I left the restroom and asked the server for information. Annoyed at being interrupted during service, he handed me a thick yellow book he called a "directory." Apparently, it contained all the addresses in the city. I hesitated for a moment before leafing through it. Had I imagined everything? Was it just a product of my mind—a waking nightmare? This shop must only exist in my head. That was the only logical explanation.

I took a deep breath to calm myself. I flipped through the pages, but the words blurred before my eyes.
Calm down, everything’s fine. No need to rush. You have time.

More slowly this time, I resumed flipping through the directory. A name seemed to leap off the page: Gemtrom. I read it again carefully. Gemtrom—so a shop by that name did exist. But that didn’t mean anything. I hadn’t been sure of the name anyway, and chances were high that a store starting with "Gem" existed without it being the one from my hallucination. I had to go there. It was the only way to be sure. If it wasn’t the same place, I’d have definitive proof I was losing my mind.

It took me about twenty minutes by public transit to get there. Night had fallen, and electric lights bathed the city. When I stepped onto the street, disappointment hit hard—I didn’t recognize it. The electronics store was there, but was it the one? I wasn’t sure of anything anymore. The image in my mind was blurry, like a dream fading with time.

I crossed the street and searched the sidewalk for the approximate position from my vision. Eventually, I found a spot that could more or less match. It might have been the same perspective—but I wasn’t convinced. Was my mind twisting reality to convince itself it wasn’t insane?

And now what? Ask around about a knife assault? I sighed in frustration. The pieces were all here in front of me: a false memory, panic attacks, a tattoo, an illegal organization. The pattern was there—but I couldn’t make it fit. It was like a child staring at a shattered vase, despairing of ever gluing the pieces back together. Infuriating.

Then I heard the screech of brakes.

I barely had time to turn and saw two men rolling onto the sidewalk a few meters from me. A car had skidded to a stop in the middle of the street. It would’ve hit the pedestrian if someone hadn’t thrown themselves forward to push him out of the way just in time.

One of the men got up slowly, pale, his papers scattered across the street. The rescuer was already on his feet—he had stood in one smooth, practiced motion. Despite what he’d just done, his clothes weren’t even wrinkled. And I recognized him instantly: Model.

Why was he here?

Coincidence? Or had they found me?

But that was absurd—they couldn’t have followed me. I would’ve noticed. It couldn’t be him. My brain was messing with me again, layering paranoia onto everything else. I closed my eyes, tried to clear my head… while an alarm siren blared inside me, screaming I was being a damn fool. I forced my eyes open and looked.

Passersby were crowding around the two men, trying to help, mostly making a mess of things. Was it really Model, or just someone who looked like him? He had turned his back now. My heart was pounding.

Turn around. Just turn around so I can see your face.

A shout came from across the street. I turned. A man resembling Bear stood on the other side. Same bulky build, same presence—but my eyes didn’t reach his face. He was shouting something and pointing—at me? No, behind me.

I heard his words but couldn’t understand them. It sounded like a foreign language, but not quite. A strange mix of consonants, familiar and unfamiliar. Was my brain so fried it couldn’t even process my own language anymore?

The man who looked like Bear jumped into the street, dodging between cars. I turned to see what he had pointed at.

A man was standing just a few feet from me, holding a gun—aiming directly at the man who looked like Model.

The crowd, oblivious, stood between the shooter and his target, creating a temporary shield. But it would only take a moment—a step to the side, someone shifting—and then Model would be dead.

The shooter hadn’t noticed me.

Everyone else was focused on the "hero" in the street. And I knew—deep in my gut—what would happen next: one clean shot, and he was gone.

And something deep inside me snapped awake. Reflex. Training. Instinct.

My feet left the ground.

And I lunged.