The cold hit like a slap the moment we stepped off the plane. November in Berlin: gray sky pressing down like a lead blanket, the air thick with coal smoke and that particular dampness that seeps through wool and settles in your bones.
Christ, I’d forgotten how brutal this city could be.
Four days ago, I’d been standing on sun-warmed cobblestones, gelato melting on my tongue while Élodie laughed at some street performer’s antics. Now the concrete beneath my feet felt like ice, and every breath tasted of exhaust and industrial grit.
The light. God, I miss the light.
It felt like we’d left the sun behind in another lifetime. Florence had wrapped us in golden afternoons and amber evenings. Here, even at midday, everything looked like twilight filtered through dirty gauze. The buildings loomed bleak and imposing, their windows reflecting nothing but more gray.
Lana shivered, pulling her thin jacket tighter. We’d packed for Tuscan warmth, not this penetrating chill, that made the city feel actively hostile. Every surface seemed to radiate cold: the wet pavement, the metal handrails, the glass facades of shops already closing for the day despite the early hour.
Welcome home, I thought, watching my breath cloud in the air.
Berlin had never felt less like a sanctuary.
~oO🐺Oo~
The attic reeked of stale cigarettes and something sharper… fear, maybe.
Wolf sat hunched over his desk, surrounded by scattered police reports and newspaper clippings like a man drowning in bad news. The overhead bulb cast harsh shadows across his face, aging him a decade since I’d seen him last week.
“You look like hell,” I said, settling into the rickety chair across from him.
He didn’t look up from the papers. “Four more bodies last night. Tempelhof. Two in Kreuzberg yesterday.” His finger traced a line of text, yellow nicotine stains marking the page. “Nineteen dead in the past month.”
The numbers hit me cold. Nineteen. In Florence, death had felt distant, theoretical. Here, it was spreadsheets and morgue tags.
“Lucent?”
“Has to be, ja.” Wolf finally raised his eyes, and I saw something I’d never seen before, exhaustion so deep it looked like defeat. “What else would rot people from the inside without leaving a mark?”
“But this…” He shook his head once. “This is not an overdose. Not any overdose.”
He slid a photograph across the desk. Crime scene: a young man slumped against a dumpster, eyes closed, face peaceful. No foam at his mouth, no needle tracks, no signs of struggle.
“Look. They just…” Wolf said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Heart stops. Brain stops. Körper sagt einfach ‘nein.“
Something in my memory stirred… a news article I’d skimmed on the plane. Mysterious Deaths Plague Berlin Nightlife. I’d assumed it was tabloid nonsense, the usual moral panic about club drugs.
“The batches are getting stronger,” Wolf continued, pulling out more reports. “Früher? Harmless stuff. Bad trip at worst. But now…” He gestured at the photographs. “Now it’s not fun anymore, is it?”
Lana shifted uneasily, remembering Élodie’s touch, the way Lucent had made every nerve ending sing.
Alan. Had we been that close to…?
Wolf leaned forward, his eyes intense despite the fatigue. “Be careful at work tonight, ja. Hell, stay away from anything that looks fun. Die Straßen are getting strange. And whatever is happening…” He tapped the stack of reports.
The weight of Florence’s golden warmth evaporated completely. Berlin wasn’t just cold, it was killing people.
~oO🐺Oo~
The U-Bahn lurched through the November rain, packed with bodies that smelled like wet wool and cigarettes. Steam fogged the windows as commuters pressed against each other, everyone avoiding eye contact in that particular Berlin way.
I found a seat near the back, water dripping from my coat onto the plastic bench. The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting everything in sickly yellow. Outside, the city blurred past in streaks of light and shadow.
A man in a soaked overcoat slid into the seat beside me without looking up from his Der Spiegel. Expensive shoes, cheap magazine.
Karl.
For three stops, he said nothing. Just turned pages with the methodical precision of someone who’d perfected the art of appearing ordinary.
“Our Russian friends have been busy,” he finally murmured, voice barely audible above the train’s rumble. He didn’t look at me, didn’t even twitch. His eyes never left the magazine. “Three variations. Field-testing, if you can believe the audacity.”
Field testing?
My pulse quickened, but I kept staring out the fogged window. Standard tradecraft… act like strangers having a coincidental conversation.
