Floor‑to‑ceiling windows transformed the dawn light into sharp diamonds that gleamed across the 12‑meter ebony conference table made from Indonesian wood. At the far end of the table, Nimbus sat on a high chair. His mask, a combination of strange lines and curves, reflected the light into cryptic patterns. The gloved fingers drummed on the clear crystalline buttons of his seat with a sound like the ticking of doomsday.
Klaus von der Heyden theatrically spread documents across the table: "The annual inflation rate has reached 18.7 %. If we do not pursue a contractionary policy, the German mark will become worthless within six months."
Jürgen Schultz used a cheese knife to carve the outline of the inflation chart into a wheel of Gouda: "My proposal is a real‑estate wealth tax. The middle class must pay its share."
Alexander Meyer slid a fingertip over the fine print: "'Convert 50 % of citizen savings into government bonds, provide ten‑year tax exemptions for participating companies, and free health insurance for contributors.' What exactly does 'provided' mean?"
For the first time, Nimbus spoke: his voice was like the whisper of hundreds rising from a deep pit: "It means that if by December 31 at least 85 % of the population is not registered, the plan will be automatically canceled."
A deathly silence filled the hall. Frank Weber asked softly: "And if the people… resist?"
Nimbus replied: "We control the pension funds. We control the wage earners. We control water and electricity."
He raised his hand, gesturing at a framed photo of Heidelberg on the wall: people in long queues outside banks.
"When people are hungry, they will even sell their own tombstones."
Weber, in the empty hallway, punched numbers into his phone: "Inform the President's office that the mandatory bond issuance goes live tomorrow. Rest assured, the media will spin it as a patriotic salvation project."
A security officer handed him a black briefcase filled with gold coins stamped with the emblem.
At the Rhein‑Heidelberg refinery, hours passed like heavy oil through corroded pipes. Yan stood beside distillation tower #3, where scalding steam escaped from rusted joints and turned the air into a miniature hell. His hands, already used to chronic pain, turned the high‑pressure valve. The hot metal burned through his thick gloves and seared his skin.
"Schultz!" Jürgen's voice echoed from afar. "Pressure on line C3 is rising again! Go check the safety valve!"
Yan moved toward the control panel. His legs felt like concrete columns cemented to the ground. The old screen displayed red warning numbers. He pressed the flashing alarm button. The refinery echoed with sirens, but nobody diverted their gaze, they were all used to these sounds as one gets used to breathing.
In the repair room, Ralph replaced filthy filters. His hands, lifelong exposure to chemicals, were riddled with wounds that never fully healed.
"Did you hear what they said?" Ralph hammered the wrench into a bolt. "Starting next week, they'll pay salaries with those new bonds. They claim they're worth more than cash!"
Yan pulled a thermos bottle from his bag. The pale yellow liquid inside still smelled of oil even after filtering. "So nothing's changed," he said, pouring into a plastic cup. "They're stealing our money always."
Ralph laughed, a cough disguised as humor: "Well, at least now they're officially admitting they're stealing!"
Lunch shift: rain started falling. When drops hit hot pipes, they vaporized, creating a white curtain around the towers. Yan stood under a small canopy, eating his lunch, a dry bread sandwich with salty cheese. In the distance he saw a group of new engineers in crisp suits stepping out of cars. One pointed at the distillation tower and scribbled notes in a notebook. They were the same people slated to replace workers with robots.
"Look!" Kurt stood beside him, lighting a cigarette. "The bright future of the oil industry! Think if they fire us, those rich kids can even last a day in here?"
Smoke drifted in the damp air. Yan didn't answer; his gaze was fixed on a bird perched farther along a pipe. It stayed for a moment, then flew off into the mist. When the shift ended, Yan went to the locker room as usual. He threw off his work clothes into a steel locker. Above the small mirror next to it, he'd taped a photo of Liza, taken last month at NewAden. She was smiling, but her eyes were empty. Yan traced the photo with his fingers. He could still smell NewAden's disinfectants, the scent of death.
As night fell, Yan walked home. Heidelberg's streets were empty; shops closed one by one. Warm light spilled from the Café Goldeherb window. Emilia stood behind the counter washing glasses and occasionally staring into the empty street. Yan paused and looked at her, daydreaming for a moment about going in, but turned to continue walking.
