The rain falls in fine needles over the city, drumming against rusted rooftops and cracked sidewalks. The flickering streetlights cast long, distorted shadows on the ground. In front of an old house with a dark façade, Dave stops. He takes a deep breath, adjusts the collar of his jacket, and knocks on the door—three times.
A faint creak from within. Then, silence. Dave steps back and knocks again.
"Heinz! Open up, damn it!"
The door creaks open, and Heinz appears in the doorway. He's wearing a wrinkled black shirt, the top buttons undone, his dark hair hanging in unruly strands over his forehead. His green eyes scan Dave with that same unsettling calm as always.
"Dave," he greets, leaning against the doorframe. "It's not like you to come looking for me."
"Nor is it like me to go asking for you all over the damn city," Dave replies, soaked from head to toe. He runs a hand through his wet hair. "Believe me, it was hell."
"People weren't very… cooperative?"
Dave steps inside, glancing around.
"Cooperative? No. They wanted me to pay debts they claim I owe."
Heinz tilts his head slightly, amused.
"I figured. What did you tell them?"
"To charge it to my dear brother," he mutters sarcastically.
A fleeting smile crosses Heinz's face, but his gaze sharpens when he notices the tension in Dave's shoulders.
Dave lowers his head and exhales through his nose. Shit. How do you say this without sounding like an idiot? He lifts his eyes.
"You know why I'm here. I need your help," he blurts.
Heinz blinks.
Dave clenches his jaw.
"I've been an idiot, alright? But you… you're the only one who can help me."
Heinz studies him for a few seconds. The rain keeps falling, soaking them both, but neither moves. Finally, Heinz steps back and opens the door wider.
"Come in."
Dave crosses the threshold. The faint warmth inside wraps around him, but the chill in his chest remains.
The air inside Heinz's house smells of old books, extinguished incense, and a metallic tang—like the rain left its trace even here. The living room is a mix of controlled chaos: crooked shelves overflowing with dusty tomes, papers scattered on the coffee table, and a chalkboard on the wall scribbled with incomplete equations and diagrams of interconnected circles.
Dave shakes out his wet hair, drops splattering on the wooden floor.
"You're just the same as ever," he mutters, glancing around. "Chaos and poetry."
Heinz gives a faint smile.
"At least I'm consistent." He gestures toward a door to the left. "Check the closet in that room. You should put on something dry before you catch an interdimensional pneumonia."
Dave snorts and heads for the door. Inside, the narrow room is dimly lit by a desk lamp. The old wooden wardrobe groans as he opens it. Inside: black shirts, worn pants, and a couple of leather jackets. He picks a shirt that fits a bit too tight and a dry pair of pants.
As he changes, Heinz's voice carries from the living room.
"I've been researching possible dimensional gates. It's not simple. The rift you fell through wasn't a random accident, Dave."
Now dressed, Dave returns to the living room, drying his hair with a towel he found draped over a chair.
"Not an accident? Then what was it?"
Heinz lifts a notebook from the desk and opens it to a page full of complex diagrams.
"It was a forced opening. Someone—or something—manipulated the dimensional fabric to bring you here."
Dave frowns, leaning over to examine the notes.
"Any idea who did it?"
Heinz sighs and slowly shakes his head.
"Not yet. But I know it's not over. If they managed to open a rift once, they can do it again."
The air thickens. Rain drums against the windows, and the ticking of an old wall clock marks each second of uncertainty.
Dave clenches his fists.
"So, we need to find that door before they use it again?"
"Yes," Heinz replies, his gaze darkening.
He closes the notebook with a soft, decisive thud. Running a hand through his hair, further mussing it, he turns to Dave, who's still frowning at the diagrams.
"Get comfortable," he says, pointing to the battered sofa by the window. "This will take a while. I need to check some books."
Dave eyes the couch. The leather is cracked, and one leg looks crooked. Still, he flops down with a grunt, stretching out and resting his arms along the back.
"How long is 'a while'?" he asks, glancing at Heinz, who's already rummaging through a shelf full of leather-bound volumes.
"Hours. Days, maybe. Time is relative when you're digging through texts written by drunk philosophers," Heinz replies, pulling out a thick tome and opening it with care.
Dave huffs and folds his arms behind his head.
"Perfect. I love waiting around doing nothing."
Heinz ignores the sarcasm and settles into a chair by the desk. He tilts the book and starts reading aloud in a low murmur, barely moving his lips.
Time blurs. The rain continues its monotonous dance against the windows as pages rustle each time Heinz turns one. Every so often, he jots something down in a notebook with sharp, precise gestures.
Dave shifts constantly. He sits up, reclines, stretches. He fiddles with a loose buckle on his belt, drums his fingers on the armrest, and finally stands.
"Find anything?" he asks, approaching the desk.
Heinz doesn't look up.
"No."
"You sure you're searching properly?"
"Dave," Heinz says, finally glancing up, "if you get any more impatient, I'll hand you a shovel and send you to dig in the yard."
"You have a yard?"
"No. But the image works, doesn't it?" Heinz dives back into the book.
Dave snorts and collapses back onto the couch. He lies on his back, staring at the ceiling.
"This is going to kill me before any demon or portal does."
Heinz smirks faintly, eyes still on the text.
"You'll get used to it."