I was hungry.
Not just a little.
My stomach felt like it was trying to fold in on itself, a dull ache turning sharper with every breath.
My hands were a little shaky, my head slightly light, and there was a faint emptiness under my ribs.
It felt like I hadn't eaten all day maybe longer but I remembered skipping only one meal.
I got up and walked to the kitchen, pulled forward more by the hunger than by any clear thought.
Halfway there, something strange happened.
I saw myself.
Another "me" was already standing in front of the fridge, one hand on the door, the other reaching inside.
Through his eyes, I could see what was inside, even though I hadn't reached the fridge yet.
For a second, I thought I was just dizzy from hunger.
Then more of me appeared.
Dozens of versions of myself, then hundreds, all moving around the same fridge.
Each one reached for different ingredients, tried different combinations, cooked in different ways.
Some were boiling, some were frying, some were discarding things without hesitation.
All of it happened at once, like overlapping frames of the same scene.
It was strange, but the hunger was louder than the confusion.
Before I could really process what I was seeing, everything snapped back to normal.
There was only one of me again.
I was standing in front of the fridge, hand on the handle.
When I opened it, the ingredients inside matched what I had just "seen."
I didn't know how or why.
Right now, it didn't matter. I just needed to eat.
I grabbed what I needed and started cooking.
My hands moved smoothly, as if they already knew the sequence.
I sliced, chopped, stirred the knife didn't slip once, and nothing burned.
I couldn't remember ever being this good in a kitchen.
A part of me wanted to stop and question it, but the stronger part of me the hungry part didn't care.
It took around fifteen minutes to finish cooking.
I didn't bother with a plate; I leaned over the pot and started eating straight from it.
I am eating fast.
Too fast, probably, but slowing down feels impossible.
By the time I reach the halfway point, I realize something is off.
This much food should be enough for six people.
I've already eaten enough for three, but the hunger is still there.
It's not fading away; it's just being pushed back a little.
I keep going until there's nothing left in the pot.
It takes about five minutes in total.
My stomach feels heavy now, as if it's full, but I still don't feel full.
It's a strange mismatch my body says "enough," but something deeper keeps asking for more.
Trying to distract myself, I grab my phone and check the time.
It's a little past 4 PM.
"I really did sleep a lot…" I mutter to myself.
At first, I think I only slept longer than usual.
Then my eyes move to the date.
22nd.
I frown.
The last time I remember going to bed, it was the 10th.
I'm sure of it.
I go over it again in my headwork, the last messages, the last evening I remember.
If the date is right, I've been asleep for almost twelve days.
That shouldn't be possible.
After twelve days, I should be weak, dehydrated, in pain.
My muscles should ache from staying still for so long, maybe even start wasting away.
My joints should hurt, my head should pound, my throat should be dry and burning.
But none of that is there.
I feel a bit heavy from the food, a little slow, but nothing like someone who just woke up from nearly two weeks of sleep.
The only thing that truly stands out is the hunger that refuses to disappear completely.
I put the phone down and take a breath.
There are barely any ingredients left in the fridge now.
"If this keeps up, I'll need more food," I say quietly.
It's not a joke. It's just a fact.
I take my wallet and leave the apartment.
The moment I step outside, something feels…sharper.
People pass by me on the sidewalk.
When I look at them, information rises automatically in my mind.
Height. Rough weight. Age range.
Nothing detailed, nothing written down just quick estimates that feel as natural as breathing.
I don't know how I'm doing it, and right now I don't have the energy to care.
I just keep walking.
Without checking a map, my feet carry me through a few turns and streets.
Eventually, I find myself standing in front of the nearest supermarket.
It doesn't feel surprising. It feels…expected.
I go inside.
For a brief second, the world seems to split again.
There are many versions of me moving down different aisles.
Some of them pick up things, some of them put them back, some of them ignore entire sections.
It all happens at once, layered on top of my own vision.
My head doesn't hurt, but the sensation is…dense.
Then it's gone.
There's only me again, standing with a basket in my hand.
My body still feels the echo of hunger, and that's what I focus on.
I move through the aisles, taking exactly what I "know" I will need.
At one shelf, I reach out for a specific product and my hand finds nothing but empty space.
The row is empty.
I clearly remember seeing that product here the last time I came to this supermarket.
Yet now it's gone.
"So I can be wrong," I say under my breath.
My "ability," whatever it is, only works with what I already know.
That feels important, but the hunger pushes the thought aside.
I pick up the rest of the items and go to the checkout.
That's when I notice him.
A man is standing in front of the cashier, shoulders tense.
About 174 centimeters tall, maybe around 72 kilos.
Black hair, dark brown eyes, a black mask over his face.
He's holding a knife and shouting, demanding money.
The scene should be frightening.
But I don't feel fear.
I just feel slightly bothered, like someone making too much noise in a quiet room.
When he turns toward me and points the knife in my direction, something shifts.
Time doesn't stop, but it stretches.
His movements slow down in my perception, as if I'm seeing every small adjustment he makes.
I don't think about what to do.
My body steps forward on its own.
I drive my right fist into his stomach.
The impact is solid, controlled.
Time snaps back to normal speed.
He stumbles backward, drops the knife, and falls to his knees, struggling to breathe.