“Strain A induces psychosis,” Karl continued, casually flicking to the sports section. “We’re calling them the Scratchers. Victims try to peel their own skin off to get rid of whatever they think is underneath.” A soft, almost sympathetic exhale. “Brutal way to go.”
Jesus.
The peaceful-looking corpse in Wolf’s photograph suddenly felt less peaceful. He was the lucky one. His heart stopped before the itching started.
“Strain B creates hyper-aggression. No pattern, no build-up.” He angled the magazine as if checking a score. “Had a grandmother in Mitte put three teenagers in the hospital yesterday. Handbag as the primary weapon.” His mouth twitched: not humor, just the recognition of absurdity in a chaotic world.
He flipped another page, calm as a monk. “Strain C…” He paused, the train clacking over a junction. “Well…”
The train squealed into Hermannplatz, brakes shrieking like wounded animals.
“That’s the interesting one,” Karl said, rising with the casual grace of a man who never rushes. Passengers brushed past, oblivious. “Hyper-sexuality. Dopamine loops that override self-preservation. They don’t just want to connect, Lana. They want to consume.” He shrugged lightly, almost apologetically. “Moscow’s been flirting with asymmetric warfare for years. Social disruption delivered by biological vectors? Very on-brand.”
My stomach tightened.
He tucked the magazine under his arm, water still dripping from his coat.
“They’re calibrating dosage. Testing delivery systems. Urban centers like this?” A faint, wry tilt of his mouth. “Perfect petri dishes.”
His pale eyes finally met mine for exactly two seconds. “If you see someone scratching at their skin… run. Don’t be noble. Don’t be curious. Just run.”
The doors opened with a pneumatic hiss.
“Enjoy your evening shift,” Karl said, stepping onto the platform. He melted into the crowd like smoke, leaving only the faint scent of aftershave and wet leather.
I sat there, processing. Three strains. Calibrated dosages. Asymmetric warfare.
Lana stirred nervously.
Alan, this isn’t about getting high anymore.
No. This was about turning an entire city into a testing ground. And tonight, I was walking straight into the middle of it.
The train pulled away from Hermannplatz, carrying us deeper into the belly of the beast.
~oO🐺Oo~
The Foundry felt different tonight. Wrong.
The bass still pounded through concrete walls, the smoke still hung thick as fog, but something had shifted. The Crows huddled closer in their corner booth, voices lower than usual. Even Dieter, who never flinched, kept glancing toward the door like he expected trouble to walk through it.
The bouncers were jumpy. Uwe’s hand hadn’t left his jacket pocket all evening, and Marcus kept checking the side exits every ten minutes. Word traveled fast in places like this: nineteen bodies last month would make anyone nervous.
I moved between tables, clearing glasses and avoiding eye contact. The regulars weren’t drinking their usual amounts. Turkish Mehmet nursed the same beer for two hours. Even the loud Russian crew from Friedrichshain spoke in whispers.
Then she walked in.
Élodie.
She cut through the dim haze like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. Black cashmere coat, hair perfectly tousled despite the rain outside. She found an empty stool at the bar and ordered wine… actual wine, not the house swill, with that musical accent that made everything sound like poetry.
Every head in the place turned. Not just because she was beautiful, but because she looked clean. Untouched by whatever poison was seeping through Berlin’s veins.
Klaus noticed too. I watched him approach from across the room, that predatory glide of his when he smelled opportunity. Special nights. High-end clients. Money.
He leaned against the bar, close enough to speak without being overheard. Élodie smiled. Polite, distant, but something shifted in Klaus’s posture. His confident slouch straightened. The easy smile faltered.
She said something I couldn’t hear, voice barely above a whisper. Klaus stepped back as if she’d slapped him. His scarred face went carefully blank, the expression he wore when someone had just revealed they knew more than they should.
The conversation lasted maybe thirty seconds. Klaus nodded once, sharp and final, then retreated to his office like a dog with its tail between its legs.
Interesting.
Probably just boundary-setting. Rich art dealer making it clear she wasn’t interested in whatever Klaus was selling. Happened all the time with the upscale crowd who wandered in by mistake.
I finished wiping down a table and drifted toward the bar, drawn by that familiar warmth.
