-- 1 --
The bell shattered the silence, and dozens of doors swung open with a crash. In the third-floor corridor, the scent of expensive perfume mixed with disinfectant. Noise, laughter, shouting—a human tide flooding the space. Sneaker soles squeaked against the polished terrazzo tiles, the sound fading toward the central staircase. Students poured outside. At the Galileo Private Lyceum, the school day was over.
But Martin stayed behind. He was the last to leave the classroom, heading in the opposite direction from the stairs. He walked slowly along the glass façade, hands buried in the pockets of his bulky jacket. His shoulders tightened under invisible tension, his body sinking into the synthetic fabric. His fists clenched involuntarily.
Fluorescent lights hummed monotonously above a row of gray metal lockers. His gaze swept over the closed doors and came to rest at the end of the corridor.
Asen was waiting there, leaning against the cold metal in an unnatural, contorted pose. His skin had taken on a grayish pallor, stretched painfully over his cheekbones. Deep, dark circles rimmed his eyes. A yellowish bruise showed beneath his left eye. His right leg twitched rhythmically.
He had the face of an exhausted man set on the frame of a fifteen-year-old kid.
Martin approached. He raised his chin and tried to smile, but Asen didn't respond.
The boy's eyes burned with a feverish, unnatural intensity. Asen peeled himself away from the lockers, reached into his black backpack, and pulled out a small object. His fingers twitched. He clenched his fist against his thigh, held it there for a moment, and then extended his palm.
"Take it."
Martin pulled his hand out of his pocket and took the object. Cool, glossy plastic. It resembled a cheap, collectible digital-content key with a worn barcode on the back.
"Just like I promised. The mod code. Their servers are encrypted, but there's a patch inside that bypasses their security. I recorded a video for you with instructions on how to run it."
Asen rushed the words out, his gaze sweeping the empty corridor behind Martin.
Martin smiled broadly. He ran his thumb along the sharp plastic edge.
"But—" Asen lowered his voice. "Open it at home. Never here. Never on the lyceum's network. Your account must not have administrator privileges. Do you understand me?"
Martin nodded. He had been craving this for months. He slid the key deep into his right jacket pocket, the metal zipper scraping his wrist.
He lifted his head.
Asen's mask was cracking. The rehearsed coldness, the memorized instructions—it all crumbled in an instant, and beneath it gaped something raw and desperate. As if he were standing on a platform, watching the train pull away with the only person close to him on board. He was saying goodbye.
Martin's stomach clenched. The corridor turned cold. His Adam's apple caught in his throat.
"Asen? What... are you leaving again? I—"
"If I don't show up next week—" Asen cut him off, his voice cracking, breaking, losing its deceptive steadiness. "If I don't show up in the cafeteria... don't go to the police. Do you hear me?"
The hum of the fluorescent lights filled the silence.
Martin froze.
What the hell is he talking about? Why is he bringing the police into this?
"They're theirs. All of them—" Asen stepped forward. "Call your uncle. The one in Switzerland. The one you told me about. Only him."
Martin opened his mouth but found no words. His fingers clenched around the plastic key until it hurt. Before he could say anything, Asen spun around sharply. His backpack thudded against his hip. His thick soles squeaked on the floor, and he strode down the corridor. He didn't look back. His silhouette blurred beyond the glass doors of the stairwell.
A metallic click echoed from the floor below and faded. The silence of the empty lyceum pressed down on him. His right fist gripped the plastic so hard the edges bit into his skin.
Too strange... even for Asen.
The blue glow of the television in the empty living room cut through the dusk of a Friday evening. Boryana was dragging an enormous black suitcase toward the hallway, stopping every few steps only to rush back for yet another forgotten item. Her hair, hastily pinned up with a clip, fell in unruly strands. She wore her house tracksuit—the gray one with the coffee stain on the knee, the one she never wore in front of strangers.
"Marti, have you seen the laptop charger?"
Martin rose from the couch and peered behind the television. The cord hung from the outlet, half-hidden by the stand.
