Chapter Text
A boy with no name. Without a family. Without a home. And, quite possibly, without a future.
Is this life? Hiding from the man who killed your mother, huddling under a bridge, eating what you can find, and shuddering at every rustle? No, this is not life - this is survival.
He has been surviving for three years. Three endless, cold, fearful years. In that time, he's had more names than he could remember, but none of them were his real ones. Hiding has become a habit, it is an instinct. He pulls his hood down so low he can barely see the road, doesn't look at people long enough, avoids bright places. Always on guard. Always one step behind his paranoia, which grows every day, whispering in his ear that someone might be waiting for him around every corner.
He used to try to change his appearance. The money he had left over from his mother's death, or what he earned from odd jobs, went on hair dye and contacts. But constant fear and life on the run have taken a toll - now he can barely afford food, and he's forgotten about the dye. He doesn't look in mirrors, but he knows his real appearance is still there. Red hair, too noticeable. Blue eyes, too bright.
His mother used to say he was handsome. That his bright gaze matched his fiery hair and sly smile perfectly. She laughed, tugging at his hair, and said that he looked like his father. That someday he would break more than one woman's heart.
She stopped saying that the day the officers knocked on the door
In one hand they had a search warrant. In the other, an arrest one.
While he was studying, while he was joining the school running team, while he was making plans for the future, his father was killing.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five confirmed victims. And dozens more whose blood could not be traced.
But it seems that no one wants to put him in jail. As if everyone is turning a blind eye to the evidence, to the remains found, to the testimony. His father is tall, charismatic, with luxurious red hair and bright blue eyes. He knows how to talk. He knows how to look so that a woman freezes, blushes, looks away. He knows how to smile so that even the most cautious think: "But he's probably a good man."
His father stands in the courtroom, tall, confident, with perfect posture and an impeccably ironed shirt. He smiles. The women in the courtroom catch his gaze and involuntarily blush. He speaks calmly, judiciously, slightly tilting his head to the side, as if the interlocutor is the only person in the room for him. And how can you not believe him? How can you suspect such a charming, smart, strong man of all these atrocities?
Neil knows how. He knew since childhood, but did not understand.
He knew from the way his father closed the doors before hitting. The way he tightened the belt in his hand, the way he gritted his teeth while his mother whispered.
"Don't. He's just a child."
How he would silently turn him over onto his stomach and lower the leather belt down his back. How he once took a hot iron and pressed it to Neil's chest and held it until he grabbed his mother's hair, pulling her away when she tried to stop him.
"Remember that," he said then. "Pain teaches better than words."
The scar is still there. Ragged, red, alien. Like the marks from the belt on his back. Neil was afraid of him. Ever since he was a child. But he didn't know how afraid he should be.
He knew his father could be cruel. That he could hit, that he could yell, that he could punish so hard that it would hurt to breathe for weeks. But he never thought that he was a real monster. He was just strict, just hot-tempered, just a father who "teaches like this", "brings up like this", "shows like this who's boss in the house".
When his mother brings him to the first meeting, he still doesn't believe it. It's all a mistake. Father is strict, mean, sometimes cruel... but not a killer.
She takes him to every hearing, picks him up from classes, from practices, to bring him to court. She sits at the very back of the room, squeezes his hand so tightly that her fingertips remain on his skin.
"Look."
She whispers this to him every time he tries to turn away from the photographs. Black and white, with blood stains and closed eyes. Broken necks. Ripped open bellies. Skin peeled off.
Mom squeezes his hand, as if she's afraid he'll run away.
"Look. And never, never dare do that. Do you hear me, Abram? You're too much like him already. Don't you dare. Or I'll strangle you with my bare hands."
She never says he's handsome anymore. She no longer jokes that he'll break more than one heart someday. And he no longer says that he is like his father.
After his father's arrest, their family falls apart. Endless trials. Searches. Summoned to school - "It's just a formality," the police say. Interrogations. Endless interrogations.
"Are you sure you didn't see anything?"
"Are you sure you didn't hear anything?"
"Are you sure you didn't know anything?"
They ask again and again, hoping to hear at least something new. It gets worse when, after five years of investigation, he is released.
Not enough evidence.
No facts.
No direct connection.
No witnesses.
No motive.
How could a man like Nathan Vesninsky - handsome, well-groomed, self-confident, with a million-dollar smile and an expensive suit - kill someone? And so brutally? Why?
