Part 22 — IRL
The
van rolled through the suburbs for fifteen minutes. The projects
gradually gave way to slightly less dilapidated zones, then to
neighborhoods that were almost decent. Eventually, the van slowed and
pulled up in front of another apartment block. Different from
Vincent’s, but not much better. Maybe even worse.
The
driver got out. Vincent watched through the window.
A
figure emerged from the building. Small. Truly small. Five-foot-one
at most, Vincent was sure. A young Black woman, her hair braided into
a bob with almost military precision, cut sharp at the jawline. She
wore simple jeans, worn but clean sneakers, and a black hoodie with
no logo. A standard duffel bag hung over her shoulder. She walked
fast, with a determination that contrasted sharply with her size.
The
driver helped load her bag into the trunk. She climbed into the back,
sat across from Vincent, and slid the door shut.
And
Vincent felt her.
A
steel-blue density. Tense as a cable ready to snap. Compact.
Controlled. But vibrating with a contained energy that felt like she
could explode at any second.
— Hey,
she said, looking him dead in the eye.
Young.
Somewhere between twenty-two and twenty-five, hard to tell. Fine
features, high cheekbones, intense black eyes that seemed to gauge
everything in a fraction of a second. She possessed an athletic,
functional beauty—no makeup, no jewelry. Just her.
— Hey,
Vincent replied.
She
stared at him for a few more seconds, as if cataloging him, deciding
if he was a threat or not. Then she put in her earbuds, leaned
against the window, and closed her eyes.
But
Vincent could still feel her density. And with it, the fragments.
sure it’s
him
He
looked away, staring at his own hands. It’s not real. It's just
your brain...
But
he knew now that it was real. He didn’t know how. He didn’t know
why. But it was real.
The
van rolled back into traffic.
[Second Stop — East
Slums]
The
van drove for twenty minutes, sinking deeper into neighborhoods
Vincent knew by reputation but had never set foot in. The kind of
places where even Uber Eats drivers refused to go after 6:00 p.m. The
buildings grew more derelict, the streets narrower, the glances from
passersby more suspicious.
The
van finally stopped in front of what looked less like a building and
more like an organized squat. The ground-floor windows were boarded
up with plywood. Sheets were stretched across the upper floors to
serve as curtains. Graffiti covered every square inch of the
facade—not street art, just territorial tags, insults, threats. The
smell of piss and mold hung in the air even through the van's closed
windows.
The
driver got out, visibly uneasy. He headed toward the entrance and
disappeared inside.
The
small woman opened her eyes, removed an earbud, and looked out the
window.
— Fuck,
she muttered.
Vincent
said nothing. He stared at the entrance, waiting.
Then
he saw him.
A
man walked out. Tall. Genuinely tall. Six-foot-four, easily. Scrawny,
but a scrawniness that suggested strength rather than weakness—wiry
muscles and tendons bulging under skin tanned by a life outdoors. His
shoulders were wide, disproportionate to the rest of his body, as if
they carried the weight of something invisible. A thick beard, black
streaked with gray, poorly maintained. Long hair fell over his
shoulders in greasy strands. His eyes were black, shining, feverish,
scanning the street as if it might attack him at any moment.
He
wore jeans torn at the knees, military boots worn to the sole,
and a khaki t-shirt. He clutched a military jacket faded by sun and
rain. No bag. No luggage. Nothing.
The
driver said something to him. The man nodded and climbed straight
into the van without waiting for help.
And
when he stepped inside, Vincent was crushed.
A
massive density. Cadaverous gray. Heavy as molten lead. Cold. Dead.
But with something underneath. Something moving. Scratching. Digging.
Like worms in a corpse. Like a hunger that never stopped.
The
man sat next to Vincent, directly, without asking. Too close.
Invading Vincent’s personal space as if the concept didn't exist
for him. He smelled of cold cigarettes, sweat, and something else.
Something organic. Rotten. The sickly-sweet scent of carrion.
— Hey
there, kids, he said, smiling.
His
voice was deep, gravelly, like he’d smoked three packs a day for
twenty years. His teeth were yellowed, some premolars missing. But
his smile was sincere. Almost too sincere. The smile of someone who
had nothing left to lose and found it liberating.
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Vincent
didn’t answer immediately. He was too busy trying to breathe
despite the density crushing him. What the hell is this? It’s
like... like he’s dead but still walking.
The
small woman watched the man with a mixture of suspicion and barely
disguised disgust. The man looked at her, that smile still in place,
and leaned back into the seat. He closed his eyes, crossed his arms
over his chest, and seemed to fall asleep instantly.
But
Vincent could still feel his density. And with it, the fragments.
Different from the woman's. Deeper. Darker. More... ravenous.
Vincent
pressed a hand to his forehead. The migraine was back, stronger this
time. It felt like the man’s density was pressing directly against
his brain.
He
breathed in. Hold. Exhale. Hold.