People around us start screaming and panicking.
I just stand there, breathing evenly, watching him.
It feels like I used only a small fraction of my strength.
Soon, sirens wail in the distance, getting closer.
The police arrive and start taking control of the situation.
About fifteen minutes later, I'm sitting in an interrogation room.
A police officer comes in and takes a seat across from me.
"What's your name?" he asks.
"My name is August," I reply.
He notes it down. "Your surname?"
"Blackwell."
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-one."
"What were you doing at the supermarket?"
"I was doing my shopping."
He writes something down, then looks up at me.
"Have you ever had any combat training?" he asks.
"Boxing, martial arts, military service?"
It's a reasonable question.
I say, "No. I've never trained in anything like that."
As the word never leaves my mouth, I look at him more closely.
Height, weight, hair, eyes—those are the easy parts.
They fall into place first.
Around 173 centimeters, about 90–95 kilos.
Black hair, brown eyes, a tired but steady gaze.
Then the smaller details start arranging themselves.
His hairline has begun to recede a little at the temples.
Fine lines sit at the corners of his eyes—the kind that don't appear before thirty.
Not old enough for fifty, too worn for late twenties.
Thirty-five to forty-two.
My mind settles on thirty-eight without asking me.
On his shoulder, three bars, no star.
Sergeant. Not a rookie, not a commander.
More than ten years in the force, maybe closer to fifteen.
His badge hangs slightly crooked, like he clips it on in a hurry more often than he fixes it.
There's a plain wedding band on his ring finger, the skin around it slightly paler and compressed.
He doesn't take it off often.
Married, not newly—the metal is scratched in thin, layered lines from years of use.
His uniform is clean but a little worn at the elbows and collar.
Not someone who just joined.
There's a faint stain near his cuff, a pale mark that wasn't washed out completely.
Not coffee, not ink thicker, cloudy, like baby food or formula.
Interrupted sleep, small child at home.
His eyes have that particular tiredness functional, not collapsing, but never quite rested.
When he shifts in his chair, his belt creaks slightly a sound that comes from long-term, daily wear.
Middle income, regular routine, more responsibility than free time.
All of this forms in my mind in less than two seconds.
I don't list it out; I don't calculate it step by step.
It arrives whole, like a finished picture.
Under the table, my stomach twists again, quietly reminding me that it still isn't satisfied.
The hunger hums in the background.
The sergeant waits for my answer, pen ready to write.
I simply repeat, "No. I've never trained."
He finishes writing and closes the file in front of him.
"All right," he says. "The security footage and witness statements match what you told us.
You acted in self-defense and helped stop a robbery. No charges will be filed against you for now."
"You're free to go. But don't leave town without informing us."
I nod once.
He stands up, gathers some of the papers, then knocks on the door.
An officer outside opens it and gestures for me to follow.
We walk through a few short corridors that all smell faintly of old paper, sweat, and disinfectant.
No one stops us. No one asks anything.
At the end of the hallway, there's a door leading outside.
The officer pushes it open.
Cool air hits my face as I step out of the station.
For a moment, I just stand there.
The city is the same.
Same streets, same buildings, the same gray sky hanging low overhead.
But everything feels different.
People are moving along the sidewalk talking, laughing, checking their phones, carrying bags.
A week ago, they all would have looked…normal.
Now they look like moving patterns.
Each step has a rhythm.
Each glance has a direction, a target, a reason.
I can tell who is in a hurry and who is pretending to be.
Who is walking home, who is killing time before going somewhere they don't want to be.
Who is checking prices in the shop windows out of habit and who actually needs to.
Crossing lights change from red to green.
Before they do, I already know who will run anyway and who will wait even when it's safe.
Cars pass by on the road.
I can roughly estimate their speed, the distance between them, the time it would take each one to reach the next intersection.
I don't try to.
The numbers just appear, like reflections on water.
Adverts flash on digital billboards colors, words, faces.
My eyes only fall on them for a moment, but it's enough.
I can tell which ones are new, which campaigns have been running for days, which ones are already being ignored by most people.
Twelve days isn't a long time.
The world hasn't really changed.
But my view of it has.
Under my ribs, the hunger twists again quieter than before, but still there, like a knot that refuses to untie itself.
I realize something simple:
I am not just hungry for food.
My eyes move from face to face, from building to building, from sign to sign.
Everywhere I look, there is more information than before.
Or maybe it was always there, and I'm only seeing it now.
People walk past me, and I can sense where they're going home, work, school, nowhere in particular.
Groups form and split apart with a strange, predictable logic.
Traffic moves like blood through veins.
Voices blend into one another, but I can still pick out fragments:
A complaint about rent.
A phone call about a late delivery.
Someone laughing too loudly at something that isn't very funny.
In the middle of all this, I am standing still.
The world looks faster, but I feel slower.
Or maybe it's the other way around.
A kid runs past me, holding a snack, almost dropping it as he dodges around an adult.
I can see exactly where he'll put his foot down, where he'll stumble, how close he'll come to the curb.
He doesn't fall.
I knew he wouldn't.
I start walking, letting the flow of the crowd carry me along the street.
The city hasn't changed.
But I can't see it the way I used to anymore.
And I have the feeling this is only the beginning.