The April evening painted Prenzlauer Berg in shades of amber and rose.
I stood outside Martin’s building, watching the light catch on old facades and turn weathered brick into something almost beautiful. Six months since I’d left this neighborhood. Six months since I’d written that letter and disappeared into this other world.
The window on the third floor was open. Martin’s ridiculous blue curtains billowed out like flags, catching the breeze. Movement inside: a shadow passing, then gone.
He’s home.
Lana stirred, curious, but I held the reins. Just needed to see it. The apartment. The life I’d walked away from. Proof it had all been real.
Kastanienallee hummed with early evening energy. Laughter spilled from bar doorways. The smell of pizza dough and hops drifted on warm air. Couples claimed sidewalk tables, settling in for long nights of cheap wine and cheaper conversation.
I turned away from Martin’s window, drifting into the flow of pedestrians.
That’s when I saw him.
A man moved through the crowd with fluid precision, weaving between clusters of people like water finding cracks. Mid-thirties, lean build, dark jacket. Nothing remarkable. Except…
My eyes caught the tiny details my analytical mind couldn’t ignore.
His hand brushed a tourist’s jacket. The slightest contact. The tourist reached for his phone three seconds later, patting empty pockets with growing confusion.
Two steps further. A woman in heels, texting. His shoulder angled past hers. Her purse hung open. His fingers… there, then gone. She never looked up.
Jesus.
Not a thug. Not some desperate street kid.
This was art.
I stopped walking, letting the crowd flow around me. Watched him work. Each movement was calculated but effortless. Perfect timing. Perfect angles. He read the rhythm of bodies like sheet music, finding the exact moment when attention wavered, when crowds provided cover, when marks were most vulnerable.
A businessman checking his watch. Gone.
A teenager with headphones. Lifted.
One hundred and twelve seconds. Three marks. Zero hesitation.
Then he melted into the crowd outside a Turkish restaurant, disappearing as if he’d never existed at all.
Lana’s pulse quickened. Not alarm.
Fascination.
That… that was beautiful.
The thought came unbidden, carrying Lana’s voice, her appreciation for skill divorced from morality. She saw what I saw: not theft, but performance. Sleight of hand executed with surgical precision.
I stood there, rooted to the sidewalk, as the golden hour deepened and the man vanished completely into Berlin’s evening pulse.
And for the first time in weeks, something other than survival or Wolf’s plans or Seline’s experiments occupied my mind.
~oOđșOo~
The kitchen in the Reihenhaus smelled like stale coffee and smoke. One overhead bulb cast yellow light across chipped counters. Somewhere deeper in the building, a TV murmured in German: news or football, impossible to tell.
Kemal stood by the kettle, waiting for water to boil. His shoulders carried that familiar ease, like every movement cost him nothing.
I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.
“You were in Prenzlauer Berg the other night.”
He didn’t look up. Just watched the kettle.
“Near the bars,” I added. “Kastanienallee.“
“Wasn’t me.”
The denial came flat, automatic. No curiosity. No defensiveness.
“I saw you,” I pressed. “Watched you work three marks in a hundred and twelve seconds.”
His jaw tightened. Barely perceptible.
Lana pushed forward, warmth flooding my voice. “It was incredible.”
That got him. His gaze flicked toward me⊠wary, measuring.
I stepped into the kitchen. “The timing. The positioning. How you read the crowd…” I shook my head, grinning despite myself. “That was skill.”
He turned back to the kettle. Long moment of silence.
Then, so quietly I almost missed it: “You saw that?”
A faint smile ghosted across his mouth. Not pride. Something closer to resignation.
“Don’t get ideas.”
“Too late.”
“It’s not a game, Lana.”
“Then teach me to play it properly, ja.”
Kemal exhaled through his nose, pouring water into a chipped mug. Steam curled between us. He set the kettle down, his dark eyes finally meeting mine with that unreadable steadiness.
“You’ll get caught. Or worse.”
“Not if I learn from the best.”