"Here it is."
Boryana snatched it and shoved it into the side pocket of the suitcase. She paused for a moment, blew a stray strand out of her eyes, and surveyed the room with slumped shoulders.
"So Prague, then Düsseldorf, then Lyon." She began ticking them off on her fingers. "If they keep me in Lyon for more than two days, I'll call you. There's food waiting for you in the fridge. The money for the week is in the envelope on the shelf by the shoes."
"Mom, I know."
"You know, you know." She smiled. "You also know when to go to bed and how to eat something other than chips."
Martin shrugged. She grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him toward her.
They exchanged a brief, firm hug. He caught the scent of fabric softener and the perfume she reserved only for travel. Her lips barely grazed his temple.
"I'll try to call. If I can, it'll be around noon, but the evening is a sure thing... I'll message you on Viber, okay?"
"Fine. I'm not a baby. Relax."
She let go of his arm and busied herself with the suitcase. Martin sank back into the couch. His fingers dug his phone out from between the cushions, and he swiped across the glass screen. Nothing from Asen. The last message in the chat—a thumbs-up emoji sent in response to the chemistry homework—had been sitting there since last Wednesday. Complete silence since then.
I'll test the mod tomorrow.
The thought passed through his mind and vanished. The polymer key lay in the pocket of his jacket hanging in the entryway. He hadn't touched it since their meeting by the lockers.
Boryana dragged the suitcase to the threshold and came back for one last check of the kitchen windows. Her muttering about the overstuffed suitcase drifted into the living room. Martin drew his knees to his chest and hugged a pillow. The television screen bathed the room in a bluish glow. The evening news anchor laughed at someone's quip.
Reflections flickered across the ceiling. He wished the evening would freeze and never end.
Saturday began with Boryana's insistence—she was determined they'd spend the day together before her Sunday flight. She chose Paradise Mall.
At a café with plastic chairs, a long line, and the background noise of children's shrieks, she ordered a salad, recited the calorie count from the menu, and then stole three fries from Martin's plate. She pretended nothing had happened. He didn't react, just smiled behind his glass of cola.
Halfway through lunch, Boryana looked up over his shoulder and fell silent. Just for a moment. Her fork froze above her plate, and then the motion resumed. Her expression remained stony, but her gaze sharpened—like a lens adjusting focus.
"Mom?"
"Nothing." She reached for her glass. "I thought I saw a colleague. It wasn't her."
She returned to her food and smiled. The smile lingered a second longer than necessary.
Martin glanced over his shoulder. At the tables behind him sat the usual people—families, couples, and an old man with a lonely espresso. No one was watching them.
After a dull movie, the January air stung their cheeks. Sofia glistened—wet asphalt, yellow headlights, and stagnant columns of cars at the traffic lights. Boryana hooked her arm through his on the way to the metro. She talked about the plant in Prague and a new bottling protocol she had to verify in person. Martin listened, nodded, and watched the steam of his breath. His mother walked closer to him than usual, her shoulder nearly brushing his.
On the landing in front of their building's entrance, Boryana turned:
"Will you be okay, Marti?"
"Mom. I'm fifteen."
"That's exactly why I'm asking."
She held his gaze a little longer than usual, then gave his shoulder a nudge, and they went inside.
On Sunday morning, Martin woke up to the click of the front door. He kept his eyes closed and listened to the fading footsteps on the landing, the dull thud of the suitcase down the stairs, and then—the silence. The clock on the wall read 5:47.
The apartment felt empty. He sensed it even before opening his eyes—the air shifted in density the moment he was left alone. It grew cold. It grew quiet.
He got up and walked barefoot to the kitchen. He turned on the kettle. While waiting for the water to boil, he stood by the window and stared at the apartment buildings across the street. The sky was turning gray, weighed down by clouds that promised snow. The streetlights were still battling the dawn.
