Gobby lay on the ground in the alley, his body convulsing in sharp, violent spasms.
From the outside it looked like a seizure – limbs jerking, jaw locked, breath scraping through clenched teeth.
Above him stood Drogo, still and predatory, watching him the way a hunter watches prey when the chase is finally over.
Overhead, crows circled in spirals, their cries cutting through the thinning air like blades.

Inside Gobby, beneath the shaking, something slips out of alignment.
A system meant to protect him.
And it falters.

Behind his eyes, where fear should spark a response, an invisible structure strains – then hesitates.
Eight mental maps rise from the dark, floating like translucent panels suspended in void.
Not memories. Not images.
Behavior prototypes – a cognitive-behavioral framework formed by past critical experiences.

Each one follows the same silent rules:

1.     Identify the type of problem.

2.     Read the environment – people, distance, exits, objects, social cues.

3.     Trigger the response that once worked under pressure.

Normally, his mind would skim across these prototypes with automatic precision, searching for a match.
A moment’s pause.
A silent click.
Action.

But not now.

The scan stutters.
Slides.
Skips from one model to another without anchoring.
It tries to settle – fails.
Tries again – nothing.

The structure glitches.

A crack forms across the first panel.
Another tears through the second.
The third flickers, loses shape, dissolves.
The next collapses into drifting shards of dim light.

Then – all eight break at once.

A scatter of shattered behavioral code.
The mechanism gone.
The system broken.
The mind split.

On the outside, Gobby freezes.
But inside – everything drops into darkness.

From the darkness inside him, fragments begin to rise

Not memories, not full events – just flashes cut loose from meaning.

A white hospital corridor. A green lawn. White coats. Blue uniforms. A doctor bending toward a small boy. A woman crying into her palms. A man trying to console her. Heavy footsteps. A huge figure passing. A shadow falling across him. A child twisting a Rubik’s cube. A younger Gobby.

Stillness.

Then – one image, slower than all the rest.

Small hands release the Rubik’s cube.
It falls.
Turns.
Descends.
Shatters.

A scream follows.
A child’s scream – long, piercing, raw.

Outside, in the alley, Gobby screams with it.
His body jolts in a violent convulsion, a last uncontrolled surge before the lock sets in.
He twists free of Drogo’s grip for a heartbeat, clamps his hands over his ears as if the world itself is collapsing in sound.

Drogo’s essence trembles.
Drogo’s pupils widen; hunger rises sharp and physical.
Warm saliva drips onto Gobby’s cheek, his throat, the torn fabric of his shirt.

Silence drops.

Gobby freezes.
The reflex takes over.
Skin tightens.
Muscles lock.
Air compresses inside him – a full-body tension shield snapping into place.

Deep within, the mind stirs again.
Darkness.
Fragments drifting like dust across a ruined landscape.

And then – something moves.

Pale branches unfold in the dark, threading through the broken space like slow veins of light.
They wrap around Gobby’s thoughts, his terror, the shattered structures that once guided him.

A voice follows.
Soft.
Steady.

– Don’t be afraid. I’m here with you.

No force.
No demand.
Only presence – a shelter inside the collapse.

Above ground, Drogo’s control breaks apart

Ritual, intention, hunger for meaning – all vanish.
Only impulse remains.

He tears at Gobby’s clothes, ripping them open with frantic, animal strength.
His palm slams against Gobby’s chest. The tension under the skin is dense, immovable, unnatural.
A growl rises from his throat. He pushes harder.

His fingers begin to sink in.
Into the skin.
Into the heat.
Deeper.
Almost enough to close around the heart.

Gobby twists underneath him – the last uncontrolled convulsion before his body locks.

CRACK.

A blow.
Glass bursts. Shards scatter in glittering arcs across the pavement.

Drogo’s eyes fly wide – then roll back.
His body collapses, heavy and limp, pinning Gobby beneath him.

Behind him stands German.
Shaking.
Smeared with dirt and blood.
A broken bottle neck trembling in his fist.

He did it.
He stopped him.