Another pause. He studied me like I was a problem he hadn’t decided whether to solve or ignore.
Then his grin deepened. Just a fraction.
“Saturday. Early. Don’t wear anything shiny.”
My pulse kicked. Lana’s excitement surged, sharp and eager.
“How early?”
“Nine. Mauerpark.” He lifted the mug to his lips, voice dry as smoke. “You’re still going to quit after the first hour.”
“Try me.”
He sipped his tea, eyes holding mine over the rim.
“We’ll see.”
~oOđșOo~
Mauerpark on Saturday mornings belonged to chaos.
Vendors hawked produce in four languages. Tourists bartered over vintage jackets and vinyl records. The air smelled like frying kartoffelpuffer, fresh bread, and something sweet I couldn’t place. Bodies jostled, a living current that never stopped moving.
Kemal stood beside me, hands buried in his jacket pockets.
“Watch.”
He nodded toward a vendor stacking oranges into a pyramid. Middle-aged, thick arms, wedding band catching sunlight.
Kemal drifted closer. Not direct. Angled approach, browsing tomatoes two stalls down. His posture relaxed, shoulders loose, gaze wandering like he had nowhere to be.
The vendor turned to help a customer.
Kemal moved.
One step. His elbow brushed the man’s. Apology in broken German, a sheepish grin. The vendor waved him off, already refocusing on the haggling grandmother in front of him.
Kemal walked back toward me.
Held up his hand.
The vendor’s watch dangled from his fingers.
“Scheisse.“
He pocketed it, expression unchanged. “Proximity. Rhythm. Misdirection.” His voice stayed low, calm. “You don’t take. You receive. The moment gives it to you.”
I blinked, pulse hammering. Lana leaned forward inside me, hungry.
Kemal returned to the stall, apologized again for bumping into the man. The vendor laughed, clapped his shoulder. Kemal slipped the watch back onto the counter near a basket of peppers.
Walked away.
“The trick isn’t hands,” he said when he reached me. “It’s heartbeat. If yours stays steady, they’ll never feel the pulse.”
I stared at him. “That was…”
“Ordinary.” He lit a cigarette, exhaling smoke into the morning haze. “That’s the point. You disappear by being exactly what they expect.”
Around us, the market roared. Laughter. Shouts. Clinking coins. An accordion somewhere playing off-key.
Kemal’s dark eyes settled on mine.
“Still want to learn?”
Lana’s excitement flared, bright and reckless.
I nodded.
“Ja.“
His thin smile returned. Faint, knowing.
“Then keep up.”
~oOđșOo~
Ten minutes later, Kemal stopped near a stall selling secondhand books.
“Him.”
A university student. Early twenties, canvas tote overflowing with groceries, earbuds in. He fumbled with a paperback, trying to balance phone, bag, and book all at once.
Perfect.
“Your turn.”
My stomach dropped. Lana surged forward, eager, but my rational mind screamed no.
This is illegal. This is insane. This isâ
“Breathe,” Kemal murmured. “Let the crowd carry you.”
Lana took the reins.
My feet moved. Smooth. Confident. I drifted past a rack of vintage coats, angling toward the student from his blind side. My heartbeat stayed even. Breathing steady.
The crowd pressed closer. Someone laughed nearby. A vendor shouted prices.
I brushed past him. Shoulder to shoulder.
His wallet slipped from his back pocket into my palm like it wanted to be there.
Gone.
I melted into the crowd, weaving between tourists and locals, letting bodies hide me.
Twenty stepsâŠ. Thirty.
My pulse racing now, adrenaline flooding hot and electric.
We did it!
Lana’s thrill sang through me, bright and reckless.
I circled back through the maze of stalls, approaching Kemal from the opposite direction.
He stood where I’d left him, cigarette halfway to his lips.
I held up the wallet.
His hand froze.
For three full seconds, Kemal stared. Not at the wallet. At me.
Then his expression shifted. Genuine surprise flickered across his face, chased by something sharper.
