City hospital.

  A man wakes to the sound of movement in the ward. He turns his head and sees Nurse Two. She notices his eyes open.

  – Good morning. Eat while it’s warm. You’ll be discharged soon. Maybe even today.

  The door opens again. Nurse One – Katya – steps inside, catches his gaze, looks away and moves closer to her colleague.

  – Galya, why didn’t you tell me you were coming to him?

  – Tell you what? I brought his breakfast.

  – Look at him. His body, his eyes… I think I’m in love.

  – You fall in love every week.

  – No. This is different.

  Galya glances at the patient.

  – He looks like a stripper. Too perfect. Stop talking. He can hear us.

  The man, still seated in bed, gives a slow nod without looking at them. Katya flushes and leaves the room. Galya exhales.

  – Forgive her. She means no harm.

  – It’s fine. I’m used to attention. People usually judge the surface. In my line of work, that helps.

  She studies him briefly.

  – And what line of work would that be?

  He smiles faintly.

  – Official business. That’s all I can say.

  – Eat before it gets cold.

  She leaves. The door closes. The room falls silent.

  He reaches for the remote and turns on the television mounted opposite the bed. News. He eats mechanically. Then the headline changes.

  Breaking report. Attack on a military facility.

  He stops chewing. Sets the bowl aside. Takes his phone. Calls one number. No answer. Another. No answer. Another. Nothing. After a pause, he dials a different contact.

  – This is Third. I’ve seen the news. What happened to the base? No one is responding.

  – The unit is eliminated. You are the only survivor. Effective immediately, the unit is dissolved. All documentation has been erased. You’re free.

  The line goes dead.

  He remains seated, phone still at his ear. No anger. No sound. Only emptiness. Desert landings. Shared meals. Beer after operations. Narrow escapes. Laughter.

  His jaw tightens. The phone cracks in his grip. Plastic splits. Blood runs across his palm.

  He stands. The hospital gown drops to the floor. His body is covered in ink, stopping short of face, neck and hands. On the left side of his chest, inside a shield, the number 3. A large bandage covers the mark on his neck where Vann’s dart once struck. He wipes the blood with the gown, dresses in a green shirt, jeans, military boots, pulls on a hoodie and leaves the ward.

  By evening he sits in a tattoo studio. The artist draws a red line through the number 3 and inks a 1 over it.

  – Meaning?

  – Survivor.

  The needle continues its steady hum.

  By then, it’s everywhere.

  In a hostel room across the city, Drogo sits on the edge of a narrow bed, tablet in his hands. The headline reads: Terrorist attack or special operation? Beneath it – a photograph of burning hangars and bodies being loaded into vehicles. One of the faces is familiar. Cerberus.

  He opens the article, scrolls quickly, reaches the embedded video and presses play. A reporter speaks about casualties, the attack, possible suspects. Descriptions without clarity. No confirmed identities. Behind her – flashing lights, smoke, and a restless crowd of onlookers.

  His eyes narrow.

  – Back. Rewind. I saw something.

  Drogo drags the timeline backward. Stops. Enlarges the frame. Watches again. In the blur of the crowd he finds two figures standing apart from the chaos.

  Gobby.

  German.

  His breath slows.

  – That’s impossible… How?

  A slow smile spreads across his face.

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  – So you’re alive. That explains everything. The ability didn’t pass to me because you never died.

  The presence within him stirs.

  – Shall we go there?

  He considers it. His fingers tighten around the tablet.

  – I want to. But no. There’s chaos in the Ruler’s domain. That is where I move first. Gobby is not simple. I’ll solve that puzzle after I pay a visit to the Ruler.

  The last words are almost a whisper.

  Something in his expression hardens. The calculation remains. The mask slips. The predator replaces the strategist.

  He tosses the tablet onto the bed, stands, pulls a leather jacket from the hanger and walks out. Outside, a sports car waits. He gets in and drives off without looking back.

  In another house, the same report plays.

