By the time Johan Černá turned eight, the town his mother had moved them to had become nothing more than a passing memory. It had never been a home, never been a place where he felt rooted. It was merely one of many settings that he would leave behind. He did not remember the names of his teachers. He did not recall the faces of the children who had once sat beside him in class. He did not think of the quiet streets, the small shops, or the faded signs above their doors. None of it had mattered. What mattered were the people. The ones he had played with, the ones he had studied, the ones he had broken. They too had faded into irrelevance. Because Johan had already moved on. Věra Černá was no longer the woman she had once been. She had arrived in this town hoping for a fresh start, hoping that somehow, the distance from their past would be enough to cleanse her son of whatever darkness had taken root inside him. But it had not. It had only grown. She did not fight it anymore. She did not try to steer Johan onto a different path or try to force the role of mother upon herself. She had given up. She drifted through the days in a haze, her eyes empty, her movements mechanical. She cooked when necessary. She spoke only when spoken to. She had become as much a ghost as she was in the memories she tried to suppress. And Johan, for his part, barely noticed. Or if he did, he simply did not care. Johan’s greatest asset was not his intelligence, though that alone was formidable. It was his ability to see through people. To understand them. He did not need to guess at their thoughts. He did not need to wonder about their fears. He already knew. He could read them in the smallest shifts of their expressions, in the hesitation in their voices, in the way their hands twitched when they were nervous. And with that knowledge, he could mold them however he pleased. Johan had long since realized that fear was the simplest, most effective tool. It did not need to be inflicted through violence. It could be whispered. Suggested. Planted like a seed and left to grow on its own. There was a teacher at his school, a middle-aged man named Herr Roth, who took pride in his authority. He was strict but fair. He was a man who believed in discipline and structure. Johan watched him for weeks, noting every detail. The way his voice hardened when speaking to students. The way he adjusted his glasses when he was uncertain. The way his eyes darted to the clock when a lesson was nearly over, as though he, too, was waiting for his freedom. And, most importantly, the way he flinched, just the slightest, whenever he heard his full name spoken. One day, Johan approached him after class."Herr Roth,” he said, his voice smooth and gentle. "Did you know that sometimes people whisper your name when you’re not there?” The teacher frowned, confused. "What do you mean?” Johan tilted his head. "I mean… some of the other teachers. Sometimes they talk about you. About things you’ve done.” Herr Roth stiffened. "What things?” Johan let the silence stretch. He did not answer. He simply smiled. The next day, Herr Roth was different. More distracted. More tense. His temper was shorter, his patience thinner. He glanced over his shoulder more often, his eyes flickering with uncertainty. Johan did not need to say anything more. The thought had already taken root. And from that moment on, every time Herr Roth heard his name, he would wonder. Was someone speaking about him? Did they know something? Had Johan been telling the truth? It did not matter whether they actually had. What mattered was that he believed they might. That alone was enough to unravel him. Johan did not have friends. But he did not need them. He did not want them. Children his age sensed something unnatural about him, something just beneath the surface that sent a shiver through them when they got too close. They could not explain it, could not put it into words. They only knew they wanted to stay away. And Johan was perfectly fine with that. He found solace in his books, in the quiet corners of the library where he could sit and read without interruption. He preferred the company of history, of philosophy, of the written thoughts of men who had lived and died long before him. Their words were more useful than the meaningless conversations of children. He did not waste his time on games. He spent his time watching, listening, and learning. And in the silence, he plotted. Johan knew that he was meant for more than this. This town, this school, these people. They were all insignificant in the grand scheme of things. They were stepping stones. Pieces of a much larger puzzle. He was still refining his skills. Still learning the best ways to pull at the strings of those around him. But soon, he would move beyond this place. And when he did, he would take everything he had learned and shape the world as he saw fit. Not through force. Not through violence. But through something far more powerful. Influence. Věra sat in the kitchen one evening, staring down at her hands. She had not touched her food. She had barely touched anything in days. She was shrinking and fading. But none of that mattered. Because she had come to accept something she had spent years denying. Her son was not like other children. He never had been. And whatever he was becoming, whatever thing was growing inside of him, was beyond her reach. She had lost him long ago. “No,” she thought bitterly. Maybe I never had him at all. She looked up, her eyes drifting toward the door of his room. For a moment, she considered walking to it, opening it, and speaking to him. She really thought of trying one last time to bring him back. But she did not. Because deep down, she knew Johan was already gone. Johan sat by his window that night, staring down at the empty street below. The lamplight cast long shadows against the pavement. The wind stirred the leaves on the sidewalk. Everything was quiet. And yet, he could hear it. The whisper of possibility. The realization that the world was his to shape. He had always known he was different. But now, he understood something else. He was beyond human. Beyond morality. Beyond the simple games of childhood. He was something more. And he was just getting started.