Slowly,
very slowly, the pressure eased. Not much. But enough that he could
think clearly again.
The
van moved on, leaving the slums behind.
[Third Stop — Downtown,
Luxury High-Rise]
The
contrast was brutal. The van left the narrow, filthy streets and
entered the clean, modern, civilized heart of the city. Dilapidated
buildings gave way to facades of glass and steel. Cracked sidewalks
became well-maintained pavement. Graffiti vanished, replaced by
luxury boutique windows.
The
van stopped in front of a particularly chic building. Impeccable
white stone facade. Green plants in the lobby, visible through glass
doors. A uniformed doorman held the door open for residents. The kind
of place where the rent for a studio probably tripled Vincent’s
monthly salary when he was still working.
The
driver got out again and went inside. The doorman greeted him with a
professional nod.
The
small woman looked out the window, her brow furrowed.
— What
the hell? she whispered.
Vincent
didn’t answer. He watched the entrance, waiting.
The
bearded man opened his eyes, looked out, and whistled softly.
— Damn.
Someone’s living the high life, it seems.
Then
she walked out.
The
shapeless pajamas—gray with kitten patterns, likely picked up from
a thrift store—swirled around her like a sack. A baseball cap was
pulled down to her ears. A black hoodie over that, hood up. Oversized
mirrored sunglasses hid half her face. She dragged a visibly heavy
rolling suitcase behind her.
A
disguise that, paradoxically, drew more attention than it hid. People
stared anyway.
The
doorman helped her to the van. The driver loaded the suitcase into
the trunk. She climbed into the back and wedged herself against the
window without removing the hood, the cap, or the glasses.
Apparently, introductions could wait.
Vincent,
who had accumulated fifteen years of intensive practice in "looking
without looking"—a skill developed in the absence of any other
notable social activity—guessed beneath the oversized pajamas a
silhouette whose general architecture likely had nothing to do with
the clothes covering it. He looked away. Trouble cost money, and he
already had enough debt.
And
he felt her.
A
pinkish-red density. Vibrant. Chaotic. Contradictory. As if several
emotions were fighting for dominance at once. Fear and pride. Shame
and arrogance. Loneliness and contempt. All mixed into a whirlwind
that made him dizzy.
— Hey,
she said in a neutral, almost cold voice.
No
one answered immediately. The bearded man watched her with an amused
smile. The small woman had an unreadable expression. Vincent stared
at the van's floor with the intensity of someone who suddenly found
it fascinating.
— You
are...? the small woman began.
— Nobody,
the girl replied quickly. Just... nobody.
She
crossed her arms and turned toward the window, refusing all eye
contact. End of discussion.
But
Vincent could still feel her density. And with it, fragments. Many
fragments. Too many.
they’re
looking at me why
am I stressing don’t
think about him
Vincent
closed his eyes, pressing his hand to his forehead again. The
migraine was worsening. Three different densities in a confined
space. Three whirlwinds of emotion mixing, overlapping, all screaming
at once in his head.
Stop.
Stop listening. Close the door. Close the fucking door.
But
he didn't know how.
The
van eased forward.
[Fourth Stop —
Downtown, Modern High-Rise]
The
last stop was ten minutes from the previous one. Still downtown, but
in a different district. More modern. Colder. Buildings of glass and
steel reflecting the gray sky. Wide, clean streets. No haphazardly
parked cars. No overflowing trash cans. Everything was perfect. Too
perfect.
The
van stopped in front of a particularly imposing building. Thirty
stories of smoked glass and brushed steel. A lobby that looked more
like a five-star hotel than a residence.
A
boy was waiting in front of the entrance, hands in his pockets.
Young.
Genuinely young. Eighteen at most. Maybe less. Hard to tell. Shaved
head, black hair just starting to grow back in a short fuzz. Monolid
eyes, distinctly Korean features. Good-looking in that "ideal
son-in-law" way—regular features, a shy smile, straight but
not arrogant posture. He wore simple jeans, pristine white sneakers,
and a black turtleneck. Discreet brands, but brands nonetheless. The
kind of clothes you buy when you have money but don't want to show
it.
He
climbed into the van, a small gym bag over his shoulder. He looked at
everyone and smiled timidly.
— Hey,
he said.
His
voice was deep. Surprisingly deep for his age and appearance. An
adult's voice in a body that seemed barely out of adolescence.
— Hey,
they replied in unison.
He
sat down, placed his bag at his feet, and crossed his hands over his
knees. Polite. Reserved. The kind of kid you’d introduce to your
parents without shame.
And
Vincent felt him.
A
pale yellow-orange density. Soft. Fragile. Almost transparent
compared to the others. But also exhausted. As if he were carrying an
invisible weight that was slowly crushing him.
The
fragments arrived immediately.
Vincent
opened his eyes and looked at the boy. He was still smiling—that
polite, shy smile. But on the inside, he was destroying himself.
The
van pulled away. Final destination: TRAUMa Complex, Sector 7.