Abram unconsciously breathes a sigh of relief. It was all just a mistake. A terrible, nightmarish, devastating mistake, but still a mistake. His father is innocent. It was all a misunderstanding. He wants to tell his mother, wants to see her smile with relief, but her face remains frozen, cold, like a thread stretched to the limit, ready to snap at any moment.
"Mom?"
She doesn’t answer. She just grabs his wrist and pulls him out of the courtroom, while journalists buzz around, cameras flash, and his father shakes hands with his lawyers, slapping someone on the shoulder in a friendly manner.
"We need to run", she says quietly, almost soundlessly.
Abram blinks, not immediately realizing that he misheard.
"What? What are you talking about? Father is innocent..."
Slap!
The slap is a hot pain, but not strong — not like the blows that once left him lying on the floor, unable to move. This is not anger, not punishment, this is... panic. Mom yanks him by the collar, looks him straight in the eyes, squeezing his face in her palms.
"Oh God, Abram, don't be an idiot! He's guilty, Abram. Don't you really understand? Have you forgotten what he's like? Forgotten what he's capable of?"
Abram breathes heavily, clenches his teeth. No. He hasn't forgotten anything. He remembers.
He remembers how his father beat his mother until she lost consciousness.
How he burst into his room if he did something wrong.
How he himself threw himself at his father, trying to protect her.
"Don't touch my mother!"
How he screamed, hit with his hands, but a five-year-old child didn't have enough strength, and he was simply thrown aside like a rag doll.
The scars on his body still burn.
"Your father bought the judge."
Mother's voice is broken, torn, shaking with anger and fear.
"He bought the lawyers, he can buy anyone! He will never go to jail. Never. And we will never be safe. It's time for us to go. We can't stay here."
She speaks firmly, not brooking any objections. She was expecting this. She knew that everything would end in such a way that no one would stop him.
Abram swallows the lump in his throat. Everything he knew is collapsing. But he doesn't argue.
"We're leaving."
His life has changed since that day.
There's a stranger in the mirror. Not the boy with red hair and blue eyes, but someone else. Dark-haired, with brown lenses, in nondescript clothes a size too big. He squints, getting used to the new reflection.
"That's better", Mother says. "Don't go out without them. And pull your hood down lower. We have a long way to go."
Abram nods. No… not Abram.
Abram stays there, in the past. In childhood. In the house they are leaving. Now he is Stefan.
He looks in the mirror for the last time in the restroom of a roadside gas station, takes a deep breath and heads for the bus.
"Run. Run and never stop."
They manage to hide for a year before he finds them.
His mother dies slowly, painfully, like everyone who fell into his hands. His father takes his time. He savors every moment. While he is having fun, Abram runs.
"Run. Run and never stop."
Two years have passed since then. Now his name is Neil. He does not know if his father is looking for him. And he does not want to find out.
Now he lives the way his mother taught him. Changes cities. Does not stay longer than a few months. Works for cash, never leaves his details. Sleeps wherever he can. The main thing is not to attract attention.
"Run. Run and never stop."
Today he was lucky. Neil found a job. Carrying heavy boxes from the van to the bar, and then stocking the shelves in the warehouse alone is hard. His back aches, his fingers burn, but he clenches his teeth, forcing himself to continue. The main thing is that they pay.
"Come on, I'll stock the shelves."
Neil flinches and turns around. He didn't even hear them approach him. The owner of the store is standing in front of him - a tall, broad-shouldered man with arms completely covered in tattoos.
Shit. Neil is so tired that he didn't even notice him approaching. Didn't hear the footsteps. This is bad. He should pay more attention.
"What?"
Neil asks hoarsely, trying to hold on to the heavy box of whiskey bottles. The man grins and takes it right out of his hands.
"Give it to me. My knee isn't so bad, but my arms still work, so I'll set it all up myself."
He puts the box down on the floor and takes his wallet out of his pocket. Neil frowns. This isn't what they agreed on. He was supposed to carry the load and set up the merchandise. But if this strange man decided to do some of the work himself, so be it. The main thing is that he pays.
"Here, this is for you."
The man raises an eyebrow, as if to say, "Will you at least tell me your name?"
"Neil," he says shortly.
"Great, Neil. Here you go."
Neil nods, taking the money. Thirty dollars. Not much, but not bad. More than he usually makes.
"Thank you."
He puts the money in his backpack, clenching his fingers into a fist. Another day is behind him.