Sometimes a person just wants to be alone, even if being alone means standing in the middle of a storm.
In his parents' home windows, a light was on. His mother was asleep.
Yan opened the door as he did every night: "Hello, Mom."
He was startled:
"Mom? Mom? It's not bedtime. Wake up."
He shook her gently, but she didn't move.
"Mom? Mom?"
She was dead.
Yan realized and screamed, sobbing, roaring so loud the entire neighborhood must have heard. He called an ambulance immediately.
In the hospital room, the cold white lights of the ceiling turned Eva's skin grayish dead. Numerous tubes from nose, mouth, and veins snaked out like plastic serpents draining her final life. The ventilator hissed "hiss… hoo…" across the room. Dr. Myers, senior oncologist, stood before vital‑sign monitors with his tablet.
"Complete metastasis to liver and lungs," he said, flicking a finger across the CT scan showing black oil‑like masses consuming every organ. "The primary tumor in the pancreas has grown to 8.5 cm. It has invaded the aortic wall."
A younger nurse hastened to change morphine and midazolam levels. Clear droplets glimmered in plastic tubes like tears.
"How did it progress so fast?" Yan asked from deep inside his throat. "Last week she… she still spoke."
Dr. Myers adjusted his glasses: "Pancreatic carcinoma is like this, Mr. Schultz. It grows silently for months. By the time symptoms appear… we also have DIC now, small clots in every vessel. The kidneys have failed too."
The ECG beeped. The green waveform that had been erratic suddenly flattened. The nurses began routine removal of tubes. One closed Eva's eyelids, but her right eye didn't fully close, half of the blue iris remained visible, as if still trying to see something.
The ward manager handed Yan a document: "Cause of death: multi-organ failure secondary to stage IV pancreatic adenocarcinoma with metastasis to..."
Medical terms clung to the page like parasites. Yan glanced at the body-release form revealing: "Autopsy: not required. Released to Medical School Anatomy Hall, per the will."
"A will?" Yan crumpled the paper. "Mom never…"
The manager nonchalantly showed him a tablet: "The NewAden Foundation signed the paperwork last week. Under clause 14‑C of the organ‑donation protocol, terminal cancer patients are allocated for medical research."
The room blurred. Yan stared at the ambulance parked behind pathology. Two masked men placed the body wrapped in plastic onto a stretcher. When the plastic fluttered, Eva's blonde hair appeared, still stained with DIC bleeding that hadn't stopped even after death. One man spoke into his radio: "Sample 427‑B ready for transfer to NewAden lab. Notify Project Icarus."
Before dawn had fully come, the hospital corridors were empty. Only medical devices beeped softly from different rooms. Yan sat on a plastic chair, hands clasped, staring at the floor.
A young nurse in a blue gown approached softly, face pale under fluorescent light: "You need to sign forms." She handed him a sheet, voice calm.
Yan raised his head, eyes red not from crying but exhaustion.
"What form?"
The nurse placed the paper beside him.
"The body release consent. You must decide if…"
"Body?" Yan sprung up. The chair crashed behind him. "It's my mother! Eva Schultz!"
A doctor with thick-lensed glasses emerged from the adjacent room, hands in his white coat pockets.
"Mr. Schultz, I know this is difficult, but you must decide. If the form is not signed by 8 AM, under hospital rules, the body will be transferred to research."
"Research? What research?"
The doctor and nurse exchanged glances. The nurse whispered: "We're not informed about operations there."
Yan grabbed the form. Black lines blurred on the white paper.
"So, my mother becomes a research specimen?"
Dr. Myers adjusted his glasses: "It is an opportunity. Perhaps research on her body could help treat others."
"Treat others?" Yan laughed bitterly. "The same experiments they do on kids at NewAden?"
A heavy silence filled the corridor. The nurse looked down; the doctor turned away.
Yan tore the paper. The fragments floated like snow on the floor. "I want my mother today. Intact. Alive in memory."
The doctor exhaled slowly: "Well, then you must pay the release fees: transport, paperwork…"
"How much?"
The number knocked Yan back into a chair.
