The classroom smelled faintly of chalk dust and damp wood, the kind of smell that lingered even after years of use, as if the walls themselves had absorbed the breath of countless students. Outside, winter sunlight filtered weakly through tall windows, pale and indecisive, never quite committing to warmth.
The girl sat near the middle row, her back straight, hands folded loosely on the desk. Her eyes were on the blackboard, but her attention wasn't. It hadn't been for days.
Anna, seated beside her, leaned slightly closer, lowering her voice just enough to avoid the teacher's notice. Her elbow brushed the girl's sleeve—an intentional accident.
"Hey," Anna whispered.
No response.
"Hey. Heyyyy. Come on."
The girl shifted, eyes still forward.
"What?" she murmured, barely moving her lips.
Anna grinned, suppressing a laugh. "Tell me," she said, dragging the words out. "Who's the lucky person, huh? Pleaseee."
The girl's fingers tightened around the edge of the desk.
"I already told you," she replied quietly. "It's… it's personal."
Anna raised an eyebrow. "Personal?" She leaned back slightly, studying her friend's face like a puzzle. "You're blushing."
The girl frowned. "I am not."
"You are," Anna said confidently. "And that only makes it worse."
The teacher's voice droned on about literature and historical context, words stacking upon words without meaning. For the girl, the classroom faded. Her thoughts slipped somewhere far away—somewhere warmer, quieter, safer.
Somewhere with him.
Anna softened her tone. "Hey. I'm not trying to hurt you," she said. "Or force you into saying anything. I'm just curious. We're friends, right?"
The word friends lingered.
"Yes," the girl replied after a moment.
"Well," Anna continued, "some of my friends want to be friends with you too. That's all."
The girl finally turned her head, confusion flickering across her face. "What?"
Anna shrugged lightly. "They think you're… interesting. Different."
The girl hesitated. "I don't even know them," she said. "It's not right to judge people before meeting them. Or before knowing who they really are."
Anna laughed under her breath. "What are you," she teased, "an angel or something?"
The girl didn't answer.
Anna nudged her playfully. "Well, you kind of are."
The teacher paused, casting a sharp glance across the room. Both girls straightened instantly, eyes forward, expressions neutral. The moment passed.
When the bell finally rang, chairs scraped against the floor, voices rose, and the classroom dissolved into noise. The girl packed her bag slowly, methodically, as if delaying something she knew was inevitable.
Anna slung her bag over her shoulder. "Okay," she said brightly. "After school, let's hang out. I'll introduce you to my friends."
The girl hesitated.
"I don't know," she began.
"Just for a bit," Anna said quickly. "No pressure. If you don't like it, we'll leave."
The girl exhaled softly. "Alright," she said. "Okay."
Anna smiled—victory, but gentle.
That evening, the girl walked alone for a while before heading home. The streets were quiet, the sky washed in fading blues and greys. Her footsteps echoed faintly on the pavement.
She thought of the promise.
Not the words themselves, but the feeling. The certainty. The way it had anchored her when everything else felt unstable. That promise wasn't something she shared lightly—if at all. It wasn't a story to tell, or a secret to giggle about.
It was something that lived inside her.
And she protected it the way one protects a fragile flame in the wind.
Year 1956,Soviet Union
The room was dim, lit unevenly by a flickering television set placed on a low wooden table. Cigarette smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling, mixing with the sharp scent of cheap alcohol. Outside, winter pressed its face against the building—silent, patient, indifferent.
A man sat alone in an armchair, one leg crossed over the other, a glass resting loosely in his hand. The liquid inside trembled slightly each time he laughed or shifted. His face was swallowed by shadow, hidden not by darkness alone, but by intention. Whoever he was, he did not wish to be seen—not even by himself.
The television crackled.
A news reporter appeared on the screen, posture stiff, voice formal.
"—continuing our coverage," the reporter said, "the parent murderer Teufel Kruger, who was sentenced to life imprisonment, was reported dead yesterday in jail. Officials confirm he died at the age of ten."
The man froze for a second.
Then he laughed.
It began as a breath through the nose, then grew sharper, louder, spilling out of him without restraint.
"Dead?" he scoffed. "At ten?"
He lifted the glass and took a slow drink, savoring it.
"What a joke," he muttered. "That's it? That's the great Devil?"
The reporter continued speaking, listing procedural details, cause-of-death ambiguities, bureaucratic language meant to sound final. The man waved a dismissive hand at the screen.
"Parent murderer," he mocked. "Such a dramatic title for such a small creature."
He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees.
"You know," he said to the empty room, "they really wanted him to be something special. Gave him a name like Teufel. Devil."
A short laugh.
"Ridiculous."
He took another drink.
"And his mother," he went on, voice dripping with contempt. "What kind of woman raises something like that? Weak. Emotional. Probably thought she was important."
He laughed again, louder now.
"All that noise," he said, shaking his head. "All that blood. And for what? To die in a cell like an insect?"
He leaned back, confidence blooming.
"I'm superior," he declared. "To him. To his name. To his so-called legacy."
The television droned on.
Then—
A sharp sound cracked through the room.
The glass slipped from his hand and shattered against the floor.
Pain exploded through his stomach.
He screamed.
Not in words—just sound. Raw, panicked, uncontrolled.
He clutched his abdomen, falling halfway out of the chair, breath ripping in and out of his lungs.
Before he could scream again, cold metal pressed against his forehead.
"Shut the fuck up," a voice said.
The tone was low. Flat. Not angry—controlled.
"And listen to me."
The man froze.
He could feel the gun clearly now. Not shaking. Not hesitant.
Perfectly still.
"You don't know what you're dealing with," the voice continued. "And if you were smart enough, you would have already realized that."
The man's breathing became shallow.
"W–what?" he stammered.
The gun pressed harder.
"He isn't dead," the voice said calmly. "If you were capable of understanding patterns instead of headlines, you would know that."
Silence swallowed the room.
The television continued speaking, absurdly unaware.
"We are only alive," the voice went on, "because he is currently too young."
The man's mind raced, trying to process the words through pain and fear.
"Remember this," the voice said. "Even if he doesn't know we exist, that does not mean we are safe."
The man whimpered.
"Never," the voice continued, sharper now, "never speak his name so casually again."
The gun shifted slightly—just enough to remind him of its reality.
"Especially not about her mother."
The man nodded frantically, tears blurring his vision.
"Yes—yes—okay—okay—"
"I will kill you," the voice said, without emotion, "if you ever forget this."
A pause.
Then the pressure lifted.
Footsteps moved away—slow, unhurried.
The door opened.
Closed.
The room was quiet again.
The man collapsed fully onto the floor, gasping, blood seeping through his fingers as the television repeated the lie of Teufel Kruger's death to an unsuspecting world.
Outside, snow continued to fall.
And somewhere far away, a child lived—unaware that men were already bleeding, trembling, and killing in fear of what he would become.
Chapter ends
To be continued