Black space surrounds everything. No walls. No horizon. Only a glassy, liquid floor beneath, reflecting a dull black sheen back into itself. The perspective drifts, slow and unsure, as if reality itself has to be tested. Hands come into view. Open palms. He turns them with effort, studying them from above. The hands come together. Skin touches skin. There is warmth. Fingers rub slowly, deliberately. Then the hands rise to his face and drag across it, as if that motion alone could wake him.

  He looks down again. The right foot lifts from the surface and moves forward. The step is slow. When the sole touches the floor, waves spread outward, heavy and resistant, like water thickened into something heavier. The surface yields but does not break. The gaze follows the first wave into the distance, and something feels wrong. The wave collides with another one, coming from far away. At the moment of impact, sound breaks through. First a scrape, then a low crash. The sound grows louder, closer, as if something is moving toward the figure. The waves multiply. They rise higher. They come faster. In the distance, a silhouette begins to form. Indistinct. Without clear edges. It could be a tree. It could be a human figure. As the sound intensifies and the waves swell, the silhouette grows. Panic snaps through him. The figure turns, tries to run, but the legs lock in place. Something grips them. Black roots coil around the ankles, then the calves, the thighs, the torso, the arms. They tighten as they climb. When they reach his throat, his breath stutters and cuts out.

  Gobby jolts awake from the nightmare. His eyes fly open, but the sensation does not fade. His chest still strains, as if air refuses to enter. His mouth is painfully dry. He turns his head to the right, sees a glass of water, and reaches for it. His hand trembles. The glass shakes in his grip. He lifts his head with effort and drains it greedily, every drop, sets the glass back, then lets his head fall onto the pillow.

  He stares at the ceiling. Feels the water spreading through his body, sinking inward. His mind starts to move. Thoughts scatter. Flashes break through – German. The fight. Drogo. Glass. A heart. Gobby throws the blanket aside, pulls open the hospital gown with one hand, the other reaching for the place where the hole had been. There is no hole. In its place, a scar. Deep. Sunken. He rubs it slowly, trying to understand what sealed it. The surface is dark red, uneven, a fused mass of skin and crushed bone. He presses his palm against it and feels the heartbeat beneath.

  Relief comes first. He is alive. Then something else follows. Fear. Only one question circles in his head.

  – How?

  – Maybe it’s just a dream?

  There is no answer. Gobby pushes himself up, swings his legs off the bed, stands. His steps are slow, dragging, feet scraping softly against the floor as he moves toward the bathroom in the same room. As soon as he opens the door, the light clicks on. He steps inside, turns toward the mirror, recoils, then freezes.

  It is him.

  His body is wasted. No fat left at all. Just bone under skin. His eyes protrude. The skin is dry, cracked, splitting with every movement. Where the hole once was, a dark red scar cuts into his chest. He touches himself again, still not fully accepting that this is real. When the realization finally settles, a single tear slips from one eye and runs down his face.

  The door opens slightly.

  Ulrich steps inside. He sees the empty bed and freezes for a fraction of a second, then moves fast. Crosses the room, pushes into the bathroom, and sees Gobby.

  Their eyes meet.

  Fear spikes. In any other moment, the body would have locked into defense. Instead, something goes wrong. Adrenaline floods the bloodstream, accelerating it beyond control. The brain cannot keep up. Vision dulls. Strength drains. Gobby begins to lose consciousness.

  Ulrich catches him under the arm.

  – Don’t stand. Don’t move. It’s dangerous. Back to bed. Now.

  He drags him out of the bathroom and back to the bed. Gobby cannot speak. When he finally sits down, he slowly lifts his eyes to Ulrich.

  – Who are you? What happened to me? Where am I?

  Ulrich pauses before answering.

  – I get it. You have questions. I won’t answer all of them right now. What matters is this – you and your friend are alive. You’re both safe. When you recover, we’ll talk. For now, you need rest. I’ll bring you some broth.