“You’ve done this before, ja?“
“Just watched carefully.”
I grinned, feeling Lana’s satisfaction pulse beneath my skin.
Kemal took a long drag, eyes narrowing. “Too clean. Too fast.” He plucked the wallet from my fingers, turning it over. “Most people hesitate. Fumble. You didn’t.”
“Natural talent?”
“Dangerous talent.”
But his smirk deepened. Approval, reluctant and real.
Enough, I thought. We proved the point. Give it back. Walk away.
Lana ignored me completely.
“Again?”
Kemal exhaled smoke, studying me with that unreadable gaze.
“Once more,” he said quietly. “Then we stop.”
No. No more.
But Lana was already turning, scanning the crowd, hunger bright in her eyes.
And I felt myself receding, watching from behind glass as she claimed the wheel.
Kemal’s jaw tightened. He glanced across the market, then nodded toward a stall selling grilled sausages.
“Try him.”
A man in his forties. Plain gray jacket, jeans, scuffed boots. He stood apart from the crowd, scanning faces with deliberate slowness. Alert. Watchful.
Something in his posture set off alarms.
Ex-polizei. Maybe active.
Lana laughed. Light, dismissive. “Too easy.”
Kemal’s curling lips sharpened. “Ja? Then prove it.”
Don’t.
But she was already moving.
I watched from somewhere deep inside as Lana stalked him. Mimicking his rhythm. Matching his pace, three steps behind. The crowd thickened near a speaker blasting industrial bassâ Rammstein, maybe, something heavy and pulsing.
She closed the distance.
Micro-pauses. Breathing synced to his. Shoulders angled just right.
Then she stumbled.
Perfect. Controlled. Her hand shot out, catching his elbow for balance.
“Entschuldigung.“
Apology soft, breathless. Eyes wide.
He steadied her, nodded once, already dismissing the encounter.
She slipped away. Eight steps. Ten.
Her hand opened. His phone.
Jesus Christ.
Kemal’s cigarette hit the pavement.
When Lana circled back, his expression was stone. But fury flickered beneath: sharp, contained, dangerous.
“You’re insane.”
She grinned, holding up the phone. “You said prove it.”
“That man reads tells for a living.” His voice dropped, hard and low. “You just painted a target on your back.”
“He didn’t notice.”
“He will.”
Kemal snatched the phone, already moving toward the sausage stall. Placed it on the counter near the mustard, muttered something to the vendor.
Walked back. He grabbed my wrist.
“We’re done.”
But his grip stayed firm as he pulled me through the crowd, and beneath the anger, something else flickered in his eyes.
Respect and fear.
Lana’s satisfaction hummed beneath my skin, reckless and bright.
Too far. Way too far.
But she didn’t care.
~oOđșOo~
We crossed into Arkonaplatz. The market had thinned, and the crowd scattered into pockets. Benches lined gravel paths. Trees filtered sunlight into dappled patterns across worn stone.
Kemal slowed near a fountain, his grip on my wrist finally loosening.
Then he stopped.
His expression hardened. “There.”
A man sat on a bench. Fifty, maybe older. Leather jacket worn smooth at the elbows, graying stubble, sharp eyes that tracked movement with practiced ease. He worked a toothpick between his teeth, posture deceptively casual.
Carefulâ
But I saw the tells.
The way his gaze swept the square. The subtle shift of weight when someone passed too close. The bulge at his hip: phone, wallet, maybe both, tucked tight.
“That’s Yusuf,” Kemal said quietly. “Works Mitte, sometimes here. Good hands. Better instincts.”
I looked at him. “You know him?”
“We’ve crossed paths.” His jaw tightened. “He doesn’t share territory.”
Lana stirred, reading the challenge in Kemal’s tone.
“Try him,” Kemal said, voice flat.
Absolutely not!
But Lana was already moving.
I approached from the side, angling through a cluster of tourists photographing the fountain. My heartbeat stayed steady. Breathing slowly.
Three meters.
Two.
His eyes flicked toward me.