Élodie’s face lit up when she saw me. Not the practiced smile she’d given Klaus, but genuine pleasure. The kind that reached her eyes and made something tight in my chest loosen.
“Chérie,” she murmured, fingers brushing mine as I set down her fresh wine. “I was hoping you’d be here tonight.”
The warmth of Firenze flooded back: golden light, cobblestones, her laugh echoing off ancient walls. For a moment, the Foundry’s oppressive atmosphere lifted.
Lana practically purred.
She came to see us.
But something nagged at the edges of my mind. The way Klaus had retreated. The careful distance in Élodie’s initial smile.
Small things. Probably nothing.
~oO🐺Oo~
The last hour couldn’t pass fast enough. Every minute dragged on, while Lana stole glances at Élodie across the bar. The way she held her wine glass, fingers delicate against the stem. The subtle curve of her lips when she caught me looking. That soft laugh that somehow cut through the industrial noise and went straight to my chest.
God, I missed her.
Even cleaning tables became an excuse to drift closer, to catch fragments of her voice speaking French to someone on the phone. Lana was practically buzzing with anticipation, and for once, I didn’t fight it. After Karl’s warnings and Wolf’s morgue photos, I needed something warm. Something real.
The Foundry finally emptied around three, the last stragglers stumbling into November’s bitter embrace. Klaus watched us from his office doorway as I hung up my apron, his expression unreadable. Whatever Élodie had said to him earlier still lingered in the air.
“Ready?” Élodie appeared beside me, cashmere coat draped over her arm.
Lana practically leaped forward.
More than ready.
Outside, the cold hit like a physical blow, but Élodie’s presence made it bearable. She slipped her arm through mine as we walked toward Kreuzberg, our breath mingling in silver clouds.
“You seemed distracted tonight,” she said, voice soft with concern. “Everything alright, chérie?”
I wanted to tell her about the bodies, the strains, the way Berlin felt like it was slowly poisoning itself. Instead, I just nodded.
“Work stress.”
Her lips brushed my temple, warm against the cold. “Then let me help you forget.”
~oO🐺Oo~
Élodie’s studio welcomed us with the scent of turpentine and beeswax, clean smells that made the Foundry’s smoke feel like a distant memory. She locked the door behind us, and suddenly the world outside ceased to exist. No sirens, no shouting, no fear.
Just us.
“Wine?” She was already moving toward the kitchen alcove, but I could see the tension in her shoulders, the way she held herself just slightly apart.
“You notice everything,” Élodie said, returning with two glasses of something dark and expensive. “It’s one of the things I love about you.”
Love.
The word hung in the air between us, soft and dangerous. I wasn’t sure my heart handled that right.
“Something’s troubling you,” she continued, setting the glasses down on a paint-splattered table. “I can see it in the way you move. Here…”
Her hands found my shoulders, fingers working at knots I hadn’t realized were there. The warmth of her touch seeped through my shirt, melting tension I’d been carrying since Berlin’s gray sky crushed down on us.
“Let me take care of you,” she whispered, lips finding the curve of my neck.
Her fingers moved to the buttons of my shirt, slow and deliberate. Each one opened like a small revelation, cool air kissing newly exposed skin. I watched her face as she worked: the concentration, the tenderness, the way her pupils dilated slightly in the studio’s golden light.
Beautiful.
The shirt fell away, and her hands traced the line of my collarbone with something approaching reverence.
“Magnifique,” she breathed, and I believed her.
Her own clothes followed. The cashmere sweater lifted over her head in one fluid motion, revealing the pale curve of her shoulders, the delicate hollows above her collarbones. She wore nothing underneath, and the sight of her made Lana’s— our pulse spike.
Christ, look at her.
Her breasts were perfect. Not large, but perfectly shaped, nipples already hard from the cool air. She moved with unselfconscious grace, stepping out of her jeans with the casual elegance that made everything she did seem choreographed.
“Better?” she asked, hands returning to my waist.
Much better. The wine, her touch, the sanctuary of her studio… it all combined to wash away the Foundry’s grime and Karl’s warnings. For the first time in days, I felt truly present, truly here.
“I want to show you something,” Élodie said, taking my hand. She led me through a doorway I hadn’t noticed before, into a smaller room lined with works in progress.