With a ragged breath, German forces Drogo’s weight aside.
He pries the man’s fingers from Gobby’s chest one by one, like pulling nails out of soaked wood.
His arms burn, lungs scrape, but he keeps going.

Panting, he hoists Gobby onto his back.
Gobby’s arms slide over his shoulders; his legs drag across the concrete.
Step by step, German carries him out of the alley.

A bolt of pain tears through his foot. Something cracks. Something shifts.
But he doesn’t stop.

Ahead – shapes.
People.
Cars.
Voices.

The world continues moving, unaware of the blood behind them.

They’re almost safe

The moment hits – and the adrenaline burns out.
His leg locks. A sharp, electric pain shoots through the bone.
Gobby hangs heavy on his back – dead weight, unmoving, breath shallow against German’s spine.

Then – a sound behind him.
A low groan.

Drogo.

German’s heart stutters.
Instinct flares.
One thought cuts through the panic – move. Now.
Or they go back into the dark.

He turns.
Pain blinds him for a heartbeat, but he forces himself forward, dragging Gobby with him.

Out of the alley.
Into the open street.

Horns erupt.
Voices shout.
Tires scream across the asphalt.

German takes one more step – and the leg gives out.

Both boys crash to the ground.
Right there in the middle of the road.
Unconscious.
Side by side.

Cars skid to a halt.
Doors slam.
People rush toward them, voices overlapping in a rising wave of panic.

Back in the alley, wrapped in shadow, someone watches.

Drogo.

His eyes burn yellow through the dark – not with hunger now, but with rage held on a trembling leash.
His chest rises and falls in uneven bursts.
His jaw tightens, twitching with every breath.

They interrupted the ritual.
Stole the moment.
Ruined everything.

His breath trembled – fury barely contained.
– That filthy little insect… I’ll devour you in front of your precious friend – and make you watch.

He whispered it through clenched teeth, then stepped backward into the dark.
A shift of weight – and his silhouette dissolved deeper into the alley.

The rage curled there, simmering.

Then the world fell away

Light swallowed everything.

A sterile white glow.
A faint tremble.
Gobby stirred.

He heard it first – a sound.
Familiar.
A soft, shaking sob.

His eyes opened.

His mother lay across his chest, arms wrapped so tightly around him that her hands trembled.
Her face was pressed into the fabric of his hospital gown.
She wasn’t crying loudly – but with the quiet, exhausted grief that only comes after too many sleepless nights.

When he shifted, she felt it.
She lifted her head, eyes red and swollen, wiped her face with both palms – then pulled him close again.

– Thank God, baby… you’re awake.

Gobby hugged her back, slow, uncertain, as if testing whether the world still held shape.

– Where am I? What happened?

Her hands didn’t loosen.
Her voice cracked as she answered.

– You and your friend… you were attacked. A maniac. They said it’s a miracle you survived.

A sharp pulse of pain struck his skull.

Then – flashes. Flash after flash. Pieces. Moments. Pain. Screaming. Darkness.

Gobby pulled away from her slowly. His fingers trembled as he opened the hospital gown.

His chest.
Five perfect circles.
Burned into the skin.
The flesh around them torn – but the wounds had already sealed.
Not fresh. Not bleeding.
But undeniably real.

His mother gasped.

– The doctor said everything’s okay… We don’t know what caused these marks or why he left them. They’re just skin. Just scars.

– He stabbed me, Gobby whispered. He was trying to rip out my heart.

– Sweetheart… when they brought you in, the doctor only found markings. No punctures. No internal wounds. Maybe you imagined it…

– What about German?

Her expression shifted.

– He wasn’t as lucky. A broken leg… cracked ribs… cuts… bruises… But he’s alive. He’ll recover.

The pain returned.
That low hum.
A pressure behind the eyes.
Another wave.

Gobby looked at his mother, voice steady.

– Tell me what happened. At the psychiatric hospital. When I was a kid.

– What are you talking about?

His gaze hardened.

– Don’t pretend. I need to know.

His mother froze.
For a long moment, she said nothing.

Then she reached out and took his hand – carefully, as if it might break.

– If I tell you… you must understand… this won’t be easy.