The nurse gently approached: "You may pay in installments. NewAden Foundation offers special loans for this purpose."
Yan pressed his back against the wall, closed his eyes. Hospital equipment noises buzzed in his ears like infernal whispers.
"I want a standard death certificate. Without any conditions."
The nurse exchanged looks with the doctor. The doctor shrugged and returned to his manner of business.
The nurse placed a new form before him: "Sign this. You may collect tomorrow at noon."
Yan took the pen. His hand trembled. He wrote his name beneath "Son of."
The nurse took the paper and quietly said: "Room 4, ground floor. You may sit beside her. You have until the release time."
The next morning at the graveyard, Yan stood beside a freshly dug grave. Heidelberg's sky was leaden; light rain fell, droplets sliding across his face like tears. The dark, damp soil smelled of earth awaiting to hold Eva's weary body. The coffin was simple, made of oak, unadorned. He stroked its surface, rough grain beneath his fingers. A few white flowers lay atop, quickly fading, like a life ended too soon.
The priest in black robes approached, opened the holy book, began reading, but Yan heard no words, only windless murmurs among trees. He thought not of Scripture, but of his mother's face during better days, when she was well, black‑haired, bright‑eyed.
When they lowered the coffin, Yan was the first to cast handfuls of soil. Cold and heavy, it made a muffled sound against the wood, a final farewell. Others followed: neighbors, refinery colleagues, and Emilia who stood quietly beside him. She placed her hand gently on his shoulder. Her warmth was the only thing that grounded him.
When all had left, Yan remained alone on a wooden bench beside the grave. He stared at the blank headstone inscribed with Eva Schultz, birth and death years: 1978–2015, the span of a life irretrievably lost. Rain intensified; droplets dripped onto the stone like sky‑borne tears. Yan placed his palm on the tomb as though seeking his mother's last warmth.
"Mom…" he whispered. "No more pain."
The afternoon dimmed. Yan rose and took one last look. He knew he had to go, but his legs were leaden. From afar, Emilia appeared holding a black umbrella.
"Let's go home." She extended her hand toward him.
Yan inhaled deeply and took a step toward her. Behind him, his mother's grave remained, alone in the rain, in the silent cemetery. But within his heart, Eva was still alive, always.
Later, at NewAden, Liza sat on a metal bench, her little legs dangling. She was folding a paper airplane from those colorful sheets Yan had brought her last month. Hearing footsteps, she looked up. Her blue eyes brightened briefly, just as always.
"You're late," she said. "You didn't say you were coming last week."
Yan sat beside her. NewAden's disinfectant smell still clung to his skin, even after a month.
"Busy, little kitty. But next month… next month I will come for sure. I'm preparing our new home."
Liza scrunched the paper. "New home?"
"By the river. Big windows. You can see the trees from your bed."
Liza gripped the plane tighter. "Is my mom coming too?"
Silence hung heavily. Yan stared at his hands, no longer small refinery scars now ingrained with memory.
"Mom… she can't come. She's on a trip."
Liza tilted her head. "Like Martha? She went one day and never returned."
"Martha?"
"The girl with brown hair. She said she liked me, but she lied. People always lie."
Yan reached to smooth Liza's hair, but she scooted away. The paper airplane fell to the dusty courtyard and landed crumpled.
"I promise, I promise I will come next month, for you. Right here at this bench."
Liza looked at the broken airplane.
"Okay." she whispered. "But if you don't come, I know you lied too."
At the NewAden exit gate, a bored guard checked Yan's ID: "I heard big changes coming to the kids' unit. Next week, lots of new doctors show up."
Yan gazed at the main building: at barred windows behind which Liza was hidden. "What changes?"
The guard shrugged: "Not sure. But they say they're starting a new project. They call it… 'rehabilitation.'"
The word hung in the air like a stench no one wanted to admit.
Back at Café Goldeherb, Emilia set down a cup before Yan without a question: "I've seen your face again, the same face you had when you said goodbye to your mother."
Yan finished the coffee in one swallow. The hot liquid burned his throat, but hurt less than the other pain he carried.
"I told her I'll come next month. How hard can it be to lie to an eight‑year‑old?"
Emilia wiped the counter with a damp towel: "Telling lies is easy. The problem is, you know they're lies."
