The day at Bethlem Royal Hospital stretched on, as always, monotonously. For most patients, it was a faceless succession of procedures, shouts, and muffled moans. But for Victor Moss, whose world revolved around stacks of books, this day was just another window into the boundless expanse of knowledge. He spent it in the library, devouring text after text, like an insatiable fire consuming dry paper. Medical encyclopedias, philosophical treatises, ancient myths—everything was fair game, enriching his already phenomenal intellect.
As dusk began to settle, painting Bethlem's grimy windows in dreary gray tones, Victor left the library. The air in the corridors was heavy, permeated with the scent of disinfectant and something else—something vaguely acidic that seemed to seep under the skin. From behind one of the doors came a muffled groan, then a piercing shriek that made even Victor, accustomed to the chaos, flinch slightly. He walked his familiar route, weaving between the sparse figures of staff and the wandering shadows of patients, when from around a corner came a hoarse whisper:
"Victor! Hey, Victor!"
The boy, whose movements were silent as a shadow, stopped. He smiled—that same detached, yet surprisingly sincere smile that always bewildered the staff. The source of the call was Frank, a fifty-year-old man whose constantly darting eyes burned with the mad fire of paranoia. Frank suffered from delusions of persecution, and in his world, aliens hid around every corner, and a conspiracy lurked behind every rustle. For Victor, Frank was not just a patient, but a kind of experiment, a living toy for his sharp mind, which constantly sought ways to entertain itself in this dreary realm.
"What is it, Frank?" Victor asked, his voice soft, but with a barely perceptible hint of condescension.
Frank moved closer, his gaze full of conspiratorial tension. "Did you see our new guard, huh, Victor? They put him on the night shift. Big guy, with a grim face. I'm telling you, he's not just here for nothing! They sent him! Undercover! To spy on us!" His voice dropped to a whisper, full of hysterical conviction, and "they," of course, meant the aliens.
Victor listened intently, with the serious expression he had mastered. Two years ago, bored by the monotony of hospital days, he decided to amuse himself. He told Frank he was a secret agent for a clandestine organization fighting UFOs. Since then, Frank had become his unwitting assistant, carrying out the most absurd assignments disguised as spy missions.
"You're right, Frank," Victor calmly replied. "I felt something was off. Tonight, I'll contact headquarters. I'll find out everything about him. And we'll figure out how he's connected to their plans."
Frank's eyes widened with excitement. "See! I told you! You're the best, Victor! We'll show them!" He already imagined himself a hero of an intergalactic war, standing shoulder to shoulder with the young agent.
Victor merely nodded, allowing Frank to wander off, muttering new conspiracy theories under his breath. He watched him until he disappeared around the corridor bend. A faint smile played on Victor's lips—another successfully completed "operation" that saved him the effort of retrieving a long-forgotten piece of bread or a stolen book. He often used Frank to get things he was too lazy to get himself, explaining that "aliens might uncover the communication route" if he was too active. The ease with which he manipulated an adult was further proof to him of how predictable and easily controlled the world was, if one only knew its rules.
Finally, Victor reached his room. It was as empty and dreary as the other general access wards: a bed, a bedside table bolted to the floor, a chair, and a small barred window. Closing the heavy, iron door behind him, he sighed and muttered, "Another boring day gone."
And then, he was answered by his own voice, full of irritation and hidden power:
"I've been telling you for a long time—let's escape from here."
The voice came from his exact copy, who was sprawled languidly on the bed, hands crossed behind his head. This was Victor Number 2, his most cherished secret, his reflection, his unresolved contradiction. He was absolutely identical to him: the same black hair, the same sky-blue eyes, the same refined beauty of face. But in his eyes, there always burned a fire that was absent in the calm, calculating Victor.
Yes, Victor had some issues in his head. It couldn't be otherwise. When he was brought to Bethlem five years ago, after the horror that occurred in his adoptive parents' house, he was deemed extremely dangerous to others. The first few years he spent in solitary confinement, under constant supervision, being fed various medications designed to suppress his consciousness, to silence his "hallucinations" and "delusions." Such treatment would drive anyone insane.
To escape isolation, Victor began to play by their rules. He hid the truth, feigned "improvement," pretended the medications helped. But while he deceived the doctors, his mind, scarred by trauma and rebirth, created something else to survive, to avoid going insane in this isolation. Thus, three years ago, Victor Number 2 appeared – his imaginary friend, his alter ego, his projection into reality.
Victor Number 2 stretched lazily. "With our power, we can get out of here without a problem. Why are we enduring this boredom?"
Victor sighed heavily, his gaze falling on a stack of books on the bedside table. With a quiet, almost imperceptible effort of will, the books slowly, as if by magic, rose into the air. They began to circle silently around the room, sometimes waltzing slowly, sometimes accelerating their dance, obeying invisible impulses. This "energy"—as he called it—was his other secret, which he had discovered within himself about two years ago.
"And where would we go?" Victor asked, watching the books dance. "Without documents? Without money? Without any connection to the outside world? They'd bring us back here in a day. Or worse, send us to an even stricter institution."
This was his main dilemma. His abilities were growing; he felt the energy pulsating within him, yearning to break free. First, he learned to channel it through his body. He noticed that if he fueled his muscles with it during workouts—and he trained every day, in secret—his body became incredibly strong and resilient. Now, at ten years old, he could easily run ten kilometers in twenty minutes without even breaking a sweat. He could lift a hundred-kilogram weight without visible effort. His body was a tool, honed by years of trauma and strange self-experiments.
Then, he learned to project this energy outside his body. At first, it was difficult; he could barely lift the lightest objects—a pen, a sheet of paper. But with each passing day, his control improved. Now he could easily push a chair aside or even move a heavy bedside table. The power was within him; it was growing, and he felt it was just the tip of the iceberg.
"So, are we going to spend our whole lives here?" Victor Number 2 grumbled, rolling onto his side. "I'm terribly bored."
Victor merely snorted. "You're bored? I'm not. Have you forgotten that you're just a cluster of my thoughts that I project into reality? You are my boredom, my anger, my desire to break free. I control you, not the other way around."
Victor Number 2 frowned. "Well, don't be rude to yourself. Without me, you'd have gone crazy long ago, locked within these walls. I'm your safeguard, your interlocutor when there's no one else."
"And the fact that I'm standing alone in a mental hospital ward, talking to my imaginary copy, doesn't make me crazy?" Victor countered, raising an eyebrow sardonically.
Victor Number 2 waved his hand. "Alright, forget it. Let's have some fun instead. Let's play something."
"God," Victor rolled his eyes. "Your mental age is thirty, and you're acting like a child."
"You said yourself I'm a cluster of your thoughts," Victor Number 2 replied calmly. "And that means you're still a child at heart. I'm just reflecting your inner need for play and fun."
Victor sighed. "Ah, there's no point arguing with you." A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. Despite all their squabbles, Victor Number 2 was his only true friend, his ally in this mad world.