The man looks Neil up and down. His gaze is sharp, assessing, like a man who has seen a lot.
"This is my bar, you know."
Neil raises an eyebrow in surprise. He looks around. It's a nice bar, really - sturdy oak tables, expensive wood floors. The walls are covered with neatly framed military photos, as if the owner is proud of his history. There are already a few people in the corner. He notices that one of them has an empty sleeve, tied up - his arm is clearly missing.
"So you're in the military?"
"Retired."
The man sighs, lifts his pant leg, revealing a prosthetic.
"Afghanistan."
Neil whistles softly. He doesn’t know what to say. He’s never been good at responding to things like this.
"David Wymack. Just Wymack."
The man holds out his hand. It’s strong, with calluses on the fingers. The hand of a man who’s worked all his life. Neil hesitates, but shakes it.
"If you need a hot shower or a place to rest…"
Neil immediately frowns, wary.
"I have everything, I don’t need anything."
He starts to leave, but Wymack blocks his way, folding his arms.
"Okay. But I’ll give you another twenty dollars. And the next time you need a job, you come to me. Got it?"
Neil freezes. Another twenty dollars? That brings his total to fifty for the day, and fifty dollars is two days’ worth of food. Two days without worrying about tomorrow.
He nods slowly, without much enthusiasm. Of course, Neil isn't going to come back. But money is never too much.
"Got it."
Wymack looks at him intently, with some strange understanding. As if he already knows that Neil is lying to him. But he still holds out the bill. Neil takes the money, quickly putting it in his pocket.
"Thank you again... and goodbye?"
Wymack chuckles, looking him up and down, as if trying to read something between the lines.
"I hope you'll come back."
Neil pulls his hood up and walks out into the street without saying goodbye.
Wymack watches Neil disappear into the darkness of the street. Thin, tense, like a wild animal accustomed to the constant hunt. A man with a tied sleeve approaches him and pats him on the back.
"Found another one?"
David chuckles, not taking his eyes off the door the guy disappeared through.
"Maybe."
"He's not coming back, I can tell by his eyes."
The man grins, leaning against the bar.
"He swindled you out of your money and ran away."
Wymack shakes his head lazily.
"He did his job honestly."
"Come on, Wymack. We both know it was fifteen dollars tops, not fifty."
David finally turns to him, peering into his friend's face.
"He needed a chance. Something good. If this bastard can eat tonight and sleep off the streets, so be it."
The man shakes his head, but there's no judgment in his voice, just the usual bewilderment.
"Your heart is too big. Always has been."
"Let’s stop talking and get a drink."
They drink, and Wymack, breathing in the strong alcoholic smell, wonders if he’ll ever see this guy again.
...
Neil walks down the sidewalk with a steady, measured stride. Not too fast, so he doesn’t look scared, but not too slow, so he doesn’t look like easy prey. He keeps his hood pulled low over his face, his hands in his pockets, his back straight. The less attention the better. But, as luck would have it, that’s not enough.
"Hey!"
A voice comes from behind him, making him stumble slightly. Neil pretends not to hear it and keeps walking, hoping to be left alone.
"Hey, you! Stop, damn you!"
The voices multiply. Now Neil can hear footsteps, quick, determined, and soon a group of guys is in front of him.
Sneakers with tight laces, torn jeans, tight T-shirts that emphasize the sculpted muscles. Neil recognizes this type. They spend all their time in the gym, drinking cheap beer, and when they get bored, they look for adventures that end in a fight.
Damn.
"Hello."
One of them grins, showing off several missing teeth. Obviously, he likes to swing his fists.
"I'm in a hurry."
Neil answers in an even voice, trying to go around them.
Fighting is stupid. There are more of them, they are bigger, and besides, he has no desire to lie on the asphalt in blood. Running is smarter.
"Wait... wait..."
One of them raises his hands in a conciliatory gesture, but at the same time takes a step to the side, blocking the way.
"Wait, we just want to talk."
"Yeah, it's just common courtesy to say hello", the other one smirks.
Neil falls silent, and the speaker spits on the ground in irritation.
"Asshole."
"Calm down, Pete."
The guy with the missing teeth smiles again, tilting his head.
"Look, buddy, we just need a cigarette. That's all."
Neil frowns.
"I don't smoke."
"Oh, you're a jock, huh?"
They exchange glances, smirking.
"We don't smoke either. Well, sometimes."