Shit.
I adjusted course, pretending to check my phone. Let another body pass between us. Waited for his attention to drift.
Moved again.
One meter.
My hand reachedâŠ
His fingers clamped around my wrist like iron.
“Nein.“
The word came soft, almost amused.
Then his grip twisted.
Pain shot up my forearm. I gasped, stumbling forward as he rose, yanking me off balance.
“Little girls shouldn’t play games they don’t understand,” he murmured in accented German.
Around us, heads turned. A vendor at the flower stall straightened. An older woman frowned, concern creasing her face.
Lana reacted before I could think.
She twisted hard, using his momentum against him. Her free hand struck his wrist: sharp, precise, breaking his grip.
Lana spun away, her bag swinging wide in a defensive arc to create precious distance between us and his reaching hands. The leather strap whistled through the air, and for a split second it did.
But Yusuf wasn’t some amateur tourist.
He lunged forward, his body coiled with predatory grace. No hesitation, no wasted motion: just pure, practiced aggression closing the gap she’d fought to create.
Lana ducked under his outstretched arm, her body moving on pure instinct now. She pivoted low, using his forward momentum as leverage, and drove her shoulder into his ribs. Not hard, but precise enough to throw his rhythm off.
He recovered fast. Too fast.
The stumble lasted maybe half a second before his balance returned. His eyes never left her, calculating, adjusting, already planning his next move.
His hand shot out, fingers brushing her jacket.
Lana bolted.
Behind her, his boots hit gravel in rapid succession.
The market blurred. She wove between stalls: vintage clothing, handmade jewelry, someone selling Turkish pastries. A table tipped. Oranges scattered, rolling across stone.
“Hey!” A vendor shouted.
She didn’t stop.
Run Lana!
Ahead, a narrow gap between two buildings opened up. She took it without hesitation, her lungs working hard, breath hammering against my ribs in sharp, desperate bursts.
The alley stretched maybe twenty feet before terminating abruptly.
Dead end.
Fuck!
Brick walls rose on three sides, their surfaces stained with years of grime and weather. A rusted dumpster squatted against the left wall, its metal sides pocked with dents and corrosion. Broken glass glittered like scattered diamonds in the shadows, remnants of beer bottles and whatever else had been hurled back here over the years. The air hung thick with the smell of old garbage and urban decay.
Lana spun around, her back pressed against the far wall, trapped. The narrow entrance we’d just come through felt impossibly far away now, a thin slice of light that might as well have been on another continent.
Shit!
His footsteps echoed closer. Heavy. Purposeful.
He stepped into the alley, blocking the exit. Sunlight silhouetted him, his expression unreadable.
Then his hand moved.
A knife flashed, blade catching the light.
Adrenaline flooded cold and sharp.
Wait⊠Waiâ Move!
He stepped forward. Blade low, angled for control.
She grabbed her bag, swinging the strap wide in a desperate arc. The worn fabric caught his wrist mid-thrust, the canvas material wrapping around his forearm and tangling with his momentum.
The knife’s trajectory faltered, veering off course.
A curse in guttural German, yanking his arm back violently, trying to free himself from the improvised snare. The bag strap stretched taut for a split second before snapping loose.
But that split second was enough.
Lana closed the distance with surprising speed, her smaller body suddenly an advantage in the cramped space.
Both her hands shot out, fingers wrapping around his knife arm just above the wrist. Her grip was surprisingly strong⊠stronger than I would have expected from these delicate hands.
She twisted hard, using her whole body weight as leverage, forcing his arm back at an unnatural angle. His elbow hyperextended with an audible pop, tendons straining past their limits.
The blade clattered against the grimy concrete, metal ringing against stone before skittering away into the shadows.
Lana! Duckâ!
He swung wildly with his free hand. But Lana was already moving, her reflexes sharp and immediate in a way that felt utterly foreign to my old body. She ducked low, the punch whistling harmlessly through the air where her head had been a moment before.
