I wait until their footsteps fade in the hallway. Only then do I allow myself to exhale. The world sways and freezes. Just me. And him. And the faint sound of water dripping somewhere. My heart pounds. And my hands shake like a child's. I grab the phone, clutching it tightly with both palms, afraid I might drop it. The screen trembles with me. The letters blur, but I know this number. The only one I can call.
I wipe my face with the back of my hand. Take a deep breath. My hands are still shaking, but I press call. A ring. Then another.
"Yeah?"
"Grandpa Vi..." My voice cracks.
"Hey. Katrinka." His voice is cheerful. Like everything is fine. Like there isn't hell outside the windows.
"Vi, listen to me carefully!" I rasp, forcing myself to speak louder, even though every word sends a jolt of pain through me. My throat is raw from screaming, my breathing ragged—I can barely hear myself. "I'll send you the address. Come. Bring someone who knows how to keep quiet... and who's strong."
"Katrin, what the—"
"Don't ask!" I snap, feeling my voice about to break. "Just come. I can't do this alone. I need your help. Please."
A pause. He understands. And he—the one who would never betray me.
"Send the address. I'll be there soon."
"Thank you..." I whisper, nearly soundless, and hang up.
My hands tremble as I open the map. Find the location. Send it. My heart hammers. I slump back next to Max, pressing against his shoulder as if I can transfer some warmth to him, some strength.
"He's coming soon... Can you hear me? Just hold on, please..." I murmur to him, though I know there's no answer. "You're so strong... My good boy... You've endured so much... Forgive me. For everything."
He doesn't respond. Only his chest—slowly, faintly—rises and falls. I stare at that movement, mesmerized, my gaze locked onto it as if I'll lose him the second I look away. That rhythm—so fragile, so uncertain—becomes my entire universe. The only proof he is still here. Still alive. Still with me.
His heart is beating. Not because it's easy. Not because he is fighting. Just... because it can't stop. And I listen. As if it is music. The only melody the world has left me. A quiet thud. A quiet I'm here.
I don't know how much time passes. A minute. Maybe an hour. The space around me turns syrupy, thick. The air stands still. Light drains from the room, leaving everything gray. Faceless. Timeless. Only him. Only that dull rhythm of life hiding beneath his skin. And me. Too exhausted to cry. Too terrified to look away. Too broken to hope—yet hoping anyway.
Then—touch. Sudden. Real. So alive that at first, I flinch as if struck. Someone's hand—firm but careful—grasps my shoulder. I turn, my heart leaping into my throat.
Vi stands before me.
Tall, unnaturally straight, as if will alone keeps him upright. His face is grim. Not just dark—storm-dark, like the sky before thunder. There isn't a trace of warmth in him, none of the careless, easygoing Vi I know. But his eyes... Oh, his eyes are different. Soft. So deep, so out of place here, in all this pain. As if he sees through us—understands everything. He sees us. Sees what state we are in. Me—exhausted, hollow-eyed. Max—pale, motionless, but still breathing. And on Vi's face, not a hint remains of that cocky half-smile he used to hide behind. No lightness. Only resolve—so sharp it sends a shiver down my spine. And something else... A grief. Not just sadness—no. Real, bottomless grief. The kind that doesn't form in a day. The kind that grows inside you, slow and relentless, until it swallows everything alive.
And yet, here, now... he isn't a friend, an ally, or an acquaintance. He is the only one left who can do something.
I look up at him—pleading. Empty. Clinging to hope I have no right to feel.
"Katrin... what the hell happened here?" He exhales.
I stare up at him from the floor, covered in dust and blood—Max's, not mine. Words stick in my throat.
"You... you're just in time..." I whisper. "He's alive. For now."
"What happened, Katrin?" Vi's voice cuts through the air like glass. He stares at me, desperate, frantic, trying to grasp the scale of the disaster I've dragged him into.
I lift my head—slowly, my neck trembling.
"What's wrong with Max?"
I swallow, forcing down the lump in my throat. The words come out jagged, each one tearing at me from the inside.
"Help us... He needs a hospital. But he needs real help... and no one from the authorities can know. If they find out—they'll kill him."
Vi is silent for a moment, then narrows his eyes—and nods. He doesn't ask questions. He understands.
"Alright. Move aside. Me and Mikha will carry him to the car. Then you."
I see a figure emerge from the shadows—slow, almost dissolving into the darkness. Tall, broad-shouldered, but not bulky—no, there is something predatory in his stance, coiled and waiting, like a wolf poised to strike. For a second, I think the night itself recoils from him, as if recognizing a force not to be challenged.
He doesn't speak. His footsteps are heavy, each one echoing dully in my skull like the aftershock of pain. He steps closer, and through the dim light, I see his face.
Mikha.