  The word reaches him before thought. Saliva fills his mouth.

  Ulrich leaves the room.

  The house is wooden, a log-built hunting cabin. Walking down the corridor, Ulrich glances into a neighboring room.

  – He’s awake. Don’t go in yet. Let him eat first.

  Inside, the room is drowned in notes – scribbles, grids, arrows, half-built schemes. Among them sits German. Hearing that Gobby is awake, he almost jumps up, ready to run, then stops himself. Sits back down. Keeps writing.

  Ulrich returns with a bowl of broth and tells Gobby not to rush. Gobby drinks it greedily.

  – More.

  Ulrich watches him.

  – After starvation, a person needs three days. Small portions. Only soups. Otherwise the stomach shuts down.

  His mouth still waters. Adrenaline surges again. His skin flushes red.

  – I said more.

  Ulrich notices the change and smirks.

  – Right. That rule applies to people. Not to you. I’ll bring more.

  He returns with a pot. Gobby empties it.

  He asks for something heavier. This time Ulrich refuses, firmly, tells him to wait until evening.

  Ulrich watches in silence. Gobby’s body changes with every spoonful. The skin shifts in tone, fills with blood, loses its dryness. Before, he looked like something already gone. Now – like a boy wasted by starvation.

  – Come in.

  German rushes in and moves straight toward Gobby, already reaching for him. Ulrich stops him with a gesture.

  – No. You’ll make it worse.

  Gobby is too weak to hear Ulrich mention that German is fine. He only sees him. And that is enough. Joy breaks through the fog. German, unable to touch him, drops into a chair beside the bed and breaks down. Tears of relief spill freely, messy, uncontrollable.

  Ulrich turns away.

  – You have things to talk about. I’ll leave you.

  As soon as Ulrich leaves the room, German breaks.

  He starts talking and can’t stop, words tangling over each other. He tells everything that happened after, in clipped flashes, like a broken reel. Drogo tearing out the heart. Gunfire. Soldiers opening fire and chasing him. Police and medics arriving. One medical team taking the grandmother away, another taking him and Gobby. Ulrich bringing them here. Gobby sealed inside a body bag, carried down into the basement. The bag being opened. The wound already closing. Gobby washed and moved upstairs.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Then one piece refuses to cut.

  On the way to Ulrich’s house, German blacks out in the ambulance. He wakes on a couch in the living room, calm in a way that feels wrong, emptied out. He sits up just as two men in medical uniforms carry a gray body bag past him. The memories crash in at once – his grandmother, the moment Drogo tore Gobby’s heart out.

  German screams. Grabs his head. Loses control.

  Ulrich runs into the house, orders the two men to get the bag out immediately, then wraps German in his arms and holds him there until the screams stop and German blacks out again.

  An hour passes. Ulrich never leaves his side.

  German starts to wake again. Before awareness fully returns, before the memories come back, Ulrich presses a pill into his hand and gives him water.

  – Drink. It’ll help. Then we’ll talk.

  German swallows it without asking questions. As he drinks, one of the men in medical clothes rushes in, barely containing himself.

  – Boss. You need to see this.

  Ulrich keeps his focus on German.

  – I can’t leave him.

  – He’s breathing.

  Ulrich stiffens.

  – Who?

  – The other kid.

  Ulrich straightens sharply.

  – What are you talking about? Is this some kind of joke?

  They leave together, gone for five minutes.

  German sits up and looks around, slow and careful. This isn’t a hospital. It’s a house. Which means these men aren’t doctors. And if they aren’t doctors, they could be Drogo’s people. Or worse.

  – I need to get out.

  He stands and moves toward the front door, quiet, deliberate. His hand closes around the handle. He opens it and steps forward with one foot.

  A voice comes from behind.

  – Kid. Stop. Where are you going?

  German turns his head. In the corner of his vision, he sees Gobby in the arms of the same man who ran in earlier. He turns fully, ready to rush to him, but the color stops him. Gray skin. Stillness.