Then she drove her shoulder hard into his chest, putting every ounce of momentum behind the impact. The collision sent shockwaves through both our bodies. Her shoulder blade pressed against his ribs as we crashed sideways together, a tangle of limbs and desperate motion. In the chaos of movement, her heel kicked out sharply behind his knee, finding the pressure point with deadly accuracy.
His leg buckled instantly.
He dropped hard, gravel biting into his kneecaps as he hit the unforgiving cobblestones. His breath exploded out in a harsh wheeze, the wind completely knocked from his lungs.
She kicked the knife further into the shadows, then ran.
Burst out of the alley, lungs burning, pulse screaming in my ears.
Didn’t look back.
Just ran until the market swallowed us whole.
~oOđșOo~
I stood naked in front of the mirror, in my little sanctuary, chest still heaving from the run back. Sweat cooled on my skin, leaving salt trails down my neck, between my breasts, along the curve of my spine.
Look.
Lana’s voice, quiet but insistent.
I lifted my arm. Muscles ripple beneath smooth skin in the afternoon light: deltoid, bicep, tricep. Not bulky. Not obvious. But there, coiled and ready, like steel wrapped in silk.
Turned. Examined my back in the reflection. The shoulders that had driven into Yusuf’s ribs. The core that had held steady when he grabbed me. Every line, every curve, carried hidden strength.
How?
I replayed the scene earlier from the alley. Frame by frame.
The way my hands had moved: precise, practiced, like they’d done it a thousand times before. The hyperextension of his elbow: I’d known exactly where to grip, how much pressure, what angle would break his hold without shattering bone.
The shoulder drive. The kick behind his knee.
Muscle memory.
But whose?
Iâd never thrown a punch in my life. Iâd always wanted to study martial arts when I was younger, but never did. Instead, Iâd gone soft: desk-bound, forty-four years of slow atrophy and stale beer.
Ha! I know⊠kung fu?
No AlanâŠ. Lana injected drily. It’s called krav maga.
This body was nineteen. Twenty at most.
When did Lana learn to fight? Learn⊠krav maga?
Seline’s voice echoed: “You are our finest achievement.”
My stomach twisted.
What else did you leave out?
The transformation. The neural imprints. The symbiosis she’d described in that cold, clinical office.
Had she implanted this? Combat training encoded into nerve pathways, downloaded like software?
Or had Lana always known?
I traced my collarbone, feeling the delicate bone beneath. This body looked fragile. Vulnerable. The kind men underestimated.
Perfect camouflage.
My phone buzzed.
I flinched, the sound cutting through the silence like a blade.
Reaching for it on the nightstand. The screen glowing in the dim room.
+49 30 90âŠ
That number again.
The message loaded.
â I’ll be there.
My pulse kicked.
What does that even mean?
I stared at the words. Same as before. Same cryptic promise. No context. No follow-up.
Spam. Has to be.
But my hands trembled.
In the mirror, Lana watched me with hazel eyes that held answers I couldn’t access.
Who are you?
She smiled.
~oOđșOo~
I set the phone down. Screen dark.
Breathe.
The room buzzed with invisible energy. Muffled voices through thin walls. Somewhere, a siren wailed in the distance, fading into Berlin’s evening chorus.
Lana’s reflection stared back.
I lifted my hand. Watched fingers flex. Once. Twice.
The movement came smoothly. Too smooth. Controlled precision I’d never possessed in my old body.
I would’ve hesitated. Fumbled.
This hand moved like it knew things I didn’t.
I traced the inside of my forearm. Skin pale, unmarked. Light dusting of blonde hair catching the overhead bulb. Veins visible beneath the surface, delicate blue rivers mapping the terrain.
My thumb pressed into the hollow of my wrist. Found the pulse. Counted beats.
Eighty-two. Still on the higher side.
The fingers curled. Uncurled.
Wait.
I hadn’t decided to do that.
A twitch. Subtle. The ring finger tapped against the thumb in a rhythm I didn’t recognize.
Stop!
It stopped.
My stomach tightened.