The tea was bitter—the bag had steeped too long. He took two sips and set the mug on the counter. He grabbed his phone off the charger. The screen sprang to life with an avalanche of notifications: forty-three new messages in 8B Shenanigans.
He frowned. The group chat usually stayed quiet until noon on weekends. He opened the chat.
Krasi: Hey, did you guys see the news?
Krasi: PETROHAN!
Vanesa: What happened?
Krasi: THREE DEAD BODIES!
Vanesa: Cut it out!
Didi: Wait, isn't that near your grandma's villa, Krasi? 😭
Krasi: It's way further up.
Moni: Oh my God!
Krasi: They're saying it's a mob hit.
Vanesa: Who got killed?
Krasi: They aren't saying yet, but it was some boss.
Gosho: My dad mentioned it at breakfast and shut up the moment he saw me.
Didi: That's awful!
Moni: I can't look at stuff like this in the morning.
Krasi: WAIT, they just released drone footage!
Krasi: A burned-down building in the woods.
Didi: It's like a movie, bro.
Vanesa: Krasi, stop getting excited over dead bodies, it's sick.
Krasi: I'm not excited, it's just really CLOSE by!
Gosho: My parents are whispering in the kitchen again.
Moni: Mine too.
Didi: It's like they know something that's not on TV.
Martin scrolled up through the messages, then back down. His eyes were searching for just one name. Asen hadn't joined the conversation in two weeks. No one asked about him.
That was typical. Asen always hovered on the periphery; his presence was quiet, and his absence—unnoticeable. Usually, no one paid any mind to his absence, but this morning, his silence felt ominous.
Martin locked his phone and set it face down on the counter. His hand lingered on the device for a moment.
News. Just news. Something happens every day.
He wrapped his pajama top more tightly around himself and stepped out into the hallway. His winter jacket hung on the hook next to the mirror. Martin reached into the right pocket. His fingers brushed against the smooth plastic of the polymer key. He took it apart carefully. Inside, folded into fourths, he found a slip of paper with Asen's handwriting—tiny, cramped letters, leaning to the left:
"The ficus. The landing between 3 and 4."
He held his breath. Why exactly there? The thought crossed his mind coldly, without unnecessary emotion.
He opened the front door soundlessly. There was no one between the third and fourth floors. The old ceramic pot languished in the dust in the corner by the window. The leaves of the ficus had withered long ago. The soil was compacted and cracked, but toward the back, there were signs of recent digging.
A metallic click echoed from the floor below—someone was unlocking a door. Martin froze with his arm outstretched. His heart picked up its pace. The footsteps, however, receded down the staircase and soon faded away.
He dug his fingers into the dry soil. His nails scraped against something hard. He pulled out a yellow plastic capsule—the kind from a chocolate egg—snapped tightly shut. Inside, a black microSD card the size of a fingernail rattled.
I found you.
He smiled, anticipating the moment he would boot up the new mod. He quickly leveled the dirt and returned the pot to its place. He wiped his hands on his pajama leg and sprinted up the stairs, clutching the yellow egg in his palm.
The closed laptop sat on the desk. Martin set the egg and the memory card beside it, sank onto the edge of the bed, and stared at them. The phone on the nightstand buzzed. Another notification from the chat.
Krasi: THEY RELEASED THE NAMES!
Krasi: Wait...
Krasi: No, it says they haven't announced them yet.
Vanesa: Krasi, give it a rest already!
Didi: :(
Martin locked the screen without replying. He stood up and walked into the living room. He grabbed the remote and pressed the power button. The news channel's logo cut through the darkness, followed by a studio with two anchors. He turned down the volume.
"...overnight in the Petrohan Pass area, a mass killing was committed. Three bodies were discovered by a Mountain Rescue team early this morning. The victims were found in an abandoned structure approximately two kilometers from the main road..."
On the screen, drone footage showed a snow-covered mountain trail, dark patches of coniferous forest, and at the center—a charred framework, cordoned off with police tape. Small figures in white hazmat suits crawled across the debris.
