Johan Černá’s early years were defined by silence. In a small village where children were expected to be playful, noisy, and full of life, Johan was a ghost among them. He walked the dirt paths between the houses without a sound. His small hands never reached for another’s, his lips never curling into a true smile. The other children avoided him. Not because he bullied them, and not because he was cruel or unkind. But because he simply did not belong. "He’s strange,” they whispered. "The odd one,” they called him. It wasn’t just his quietness, but his presence. There was something unsettling about him, something that made their stomachs twist when he looked their way. It was in his unblinking gaze, and the way he never seemed surprised by anything, or showed fear or joy. They ran in circles around the fields, kicking balls, climbing trees, and calling each other names with the cruel and innocent mischievousness of a child. But when Johan was near, the air seemed to shift. The games slowed, and the laughter died. It wasn’t that Johan did anything to them. He didn’t taunt them, didn’t touch them, didn’t even speak. But when they looked at him, it felt as if he were watching something else, something beyond them. Like he was seeing a world they could not. The adults noticed too. They would pass him in the village square, a polite nod here and there, but they never stopped to ask him questions. Some of them even crossed to the other side of the street when they saw him walking towards them. No one could explain why he unsettled them. They only knew they wanted to keep their distance. By the age of four, Johan’s intellect had already begun to stretch beyond what was natural. Věra Černá, withdrawn as she was, still kept books in the small cabin they lived in. She never expected Johan to take interest in them—fairy tales, perhaps, but nothing more. But she had been wrong. One day, she found him sitting in their tiny living room, a thick book laid across his lap. His small fingers traced the pages, his head tilted slightly in concentration. At first, she assumed he was merely mimicking the way she read. Then he spoke. "The duality of man,” he murmured, his voice so soft it was almost a whisper. "To be both kind and cruel, to love and destroy, to create and erase. That is human nature.” Věra felt her skin go cold. She stepped closer, glancing down at the book. It was Beyond Good and Evil by Friedrich Nietzsche. "You… understand that?” she asked hesitantly. Johan looked up at her, his expression unreadable. "Yes.” It wasn’t an arrogant yes. It wasn’t the response of a child repeating words he didn’t understand. It was a statement. A fact. Věra stared at him for a long moment before walking away without another word. That night, as she lay in bed, she stared at the ceiling, wondering if she should have burned the books. But would it have changed anything? Johan’s mind was already too sharp. Too deep. Too dark. Fairy tales would never be enough for him. It was during this time that the village received a visitor. He was known as Dr. Klaus Gillen, a psychologist from the city. He arrived under the guise of research. The small village, he claimed, fascinated him. He was studying human behavior in isolated communities, trying to understand how people in such remote places formed relationships, how they raised their children, how they functioned as a society. That was the lie he told. But the truth was, he had heard rumors. Rumors of a child unlike any other. A child whose eyes were too knowing, whose presence sent shivers through those who crossed his path. The first time Dr. Gillen saw Johan, he knew the rumors were true. The boy was sitting outside his home, perched on a wooden step like a statue carved from pale stone. His blond hair gleamed in the late afternoon sun, his arms resting loosely at his sides. He wasn’t playing. He wasn’t doing anything. He was simply sitting there watching. Dr. Gillen approached carefully, taking in the child’s posture, the eerie stillness of him. "Hello there,” he greeted, crouching to meet Johan’s gaze. Johan turned his head slightly. His blue eyes locked onto the doctor’s, piercing, studying. Dr. Gillen felt the strangest sensation in that moment, as if he were being evaluated, like he child in front of him was peeling away every mask he wore, every layer of his being, with nothing but a glance. Most children would have looked away by now, or would have fidgeted under the weight of a stranger’s attention. But Johan did not. Finally, he spoke. "Who are you?” The words were simple, but they carried an unsettling weight. Not the casual curiosity of a four-year-old, but something else. Something deeper. Dr. Gillen smiled. "My name is Klaus Gillen. I study the mind. People’s thoughts. The way they think.” Johan tilted his head slightly, as if considering the words. "You’re a doctor,” he said. "That’s right.” Johan’s gaze didn’t waver. "And you came here for me.” It wasn’t a question. Dr. Gillen’s smile did not falter, but he felt a flicker of something beneath his ribs. He nodded. And in that moment, he knew that this was no ordinary child. This was something else entirely. It was what he had been searching for. Over the next several months, Dr. Gillen met with Johan frequently. Under the pretense of his research, he spent hours at the Černá home, speaking with Věra, observing Johan. At first, Věra was hesitant. But she was also tired. And so, she let the doctor speak to her son. Dr. Gillen asked Johan about his thoughts, his interests, his dreams. Johan answered each question with unnerving clarity. He could recite entire passages from philosophy books. He could discuss war, history, the nature of fear. He could read people. Truly read them. And that was what fascinated Dr. Gillen most. It was not just Johan’s knowledge. It was his understanding of human nature. "You see more than others do,” Dr. Gillen told him one evening. Johan blinked. "I see what they try to hide.” The doctor leaned forward. "And what do you think that means?” Johan was silent for a moment. Then softly, he replied, “It means I can control them.” Dr. Gillen stopped. He had come to this village searching for something extraordinary. And he had found it. Johan Černá was not simply a child prodigy. He was something much darker. Something that, if guided correctly, could reshape the world. And so, Dr. Gillen made a decision. He would teach him. He would shape him. And in doing so, he would create something truly magnificent. Something truly terrifying. Johan, for his part, only smiled. For he had already known, long before the doctor had, that this was how things were always meant to be.