  He looks like a body being carried.

  German moves closer, carefully, one hand extended.

  – Is he dead?

  Ulrich approaches from the side.

  – Looks like he isn’t.

  German freezes.

  – He’s alive. But he needs care. Sit down. We’ll put him to bed.

  The impulse to run collapses. German sits and waits, watching every movement, needing proof.

  One of the men passes by toward the exit.

  – Is he okay?

  – Looks like it.

  – Why did you bring us here? What’s going to happen to us?

  – I can’t answer that. Wait for the boss. He’ll explain.

  Ulrich returns five or ten minutes later. German asks the same questions.

  Ulrich doesn’t answer immediately. He goes to the kitchen, makes tea, then gestures for German to sit at the table.

  – My name is Ulrich. I own this house. We saved you. Don’t think we’re kidnappers, maniacs, or anything like that. Consider us people who couldn’t walk past and leave you to die. What’s your name?

  – German. But what happens next?

  – We’ll finish the tea. Then we’ll talk.

  They talk for four days.

  Until Gobby wakes up.

  During that time, Ulrich teaches German how to observe, to record, to trust the quiet conclusions forming in his head. Gradually, patterns begin to emerge.

  That’s where German’s account snaps back to the present.

  Gobby listens with interest, then the thread slips. His gaze dulls, unfocused. German notices it immediately. Without stopping, he repeats the last part. Gobby reconnects. Moments later, the thread slips again. German repeats it. Only after that does it finally stay in Gobby’s head.

  A question forms.

  – Who is Ulrich? And where are we?

  – I didn’t ask him directly, German says. But based on my analysis, he’s directly connected to the soldiers and the Heart Eater. How exactly – I don’t know yet. What I do know is that he’s not a good person. His knowledge of the criminal world is unusually detailed. I also saw how he cuts meat. Extremely precise. Surgical.

  He pauses, then continues.

  – As for where we are – we’re in the forest. There’s no internet. The wind and the temperature say we’re in the north. Some of the food comes from an expensive supermarket, some from local farmers. I narrowed it down to two cities where that chain exists, then checked for dense pine forest and a nearby village. Based on that, we’re close to one of those cities.

  When German finishes, he looks up.

  Gobby is staring at him, mouth open.

  – Where is my German? Who are you?

  German smirks.

  – Glad you asked. Turns out I have a superpower too. Just like you.

  He points at Gobby.

  – You’re muscles.

  Then taps his own head.

  – I’m mind. My ability is called Logic. I analyze everything based on sensory input. Ulrich said that if I keep training it, I’ll be able to predict the near future and be as useful to you as possible.

  – German… wow. Logic. That sounds cool.

  German blushes.

  The weight of the information finally catches up to Gobby. Fatigue settles in. He asks German to leave him for a while so he can rest. German nods, stands, and reaches the door.

  – German… what about my grandmother?

  – Thanks to you, she’s fine. She’s in the hospital.

  German leaves.

  Three hours later, he returns with clean clothes, helps Gobby change, and invites him to dinner. Leaning on German, Gobby leaves the room and they move down the corridor into the living room. Like most hunting lodges, it is lined with animal heads, hides, and weapons. A leather couch stands in the center, a large flat-screen TV opposite it. Behind the couch – the table and the kitchen. The most expensive piece in the room is clearly the redwood table.

  Ulrich stands with his back to them, finishing something on the stove. He notices them, greets them, and gestures for them to sit. The table is already set: boiled potatoes sprinkled with dill, a fresh vegetable salad, warm bread. Ulrich places the main dish last – meat in a thick brown sauce.

  Gobby can’t take his eyes off the food. Something inside him switches again.

  Ulrich notices the look.

  – Alright. Let’s eat first. Then we’ll talk.

