Nikolai stumbled back into the room, the smell of regurgitation still fresh in his mouth. Lukas looked up, concerned.
"Hey, you good?"
"Yeah. I just had to use the bathroom."
The room felt too small, the air too thick. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was waiting for him outside that door, something he wasn't yet prepared to face. Lukas shifted, breaking the silence.
"What a shithole, right? You ever think about leaving?"
"Sorry?"
"I meant, like, moving away?"
The question caught Nikolai off guard. Leaving? Vladivostok had always felt like his prison, his cage, and yet, leaving it felt like a choice he couldn't make. It felt like he had something to do here, something to complete.
But what though? Can't I just... leave?
"I've got nowhere to go."
Lukas chuckled softly, though it sounded hollow.
"Have I ever told you how Tomas and I got here?"
Nikolai shook his head.
"It's been a while," Lukas said, longingly. "Was it 6? No, it was 7 years ago. We were about your age. Lukas leaned back, his gaze fixed somewhere distant, his eyes softened by memory. "Yeah," he continued, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"We grew up in a small town, not even worth a name, honestly. Both of us were restless—felt like there was nothing for us back there but stale air and the same dull routine, day in and day out. We'd talk about moving on to some promised land. We were kids, really... didn't know a damn thing." His voice trailed off, and for a moment, silence settled in again, filled only by the occasional creak of the building and the dull hum from the streets below.
"Although we couldn't agree where we'd go, we made an agreement that we'd go together."
"Together," he repeated, almost to himself, as if savoring the word. "Funny how things turn out. Back then, we thought we'd be free the moment we left. We'd save up, buy a bit of land somewhere, start fresh. Just the two of us against the world." He laughed quietly, but there was no humor in it.
"Tomas wanted to go west, to America. I wanted to go east, and fight." He bore a regretful, bitter expression. "Fight for what? Honor? Fame? Adventure?" He sighed, melancholic. "I should've let him have that one. But like a dumbass, I decided to go sign up for the legion, and Tomas did the same just to honor our promise. We got shipped out far east, even further than I had expected or wanted. Soon enough, once the fighting and dying was over, we were stuck here. I've already accepted that fact." He paused, a shadow crossing his face.
"But Tomas... I think he still believes we'll leave one day, like he's waiting for some fucking miracle to pull us out of here. But recently... he's got this look in his eye, y'know? Like he's already halfway gone." Lukas ran a hand through his hair, sighing. "Maybe it's foolish. But back then, having that promise to keep us going—that we'd get out of here together, someday—it meant everything." Nikolai glanced at him, trying to imagine what that promise must've felt like to them. Freedom always seemed like a distant concept, something out of reach. But for them, it had been a vision they'd shared, however naive.
"What about now?" Nikolai asked quietly. "Do you still believe in it?" Lukas's gaze drifted to the window, his face unreadable.
"Maybe I did. Once. But these days... it's harder to convince myself. We're all just trying to survive, right? And maybe, if you're lucky, you find something worth sticking around for." A silence hung between them, thick with words unsaid.
Lukas finally stood, giving Nikolai a solemn nod. "Take care of yourself. And if you ever feel like leaving... make sure you have a real reason. Don't be stupid like us." As he left, Nikolai sat there. The idea of leaving seemed absurd, yet part of him wondered if he was right—if there was something more, somewhere beyond the grip of this city.
Wait. Why was I in this city in the first place?
He racked his head, trying to remember.
This city... It was definitely home. But why can't I recall a single memory?
A cold dread seeped in as he sat in silence, replaying the memories that he couldn't quite grasp, that he perhaps never existed. It was like reaching for something submerged in murky water—the harder he tried to pull it up, the further it seemed to sink. He remembered routines, faces, flashes of buildings and streets, but nothing concrete, nothing that felt like his life. Even the simplest questions felt unanswerable:
Where was I born?
Who were my family?
When did I come here?
What is my name?
"Nikolai is your name now."
That same voice again, the one that whispered to him in the alley that night. Nikolai looked around the dim room, each corner, each shadow, suddenly feeling foreign, menacing. His hands tightened around the edge of the chair. Was this all real, or was he just a fragment here, a ghost drifting through this city with no past? The more he pushed, the more unsettling it became.
Nikolai was here in Vladivostok, he knew he was—but why? It felt as if he was waking up from a deep, heavy sleep, the details slipping away even as he tried to hold on. And for the first time, a thought struck him like a cold blade: What if he was never meant to leave here at all?
He glanced around the room, trying to ground himself, but everything felt distorted, unreal. The cracks in the walls, the chipped paint, the dim light filtering in through the window—they were all just faint sketches, placeholders in a life he suddenly wasn't sure was his.
"Nikolai is your name now."
The voice echoed again, hollow and detached, as if the words came from some far-off corner of his mind, a corner he had tucked away long, long ago.