  In the professor’s living room, German, Ulrich and the professor’s wife sit before the television. Footage of smoke, sirens, and covered bodies fills the screen.

  – How is this possible? In this day and age…

  Ulrich watches with restrained satisfaction. German sits forward, notebook open, writing without pause.

  – German, what are you writing?

  – The sequence of events.

  – Why?

  – To reduce risk next time.

  He stops the moment the words leave his mouth. His gaze shifts, recalculates.

  – To reduce the risk of ending up in something like this. It’s… disturbing.

  She nods, accepting the answer.

  In the kitchen, Gobby sits at the table, eating without appetite yet in large quantities. The professor stands opposite him, watching.

  – Gobby, how are you?

  – Fine. We did well. I think.

  The professor watches him.

  – When you finish eating, can we talk in my office?

  – Yes. I guess.

  A few minutes later they sit across from each other in the professor’s office.

  – I’ll be honest with you, the professor says. In the past month your life has changed completely. How do you feel inside those changes?

  Gobby shrugs.

  – I don’t know. Normal, I guess. I’m doing the right things. Aren’t I?

  – If we measure your life against social norms, nothing about it would be considered right.

  Gobby looks at the floor.

  – That’s what I don’t understand. In anime, I’d be the hero. Fighting something bad. At least that’s what I was told. Two months ago I was just a fat kid who liked junk food. Now… I don’t know what I feel.

  – You don’t yet know what future you want.

  – The only thing I know for sure is that I don’t want to be separated from Deda again.

  The professor nods once.

  – Can I speak with him?

  Gobby agrees.

  They begin the process of entering trance – this time without medication.

  Darkness.

  The professor stands before Deda’s throne in the dim, root-woven expanse.

  – Are you here?

  – I was always here. Now I am here with him.

  – You’ve been with him through everything. What are these changes?

  Deda’s voice is steady.

  – I am not the specialist you are. But I see a problem. Perhaps you can solve it. Do you remember the first day after hypnosis? The note on the table – “Sorry, Gobby, but for two weeks you are my target.”

  The professor nods.

  – From that moment it began. German sharpened his Logic. He created disadvantage. Distraction. Slips. Delays. Situations where he could close distance and strike. Even the pizza delivery. The sedative. He tested him every day.

  – I remember.

  – In those days Gobby felt something new – adrenaline and thrill. Every night we calculated how to survive if the game became real. If instead of a kubotan there was a real blade. I cannot tell you how much he slept in those two weeks. We searched for a solution.

  Deda pauses.

  – We found one. You cannot outthink German. He is simply more precise. So we stopped trying to predict him. We altered the target instead.

  – Gobby trained transformation. Speed. Localised response. If a strike came, the vulnerable area changed in a second. Tissue hardened. Structure adapted. During German’s attacks, the point of impact became untouchable.

  – Those weeks were filled with sensation. Adrenaline. Anticipation. The pleasure of surviving.

  – Real combat is different. There is no pleasure there. Only emptiness. Destruction is always empty. The adrenaline remains, but the joy is gone. Now he feels hunger. Hunger for the emotions that will not return. This is not anime. Victory does not fill you. Each one deepens the void.

  – He will not be the same as he was two months ago. That is not inherently bad. Emptiness does not stay empty. You are here. I am here. German is here.

  A pause.

  – Let me show you something.

  – Yes.

  Deda rises from the throne and turns his back. The wood is black and smooth, like timber deliberately charred and then sealed.

  – What happened?

  – You know that I am his instinct. When something happens to him, it echoes in me. Before, when he received wounds that left marks on his consciousness, branches broke. Roots died. Stumps remained. If something good followed, new growth appeared. That was our understanding of life.

  He runs a hand across the dark surface.

  – Now the branches do not break. They fall away cleanly. No scars. No stumps. I do not yet understand what that means. Only that we are changing.

  – Do not worry. The warm memories remain deeper. No one reaches that part.

  The trance begins to break.

  In the office chair, Gobby opens his eyes. He is returning.