Vi moves beside him. No words. No hesitation. They move in sync—an old, practiced dance where each knows their part. Together, with something like reverence, as if lifting not a body but a soul, they lift Max. Their grip is strong, but their movements—gentle. Almost tender. I watch as they raise him, and in that moment, he doesn't seem human. Just a shattered statue. Fragile. Broken. As if even the air hurts him.
And as they carry him away—slowly, as if afraid to disturb his sleep—something inside me snaps. Not quietly, not sharply, but like a delicate, vital thread has fractured—a crystal filament stretched taut by years of hope, waiting, and love. I cry again. But these tears are different. They don't burst out in hysteria, don't choke me—they just flow. Slowly. Bitterly. Too grown to sob, too exhausted to rage. These are tears of emptiness. Tears of helplessness. Tears of love that can no longer change a damn thing.
Minutes pass—or maybe an eternity. Vi returns. Silent. His face is stone, but his eyes—his eyes are alive. He walks up to me without a word, and suddenly, unexpectedly, I allow myself a weakness—I let him be strong. He lifts me like a child, carefully, gently, as if I might shatter at his touch. His jacket is cold on the outside, but beneath it, a living heart beats, and I press my face into that sturdy, ordinary fabric, breathing in the familiar scent of tobacco, gasoline, and something else—something that has always meant him. The smell of home. Of the past. Of safety.
The drive is long. The car tears through the night, and the world outside the windows blurs into a dream—streets, streetlights, fleeting silhouettes. The light catches fragments of my face, as if trying to remind me who I am, but I can't remember. I hold Max's hand—cold, lifeless—and squeeze it with all my strength, as if letting go will make him vanish. Like a shadow. A mirage.
When we arrive, everything is ready. Too ready, as if someone knew this would happen. People in white appear out of nowhere—swift, precise, soundless. I watch Max's body disappear behind doors, and my heart clenches like a fist. A small, helpless fist of a child who has lost everything.
Vi again. His hands lift me once more, and suddenly, I can't feel my own weight. I am smoke. A dream. Nothing. He carries me as if I am a fragile glass vase that might shatter at the slightest jolt. And again—not a single word. Just that look. Steady. Intent. Tender. Silent.
The doctor meets us in silence. Calm—too calm, like a man who faces pain daily and has learned not to feel. He asks questions. Necessary ones. Brief. Without curiosity. And I answer, barely above a whisper, as if my words might hurt someone else. I can't speak much. I am afraid if I say too much, I will break down again—and this time, I won't stop.
When it is over, Vi gathers me up once more. This time, I simply close my eyes and let myself be weak. He carries me to a room—small, clean, smelling of bleach and waiting. Two beds. One already made for me—neat, with crisp white sheets that smell sterile and almost childish. Safe. Forgotten.
He lowers me onto it, slow, careful, and tucks the blanket around me as if I am his little girl again—frightened and tired. I feel the fabric against my skin—light, cool. He doesn't leave right away. Just sits beside me. Sat there. Wordless. And I stare at the ceiling, something inside me warming just from his presence.
Only one plea circles in my mind:
Let him live. Please. Let him live.
"They'll bring Max here later, so don't worry."
"Thank you..." I whisper, barely holding back another wave of tears. My voice trembles like glass about to crack at the slightest touch.
"Will you tell me what happened? Why he's like this?"
I look away. My lips quiver. I swallow.
"Because of me. It's all my fault."
He turns sharply, his voice rougher but not angrier—pain hiding behind sternness.
"Don't bullshit me, Katrin. You couldn't have done this to him even if you tried. Who did it?"
I stay silent. Stare at my hands, at my nails, broken from clawing at the ground to keep from screaming. Words stick in my throat like rusted nails. I can't swallow them, can't spit them out. I can't drag Vi into this. One victim is enough. One life hanging by a thread.
He stands and paces the room. His steps are agitated, fists clenched.
"Katrin, what the hell have you gotten into, huh?" He is angry. But that anger—it is fear. For me. For Max. "And more importantly, what have you dragged that good boy into? The one in intensive care right now?!"
I still don't speak. Just grip the sheets tighter. The white fabric wrinkles under my fingers as if sharing my dread. A man would go settle this. No hesitation. He's always been like that—never tolerated his own being hurt. But I can't let anyone else get crushed under the wheels of my past.
Finally, I look up. Tears and terror in my eyes.
"I... can't, Vi. Please. Just... stay. Don't ask me now."
He stops. His shoulders slump. For a long moment, he just looks at me—then nods.
"Fine. Fine, Katrinka. But I'll find out anyway. Without you. Without your words. And if those bastards lay a finger on either of you again—I won't let them see dawn."
He steps closer and sits beside me. Just takes my hand. And we sit like that—in silence thick with a thousand unspoken words.