In the center sat a low table, and on it…
“Oh my…” I breathed.
It was a sculpture, unmistakably erotic but somehow beautiful. White ceramic, shaped like a phallus but refined, artistic. The surface was smooth except for delicate ridges and veins that caught the light like porcelain.
“I made it,” Élodie said, voice carrying a note of shy pride. “Part of a series I’m working on. L’intimité céramique.“
I reached out to touch it, expecting warmth but finding cool ceramic instead. It was heavier than I’d anticipated, solidly anchored to the table’s center.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, and meant it.
Élodie moved behind me, her bare skin warm against my back. “I was wondering…” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Would you try it? For me?”
The question hung in the air, charged with possibility.
Lana’s answer was immediate. “Yes.”
Élodie reached for a small bottle of lubricant, her movements careful and practiced. Then her hand moved toward a familiar vial, the clear liquid catching the light.
“Nein,” I said softly, covering her hand with mine. The word came from both of us, Alan and Lana united in sudden clarity.
Élodie’s eyes widened slightly, but she nodded and set the vial aside without question.
“Of course, chérie. Just us.”
She helped me onto the table, hands steady and sure. The ceramic felt shockingly cold against my inner thighs as I positioned myself above it, the contrast with my heated skin almost electric.
“Slowly,” Élodie murmured, one hand on my hip for support.
I lowered myself gradually, the lubricant easing the way. The coolness was intense, followed immediately by the unfamiliar stretch. The sculpted ridges and veins created textures that made me gasp, each detail a deliberate sensation.
God, the craftsmanship.
It took a moment to settle fully, to adjust to the size and the temperature. Then, tentatively, I began to move.
Up, slowly, feeling every ridge. Down, the ceramic warming slightly from my body heat. Finding a rhythm that made Lana moan softly.
“Très belle,” Élodie whispered. “You’re so beautiful like this.”
I closed my eyes, losing myself in the sensations. The ceramic’s hardness, its unforgiving coolness, gradually giving way to warmth. The delicate textures Élodie had sculpted, each one perfectly placed.
Then her hands found me from behind. Fingers tracing my ribs, the curve of my waist, sending sparks through nerves already heightened by the sculpture’s pressure.
“Oui, like that,” she breathed against my shoulder blade.
Her touch was everywhere: following the line of my spine, ghosting over my hipbones, mapping the geography of desire with artist’s precision. My rhythm quickened, the ceramic sliding with perfect friction as her fingers found my nipples.
“Don’t stop, ma belle. Let yourself feel everything.”
The encouragement in her voice, the way she said it like a prayer, it pushed me higher. Lana was lost now, moving with increasing urgency as Élodie’s hands continued their exploration.
The pressure built like a tide, starting low and spreading outward. My movements became more desperate, chasing something just out of reach while Élodie’s whispered French endearments painted pictures of beauty and desire.
“Presque, almost there,” she murmured, fingers pinching gently at the exact moment the wave crested.
The orgasm hit like lightning, white-hot pleasure radiating from where the ceramic pressed deepest. My back arched, pressing into Élodie’s touch as wave after wave crashed through me. She held me steady, her voice a constant stream of gentle praise as I shook apart and slowly reformed.
“Parfait,” she whispered, lips finding my neck as the tremors subsided. “Absolutely perfect.”
I stayed there for a long moment, feeling the ceramic’s coolness return as my body gradually relaxed. Élodie’s hands never stopped moving, gentle now, soothing, keeping me grounded as I floated back to earth.
This, I thought dimly. This is what peace feels like.
~oO🐺Oo~
I woke alone, the sheets still warm from Élodie’s body, but the space beside me empty. The soft sound of running water drifted through the open bathroom door, accompanied by her voice— melodic and French, humming something I didn’t recognize but that made Lana smile instinctively.
The morning light filtered through tall windows, casting long rectangles across the hardwood floor. I stretched, feeling the pleasant ache from last night’s encounter with her sculpture, and wandered toward the main gallery space.
A large television dominated one wall, sleek and modern against the exposed brick. I found the remote and flicked it on, settling onto the white leather sofa as the screen illuminated.
Al Jazeera filled the frame, the anchor’s crisp voice cutting through the morning quiet.