"...investigators are working on a theory of organized criminal activity. A source close to the investigation tied the incident to Iliya Kamenov, known to law enforcement by the alias the Herder..."
The blood drained from his face so suddenly that his peripheral vision dimmed. His fingers dug into the armrest of the couch.
Iliya Kamenov. The Herder.
Asen had mentioned him twice. Once in the lyceum courtyard, in a half-whisper, his eyes fixed on the ground—talking about climbing and caves. The second time was in a message that self-deleted five minutes after he received it. Both times, his voice had sounded unfamiliar.
"...police have yet to confirm the identities of the victims."
Martin slumped onto the couch.
Not Asen. Please, God, not him.
His hands were trembling. The anchor kept speaking, but the words disintegrated into disconnected sounds. Only the dry, flat tone remained—the voice used to report facts too monstrous for a normal delivery.
A new shot. A close-up from a ground camera: fire-scorched walls, collapsed beams, pieces of plastic sheeting flapping in the wind. Behind the cordon, a stretcher under a white sheet was visible, with two paramedics pushing it toward an ambulance.
"If I don't come next week. If I don't show up in the cafeteria..."
The phone vibrated again. Once, twice, three times. The chat was overflowing. Martin didn't look.
He looked toward the window. The curtain was half-drawn. His gaze involuntarily swept the parking lot in front of the building. It looked empty, except for the neighbors' cars—Mr. Todorov's old Opel and the blue Golf belonging to the woman on the sixth floor.
And the SUV.
Dark and massive with tinted windows, it sat at the corner by the dumpsters. Martin had never seen that vehicle here. The engine was idling, a white plume of exhaust curling in the cold air.
He jerked back from the glass. His heart hammered against his temples.
"...They're theirs. All of them are theirs."
He stood in his pajamas in the middle of the living room, trapped between the television and the window. In the bedroom, the laptop and the memory card—which now felt heavier—waited for him. Below, the SUV lurked, motionless. His mother's look at the mall surfaced in his memory—over her shoulder, just for a second, but too long.
Martin returned to his room and sat on the edge of the bed. His breathing was shallow. He picked up the phone from the duvet and opened his contacts. The list was sparse.
Uncle Viktor—Geneva.
For years, their calls had amounted to nothing more than Christmas and birthdays. Hollow wishes, bank transfers for the lyceum tuition. He knew him more from photos than from hugs.
But Asen had specifically pointed to him. Why?
Martin pressed the green button. He dialed the international code. +41. The ringing left him time for exactly two breaths. Distant. Cold. Swiss.
He closed his eyes and waited.
The aroma of smoky malt intertwined with muted jazz. Lake Geneva swallowed the city lights beyond the panoramic window, turning the glass into a black mirror. The reflection belonged to a forty-three-year-old man, but the exhaustion in it was that of a fifty-year-old. The jacket of his austere Swiss suit rested on the chair, but Viktor Sokolov's vest remained buttoned to the top.
His index finger spun the mouse wheel. A seventy-page report on logistics fraud in Rotterdam streamed across the display—long columns of data that Aegis Global would write off as an acceptable loss. The blue light of the monitor accentuated the harsh lines around his mouth. Numbers didn't bleed. They didn't lie. They didn't betray their colleagues for stacks of cash in the trunk of a company car.
The phone on the glass tabletop buzzed.
Viktor didn't take his eyes off the paragraph about insurance premiums. The vibration repeated, shifting the device a millimeter across the smooth surface. He reached out, flipped the phone over, and his eyes narrowed.
A Bulgarian number. Martin.
Usually, their communication was limited to formulaic holiday messages and dry confirmations of tuition payments for the lyceum. The boy never called.
Viktor swiped a finger across the display and answered.
"Speaking."
The line hissed electronically, followed by two seconds of silence.
"Uncle Viktor?"
The voice was hoarse and muffled, as if it hadn't been used for hours.
"Yes, Marti. It's me." Viktor took a sip from his crystal glass, held the malt on his tongue for a moment, and swallowed. "Did something happen?"