The analyst in me cataloged the phenomenon: autonomic response, residual nerve firing, muscle memory asserting itself independent of conscious command.
The man in me recoiled.
This isn’t mine.
I rolled my shoulders, feeling everything slide smoothly back into place: joints aligning with effortless precision, my spine clicking into harmony. No stiffness. No resistance.
My neck tilted. Left. Right.
I didn’t do that either.
The movement felt exploratory. Testing range of motion. Claiming territory.
Lana.
She wasn’t just watching anymore.
She was inhabiting.
I forced my gaze back to the mirror. Watched my posture shift without permission. Spine straightening. Hips angling slightly forward. Weight redistributing onto the balls of my feet.
Grace replaces hesitation.
The difference was subtle. Unmistakable.
She’s taking over.
My breath deepened. Ribs expanding, lungs filling. Exhale slowly and controlled.
Wait⊠that’s not me breathing.
The rhythm changed. Automatic. Optimized.
My body was adjusting itself.
I watched my chest rise and fall. Small breasts moving with each breath. The motion felt mechanical. Clinical. I forced myself to observe the physiology: intercostal muscles contracting, diaphragm descending, heart rate stabilizing.
Seventy-five beats per minute now.
Perfect resting pulse.
How?
My hands moved. Traced down from my collarbone to my sternum. Fingers mapping the terrain of ribs, the slight curve of my waist.
Exploratory. Analytical.
I catalogued sensation: texture of skin, warmth beneath fingertips, subtle shift of muscle underneath.
The mirror doubled it back. Uncanny. Intimate.
This is a body. Just a body.
But the thought rang hollow.
My hands continued downward. Over the gentle swell of my hips. Thighs lean and strong.
Weight shifted. One foot forward.
I tested stability. Knees bent slightly. Calves tensed.
Balance rediscovered in smaller, lighter limbs.
The reflection stood taller. Surer.
No.
I broke eye contact.
Don’t look.
But my hand moved anyway.
Lower.
Fingers brushing against the soft curve between my legs.
Stop!
They didn’t stop.
The touch was light. Heat bloomed beneath my skin. A flush creeping up my neck.
No. This isn’tâ
The boundary blurred.
I couldn’t tell anymore who had initiated the movement. My conscious mind screaming stop, or Lana’s instinct guiding these unfamiliar fingers with practiced ease.
The sensation built. Warmth pooling low in my belly. Breath shallow despite my attempts to control it.
This is just a nerve response. Nothing more.
My fingers pressed deeper.
A gasp escaped.
Not mine.
Hers.
Fear spiked sharp and cold.
I yanked my hand away. Stumbled back from the mirror.
The reflection stood motionless now. Chest rising and falling. Hazel eyes watching with that same knowing smile.
Waiting.
The silence felt heavier than before. Oppressive. Like the air itself had thickened, pressing down on my shoulders.
I locked eyes with the mirror.
Don’t.
My hand moved anyway.
Back down. Slow. Deliberate.
Fingers found heat and slickness waiting. The touch sent voltage up my spine.
Stop thisâ
Circular motions. Gentle at first. Testing.
The reflection watched me. Hazel eyes unblinking. A smile playing at the corner of those lips.
She’s enjoying this.
My breath paused. Fingers circled again. Pressure building with each pass.
This is her doing this. Not me.
But the distinction dissolved like sugar in water.
The rhythm shifted. Circles became something else. My middle finger slid lower, pressed inside.
NoâŠ
The gasp tore free before I could swallow it.
The reflection’s smile widened.
Fuck! Lana!
My finger withdrew. Thrust back in. Shallow. Testing depth and resistance.
The phone buzzed on the nightstand. A sharp vibration against wood.
I didn’t turn. Couldn’t.
My gaze stayed locked on the mirror. On her. On the body moving with practiced confidence, hips tilting forward to meet each thrust.
Another finger joined the first.
Deeper now.
My free hand braced against the wall. Knuckles white.