“…Estonia’s defense ministry has released satellite images allegedly showing a Russian naval vessel crossing into its territorial waters near Võsu Bay late last night. Tallinn has summoned Moscow’s ambassador, calling the breach ‘a deliberate test of NATO resolve.’“
My blood chilled. Karl’s warnings about biological weapons, the strain tests, the dead bodies piling up across Berlin… suddenly none of it felt theoretical.
“Russia denies the incursion,” the anchor continued, “insisting the ship experienced ‘navigation failure.‘”
A map appeared showing the Gulf of Finland, red dots marking vessel positions. In a smaller frame, BBC World News ran silent subtitles: BREAKING: NATO monitoring unusual Russian fleet movements in Baltic Sea.
Navigation failure. Right.
The shower stopped. Élodie’s humming grew closer.
“EU foreign ministers meet in Brussels tomorrow to discuss possible sanctions,” the anchor was saying. “Analysts say tensions in the Baltic region are now at their highest since 2014.”
I thought about Wolf’s exhausted face, Klaus’s watchful eyes, the way even the Crows had seemed nervous lately. The deaths from Lucent weren’t random overdoses. They were field tests. And if Russia was bold enough to cross into Estonian waters…
“Chérie?” Élodie’s voice carried from the bathroom, light and unconcerned. “Coffee?”
“Please,” I called back, not taking my eyes from the screen.
A British analyst appeared in the BBC side panel: ‘If this was intentional, it’s a message… not just to Estonia but to the entire security architecture of Europe.’
An uneasy pressure built behind my ribs, inexplicable and unwelcome.
Lana shifted restlessly within me, sensing my tension but not understanding its source. She wanted to focus on Élodie, on the warmth we’d found here, on the temporary escape from Berlin’s darkness.
But I couldn’t ignore what was right in front of us. The pieces were moving. The game was escalating.
And we were sitting in an art gallery, pretending we could hide from war.
~oO🐺Oo~
The phone buzzed from the nightstand, that familiar vibration cutting through the morning news. Lana’s body moved before my mind caught up, padding barefoot across the cool hardwood to retrieve it.
+49 30 91… —I’ll be there.
The same message. Always the same message.
Lana stared at the screen, her thumb hovering over the delete button. But before she could press it, the phone vibrated again. Once. Twice. Three times in rapid succession.
Images loading.
“Merde,” Élodie’s voice drifted from the kitchen, casual and unaware. The sound of coffee grinding filled the air.
The first image appeared on the screen. Lana’s breath stopped.
It was me— us, at The Foundry. Clearing tables, apron tied around my waist, the Crows blurred in the background. The angle was wrong for security footage: too intimate, too deliberate. Someone had been watching. Close enough to capture the furrow of concentration on my face as I wiped down sticky surfaces.
The second image loaded, and my heart stopped.
Last night. Here. In this very studio. Lana kneeling naked on the ceramic table, Élodie’s hands wrapped around me from behind, her lips pressed against my neck in that moment of perfect vulnerability. The camera had been positioned somewhere in the shadows, documenting our most private intimacy with clinical precision.
How?
The third image made everything inside me go cold.
A birthday party. Familiar faces, warm lighting, a chocolate cake with candles flickering in a dimly lit room. Sarah stood beside Martin, both of them laughing at something off-camera. And there, in the center, arm draped around Sarah’s shoulders, was me.
The original Alan. The man I used to be.
I recognized the tie: the distinct pattern Sarah had bought me for my fortieth birthday. I remembered the taste of that sparkling wine. I remembered the way Martin had clapped me on the back that night, joking about my “midlife crisis” years before it actually destroyed me.
Five years ago.
Lana’s hands began to shake, the phone trembling in our grip. The room felt like it was tilting, reality falling away from under us.
By sending this, they weren’t just showing me they were watching Lana. They were telling me they knew exactly who was inside her skin.
“Chérie, do you want milk in your…”
Élodie appeared in the doorway, coffee cup in hand, and stopped. Her eyes found the phone, the images, our face.
For just a moment, something flickered across her expression.
“Who is that?” she asked, voice soft, almost puzzled. “You look… startled.”
The phone buzzed again.
+49 30 91… —I’ll be there.