"No. Everything is fine. My mom is on a business trip and..."
The sentence hung in the air. The warmth of the alcohol spread through his body, and he returned his gaze to the financial columns.
"How is the weather in Sofia?"
"Cold." Martin swallowed hard, and the sound echoed clearly through the speaker. "Everything is normal at school. We're studying for tests."
"Good, I'm glad to hear it. Focus on your studies, buddy. I transferred the tuition for the next term yesterday."
"I know. Thank you."
Viktor highlighted the paragraph in yellow, added a note in the margin, and saved the changes. The conversation between them stretched across the usual chasm—one between people bound by blood, yet separated by daily life. His free hand was already sliding the mouse toward the next document. He was waiting for the boy to bring up a new phone model or gaming console—the likely reason he was calling.
"You... you worked with computers before, right? In the police."
His fingers froze above the keyboard. GDBOP. Cybercrime. Anti-terrorism. The terms surfaced from memory, buried beneath layers of Swiss tranquility. Viktor straightened his back and slowly pulled away from the desk.
"Yes, my department covered various sectors. Why do you ask?"
"A classmate..." Martin's voice dropped, shifting into a tense whisper. The words tumbled out, fast and breathless. "He has a problem. He found a flash drive. It looks like a hardware key for a video game. But when he plugged it in, it didn't open like a normal folder. It's asking for a password with a lot of characters. He's asking if it might be a virus."
Viktor narrowed his eyes at the glow of the monitor. The details sounded far too specific for mere curiosity. Something in the boy's intonation disrupted the rhythm of the evening.
But the logic of the insurance investigator took over. Viktor swiveled his chair slightly and looked toward the dark waters of the lake. His lips curled into a condescending smile. Teenagers. Unlimited access to the internet, entirely too much free time, and zero digital hygiene. They had stumbled upon yet another encrypting Trojan that threatened to lock their computers and expose their search history to their parents. Now they were sweating in front of their screens, terrified of the consequences.
His fingers subconsciously touched the knot of his tie.
"Marti."
"Yes?"
The breathing on the other end was jagged.
"Tell your classmate to stop downloading garbage from the internet."
"It wasn't downloaded! The flash drive is..."
"It doesn't matter what it is," Viktor's voice sounded flat and categorical, with the exact same tone he used to reject multimillion-euro claims. "Malware often masquerades as game installation files. That encryption is likely designed to lock up his hard drive to extort him for cryptocurrency later. If he has an Ethernet cable plugged in, he needs to pull it out immediately."
Silence. Not a sound, not a breath.
"Do you hear me?"
"Yes."
"Do not try to enter any passwords. Don't click on anything. Tell him to format the external drive immediately. If he keeps trying or leaves the device in the port, the computer is lost. Do you understand me?"
On the other end of the line, thousands of miles away, something quietly shattered. Viktor had no way of hearing it.
He couldn't see the clenched fists, nor the room in Sofia shrouded in darkness, nor the boy's eyes, widened with terror. Martin had just realized that the only adult he had gathered the courage to trust had slammed the door in his face.
"Delete it." Martin's voice was no longer trembling. It sounded hollow. Devoid of emotion. "I understand."
"And be careful what websites you visit. You aren't ten years old anymore."
"Okay. I'll tell him. Sorry for bothering you."
"You're not bothering me. Say hi to your mother when she gets back."
"I will. Good night."
The connection dropped with a sharp click.
Viktor lowered the phone. He stared at the black display for a moment, ran his fingers through his hair, and shook his head.
The problems of fifteen-year-olds...
He placed the device face down on the glass tabletop and reached for his crystal tumbler. The ice cubes clinked as he finished the amber liquid in one long gulp. The alcohol burned his palate.
His fingers settled on the mouse again. His index finger spun the scroll wheel. The columns of numbers continued to slide upward and absorb his attention, while the flawless silence, accentuated by the rhythm of the jazz, filled the room once more.
Everything remained under control. The system was working.