  Gobby eats fast. A lot. German eats slowly, evaluating each bite. Ulrich reads a newspaper as he eats. When the meal ends and the boys help clear the table, Ulrich puts a kettle of green tea on, pours each of them a cup, and places a plate of round cottage-cheese pastries on the table.

  Ulrich takes a cup of hot tea, blows off the steam, and takes a slow sip. Then he lifts his eyes to the boys.

  – Let’s talk.

  They look back at him. German straightens, already focused. Gobby keeps chewing, biting into a pastry.

  – This will be a long monologue, Ulrich says. So get comfortable. If something isn’t clear, raise your hand.

  Gobby’s hand is already up.

  Ulrich exhales.

  – Yes?

  – No, nothing. Just checking. Can I eat while you talk?

  – Yes.

  – Good. Then first. I’m a contract killer. I’ve been doing this for about forty years. Second. My partner and I were assigned to Drogo. You call him the Heart Eater. Or the Man in the Panama Hat.

  Ulrich pauses, takes another sip.

  – We completed the job. But just like you, Gobby, he somehow survived. Everything was done cleanly. Precisely. My mistake was that we didn’t verify it. We sent confirmation that the contract was fulfilled.

  He doesn’t raise his voice.

  – Because of that mistake, my partner and I became targets. He was killed. By the same soldiers German saw.

  German stops writing.

  – Who do they belong to?

  – They’re a private army. Owned by the man appointed as the head of this city. His name is Mark. But everyone calls him the Lord.

  Ulrich looks at them.

  – Questions?

  German lifts his head.

  – Who appointed him?

  – I don’t fully understand it myself, Ulrich says. But I’ll tell you what I know. There’s a shadow government. It consists of the Higher Ones. Seven people who control all processes within their territories.

  He continues calmly.

  – There used to be six. Each ruled a continent. Recently, a seventh appeared. He controls what happens on the water between continents. These seven have full power over everything connected to people. Fashion trends. Gadgets. Wars.

  – And presidents? German asks.

  – Presidents are either directly appointed by the Higher Ones or approved by them. The structure is simple. Lords over major cities. Then over countries. Then over continents.

  Ulrich shrugs slightly.

  – Most people never know who these Lords are. Instead, they’re shown puppets. People without real choice. Smiling faces who do what they’re told. We call them politicians. Sometimes a country’s president is also its Lord. But only if a Higher One decided so.

  He glances at German.

  – It’s complicated. You’ll figure it out.

  Then he looks at Gobby.

  – Questions?

  – No. German will figure it out.

  Ulrich nods.

  – All social processes are just a game in the hands of the Higher Ones. They play chess for power. People are pawns. My partner and I worked for one of these Lords.

  He sets the cup down.

  – That’s enough about structure. Back to us. I took you because I planned to use you to reach the Lord who ordered my death and Vann’s. My partner.

  A brief pause.

  – First, I wanted to use you to reach Drogo. Then use Drogo to reach the Lord. I changed my mind.

  His gaze hardens.

  – As you can see, I’m old. Vann was an excellent partner. He compensated for my weaknesses. We were a solid team. Now he’s gone. And I need help.

  Ulrich looks at them directly.

  – I want to ask for that help. And offer you to become my partners.

  Gobby blinks.

  – How? he asks, genuinely surprised. We’re just kids.

  Ulrich almost smiles.

  – No. You’re not just kids. Each of you has a unique ability. I’m certain you can handle it. We’ll talk about that later.

  He leans back slightly.

  – For now, I’m offering a deal. You help me reach the Lord. I help you get rid of the Heart Eater.

  His voice drops.

  – He won’t stop hunting you, Gobby. Not after failing to get what he wanted.

  German jumps to his feet.

  – I’m in. If you help kill him.

  Gobby looks at Ulrich, lifts his shoulders, lets them fall.

  – If German agrees, then so do I. But what about school? Parents?

  Ulrich waves it off.

  – We’ll figure something out. Tomorrow I’ll explain your abilities. For now, rest.

  Memory fractured.

  Hunger remained.