I should stop. I need tâ
The pleasure rolled through in waves. Building. Cresting.
My legs trembled. Knees threatening to buckle.
The reflection arched. Back curving. Breasts rising with each ragged breath.
ChristâŠ
The phone buzzed again.
Insistent.
Ignored.
My fingers moved faster. Rhythm relentless. Wet sounds filled the small room, obscene and undeniable. Heat flooded my core. Spreading outward. Electric.
I can’tâŠ
But I could.
My body knew exactly what it wanted. What it needed.
The analyst in me drowned beneath sensation. All those careful observations, clinical detachment, evaporated under the onslaught of nerve endings firing in perfect synchrony.
This is happening.
My thumb found my clit. Circled. Pressed.
The reflection’s mouth opened. Silent cry building.
My hips rocked forward. Meeting each thrust. Chasing release with single-minded focus.
Yesâ
It came apart all at once. The line between thought and motion dissolved.
Alan was gone⊠folded into silence, absorbed beneath the surface.
Just Lana.
Just this.
Just now.
The phone buzzed a third time.
ScheiĂ the phone.
My fingers curled inside. Found that perfect angle. Pressed hard.
And the world went white.
~oOđșOo~
My vision swam back into focus. Edges sharpening. The bedroom ceiling overhead. Cold floorboards beneath my back.
I blinked and drew a deep breath. Something sweet and salty coated my tongue.
My hand moved to my mouth. Fingers slipping between my lips.
Noâ
Lana licked them clean. Slow. Deliberate.
Yum. Her voice was light and playful.
The mirror caught the motion. Her wicked grin stared back.
You bitch.
She winked.
I shoved myself upright. Arms shaking. My legs folded beneath me immediately, muscles still trembling from the orgasm we’d shared.
We.
The pronoun made my stomach turn.
I crawled toward the nightstand. Fingers numb. Clumsy.
The phone lit up as I grabbed it.
Three notifications. Same Berlin number. Sent minutes apart duringâŠ
During that…
I opened the messages.
+49 30 90⊠â I’ll be there.
+49 30 90⊠â I’ll be there.
+49 30 90⊠â I’ll be there.
My pulse hammered.
I thumbed the call button.
My hand trembled as I lifted the phone to my ear.
One ring. Two.
Then⊠A soft buzz cut through the silence. Faint. Muffled.
Lana’s spine straightened. Her muscles coiled tight beneath my skin.
What theâŠ
The buzzing continued. Then music filtered through. Distant but unmistakable.
A familiar melody. Something old. American.
You and I must…
My stomach dropped.
Lana’s head snapped toward the dresser. Her pulse pounded against my ribs, drowning out my own heartbeat.
No. No, that’s notâ
The music grew clearer. A man’s voice, smooth and bright, backed by harmonies I hadn’t heard in decades.
It was coming from inside the dresser.
Lana crossed the room in three strides. I tried to pull back, to stop her hand from reaching for the drawer, but she was already there.
The wood scraped. The drawer opened.
Nestled between folded underwear and a lone sock sat a phone.
Old. Cheap. The kind you bought at a corner shop for twenty euros. The battery still showing over 80% remaining.
The screen glowed. Vibrating in rhythm with the ringtone.
Incoming Call: Alan
My heart stopped.
Lana stared at it. Her breath shallow. Her fingers were hovering above the device.
The song played on, tinny through the small speaker. Words about promises. About being there.
I wanted to laugh. To scream.
Instead, Lana’s hand closed around the phone.
The music cut off as she pressed the red button.
Silence crashed back.
I stood frozen, staring at the device in my palm. The screen went dark.
Then a text appeared.
+49 30 91⊠âAlan, you hung up.
My other hand⊠the one still clutching my phone, buzzed.
+49 30 91⊠âI’ll be there.
Both phones. Same number.
Lana’s reflection in the mirror looked back at me. Her smile had vanished.
Her lips parted.
“Alan… who the fuck is watching us?”
The words came out in her voice.
But the question was mine.