Yan gazed out the window. Rain began to fall. Droplets slid across the glass like tears.
"I don't know how I'll get her out of there. But this time… this time I can't fail."
Emilia placed her hand over his: "Then don't lie. Build her a real hope."
In a bare room with a few unpacked boxes, Yan looked at an old photo on the table, a picture of Liza on her first day of school, wearing the blue ribbon her mother had tied in her hair.
He lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Tomorrow he must start, plan, find a way. But tonight, he could only think of Liza's eyes, the untrusting look that flared at the end of his promise.
"Next month," he whispered. "Just wait."
And this time, he knew he must keep that promise, no matter what.
The next day, the meeting was held in a secret basement room beneath the Parliament. The foggy windows turned sunlight into vague lines falling across the long conference table. The shadows of the men at the table stretched across the stone walls, appearing larger than life.
The Minister of Economy slammed his fist on a map of the city.
"The people can't bear any more taxes. The riots last week in the industrial district proved that..."
The head of the Central Bank cut him off with a dry laugh.
"The people? People only riot when their stomachs are empty. All we need to do is subsidize the bread and..."
"And with what money?" the Minister of Industry hurled a document across the table. "Our foreign reserves are only enough for seven more weeks."
A heavy silence filled the room. One of the younger ministers, who had remained silent so far, spoke up softly:
"We should expedite the transfer project of the blocked funds to foreign accounts. If we can do it by the end of the month..."
"Idiot!" The Central Bank head slammed his teacup against the table. "Even now, international media..."
At that moment, the door swung open. A pale-faced young secretary entered and handed a note to the session chair.
The older man adjusted his glasses and read the note under his breath. The color drained from his face.
"Emergency Protocol Number Seven has been approved," he said, his voice suddenly harsh. "Effective immediately."
A wave of murmurs swept through the room. The Minister of Economy grabbed the paper from his hand, his eyes widening in disbelief.
"This is... this is madness! We can't..."
The session chair swiftly rang the bell on the table. Six armed guards stormed into the room.
"According to Article Forty-Four of the Martial Law Act, this meeting is dissolved. All present will be relocated to designated residences until further notice."
One of the young ministers stood up.
"This is treason! You can't..."
A gunshot exploded through the confined space. The young minister was thrown back, blood spurting from his shoulder. The guards lowered their weapons indifferently.
The session chair calmly cleaned his glasses.
"Start the media program now. Tell them... tell them it was a preemptive measure to ensure national security."
The heavy wooden door opened again with a muffled sound.
An elderly man in a navy-blue coat entered the room. His wooden cane tapped softly against the red carpet with each step.
Under the flickering candlelight, his face was lined with deep wrinkles, and his eyes, two soulless black dots, were locked onto the session chair.
A complete silence fell over the room. Even the breaths of those present seemed to stop.
Without preamble, the old man began to speak. His voice was dry, emotionless.
"The new directives are as follows."
One by one, he pulled several sealed envelopes from the inner pocket of his coat and laid them on the table.
"First, all independent media outlets are to be shut down by 6 a.m. tomorrow. The remaining networks will only broadcast information verified by the central office."
His gaze fell on the Minister of Communications. The pale man could only nod.
"Second, security forces will be deployed to all working-class neighborhoods. Any gathering of more than three people will be dispersed by direct gunfire."
The Minister of Defense clenched his fists but said nothing.
"Third, all bank accounts belonging to foreign nationals will be frozen. Their assets will be transferred to the central treasury."
The Central Bank head bit his tongue. Blood dripped onto his white shirt.
The old man opened the final envelope.
"And finally… all representatives present in this meeting will remain under supervision in the designated residences until the directives are fully implemented."
A groan echoed from the corner of the room. The wounded young minister tried to stand.
The old man didn't even look at him.
"These decisions are controversial," the session chair finally dared to speak.
The old man smiled, a smile that didn't fit his rigid face.
"Debate is for those who have choices. You are only executors."
He lifted his cane and pointed toward the door. The guards stepped forward to escort the officials out.
When the last person had exited, the old man stood alone by the table.
He reached toward the hidden camera in the corner of the room and gave a silent nod of confirmation with his finger.