes decisions aren’t written on screens — but in closeness, in trust.
And the sky over Havana... It was one of those skies that promise nothing but give everything.

TO BE CONTINUED

25% from the earnings from this post will go to @freewritehouse