He tried to fight it, to summon some memory that felt real, but every attempt slipped through his grasp like sand through his fingers. All he could recall was the feeling of movement: stepping onto trains, drifting through streets, faces blurring past like ghosts. But names, places, events—they were all veiled, obscured by something cold and indifferent. He forced himself to breathe, to calm the rising tide of panic.
Focus. What do you remember?
The sensation of cold, of darkness, of endless waiting... and the man who had died just two nights ago, his face twisted in fear, his lips forming a silent warning he couldn't understand. That moment felt clearer than anything else, more vivid and grounded than the life he supposedly knew. He could feel the bile climbing up. He pushed himself to his feet, bracing against the dizzying blur that threatened to pull him down.
He needed answers, a clue, anything to piece together this fractured existence. The city outside was thick with mist, its cold grayness seemingly diffusing into the room. He grabbed his coat, feeling the familiar weight settle over his shoulders, steadying him just a bit. After one last glance at the room, he stepped out into the corridor. The building felt different now, like a maze of shadows, every creak and whisper seeming to mock his confusion. As he descended the stairs, each step echoing in the silence, a strange determination began to build in him. He didn't know who he was, or why he was here—but he was going to find out.
Because if I was a ghost in this city, I'd be damned if I'd haunt it without knowing why.
Nikolai ran with the wind, pulling the overcoat tighter onto his frame, a clear goal in mind: Finding more about the man in the trenchcoat. He was enigmatic, but Nikolai had a feeling - no, he was sure that he held the keys to his misery. Both the pictures of the man and the graveyard were tucked close in his pocket.
The first step was simple: get a lead on Alexander's brother, and have him go through the database to identify the man in the photo as compensation. While on the tram to the police station, he looked out the window. Each passing face, building, tree, it all seemed fake. The tram clattered along the tracks, the rhythmic sound doing little to calm the turmoil in his chest. He pressed his face against the cold glass, watching the world blur past, but it all felt distant, like he was looking through a fog, separated from everything in the world. Nikolai gripped the picture of the man in the trench coat, the edges of the photo crinkling under his fingers. The face wasn't unfamiliar, but something about it gnawed at him.
I had to find him.
The tram jolted to a halt, and he stepped off, the cold wind relentlessly attacking his skin. The police station stood in front of him. He hesitated for a moment, then pushed through the doors.
Alexander's all-too-familiar face sat behind the receptionist's desk, flipping through documents in a casual manner. Nikolai cleared his throat to grab his attention.
"Good morning, officer."
Alexander looked up, clearly disinterested until seeing who it was. His expression quickly morphs back to its original, stoic form.
"Hello, sir. What can I help you with?" He motioned for Nikolai to come closer.
"Go on break," Alexander whispered to him. Nikolai nods in understanding.
"No sir, we can't help with that. Please leave."
Nikolai exited the building quickly, and Alexander followed not long after. He looked over, hopeful and in anticipation.
"Did you find my brother?" Nikolai points towards an adjacent alley.
"Let's talk there." Not long after entering, he barrages Nikolai with questions.
"What did you find? Is my brother alright?"
"Calm down, man. I haven't gotten a lead yet because you haven't given me anything useful to start with. I need more than just a name." Nikolai pulled out his notepad, ready to write down any details.
"Alright, let's see..." Alexander rubs his temple in thought. "His full name is Ivan Antonovich Petrov, and he worked at the shipyard as a part of middle management." He frowned. "That's honestly all I've got."
"You only know that much about your own brother?" Nikolai said, skeptical.
"He has a quiet personality, and he's really reserved, even towards me," Alexander shrugged. His eyes opened widely, as if recalling something important. "Oh yeah, I forgot, he has two guys he absolutely despises at work. Complains about them at home all the time, Sokolov and Benes."
"Wait," Nikolai said, suddenly realizing. "Benes, is his first name Lukas?"
"Yeah, that was his name!" Alexander said. "Lukas Benes. But why is that important?"
Finally. But I shouldn't reveal it right now. I should ask Lukas first.
"No, nothing important," Nikolai said, masking his tone. "Alright, I'm gonna start looking for him. But, I need you to do something for me first." Nikolai pulled the two photos out of his coat pocket. "Can you identify these photos?" Alexander takes them from his hand, staring intently. He hands one of them back swiftly.
"I got no idea who the guy is, or where this graveyard is. I'll have to run the man's photo through the database to identify him. As for the graveyard, go to the funeral home. They'll most likely know all the nearby burial sites." Nikolai nodded, tucking the graveyard photo back into his coat.
"Alright, I'll do that. But remember, this is between us for now, Alexander. No one else can know." He gives a swift nod before returning to the station. Nikolai glanced around, making sure no one was paying too much attention, before heading on the tram towards the mortician's office. The outside street felt colder now, the air heavier, as if the city itself was holding its breath. He tightened the collar of his coat, eager to uncover whatever secrets lay hidden just beneath the surface.