Neil takes a step back, preparing to turn and run. But then the third figure, who has been silent until now, places a heavy hand on his shoulder. He is huge, with close-cropped hair and a dull, emotionless gaze.
"Leaving already?"
Neil feels fingers gripping his shoulder. Too tightly.
"I have to go."
Neil's voice is even, but inside, the alarm is already ringing. He sees them exchanging glances. A second. Here it is, that very second when everything is decided: will they fight or not. Either he runs now, or he will lie in the dust with a split lip.
Neil closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and then opens his mouth.
"I don't hang out with scum like you," he says with a lazy grin.
The boys tense up.
"Stupid jocks who not only smoked their brains out with cheap crap, but also pumped out the rest with steroids."
"What?!"
One of them takes a step closer, but Neil doesn’t shut up.
"Idiots who hide their mommy issues behind muscles. You’re so pathetic, you don’t even realize how funny you are."
Neil looks at them with open contempt.
"And the fact that you hang out together all the time, frankly, is a little disturbing. Maybe it’s not just mommy issues? Maybe daddy issues too?"
"You... You just called us fag..."
"Oh, look, you’re at a loss for words. Is it difficult?"
Neil smirks. He sees their cheekbones twitching, their fists clenching.
"Freud wrote that repressed sexuality is a very characteristic thing. Apparently, you miss her."
"Bastard!"
Neil sighs dramatically, feigning sympathy.
"Too bad. But you know what? At your age, it can still be fixed. Impotence is treatable. Don't be upset."
Neil expected the blow, but still didn't have time to dodge. The fist hits his nose, instead of his jaw. Better this way. He knows how to fix noses.
The big guy standing behind him squeezes his shoulder even harder, but Neil jerks his head back, hitting him in the face.
"Agh!"
The guy clearly didn't expect that, and his grip weakens. But Neil barely has time to take a step, as Pete - the one who talked about cigarettes - grabs him by the strap of his backpack and pulls him towards himself. Neil loses his balance and falls to the ground, hitting his elbows on the hard asphalt.
"Fuck!"
And then the blows rain down on him. In the face. In the stomach. In the ribs. Muffled, quick and without unnecessary words. Neil laughs through the pain.
"You..."
He chokes on air when one of them hits him in the solar plexus.
"Still impotent... if this is how you have fun instead of girls."
Another blow. Neil writhes, trying to suck in air. Someone searches his backpack.
"Oh, look! We have a good Samaritan here!"
They find the $30 they earned today.
"Thanks for sharing generously", Pete grins.
The guys exchange glances, casting a disdainful glance at him.
"I hope to see you again."
They leave, laughing. And Neil remains lying there, his eyes closed, catching his ragged breath. His head is pounding like he's been hit by a hammer, but he doesn't care. He's still breathing.
His rib is aching, maybe cracked, but there's no time for that. He flexes his fingers, moves his legs. Alive, moving, that's good. His fingers find a crumpled bill in his pocket. Just a twenty. Enough for dinner.
"Idiots," Neil grins, getting to his feet.
He can't stay outside, so Neil gathers his few belongings into a backpack: a change of pants and a T-shirt, a cap, and another pair of socks. Not much, but it's all he needs right now.
Neil spits out blood and touches his face with his fingertips - hot, swollen skin, displaced bone beneath the pads. Neil pinches his nose, feeling the hot blood seep through his fingers. Sticky, warm, it runs down his lips, leaving a salty taste.
"Shit", he breathes through his teeth.
His hands are sweaty. Fear has gripped his fingers, but he can’t put it off. Neil knows he needs to act fast. The swelling is growing, and in an hour there’s nothing he can do without a doctor.
"Just do it."
Neil grabs the bridge of his nose with one hand, and covers the bottom of his nose with the other. He squeezes carefully. A sharp pain explodes in his head, as if someone had stuck a hot needle in there. His eyes are watering, his stomach is convulsing.
"One… two…", his voice is shaking. "Three!"
In one sharp movement, he yanks his nose back. Click. The world flashes white, pain explodes in his head, reverberating in his eyes, jaw, and temples.
Neil doubles over, gasping for air, groaning softly and freezing as the pain surges through him.
A few seconds pass in complete silence except for his rapid, ragged breathing. With shaking hands, Neil reaches for a T-shirt that could use a wash or ten and presses it to his face to stop the bleeding. The pain is slowly ebbing, he's felt worse.
Neil takes a deep breath, feeling his lungs fill with oxygen. At least he's still alive.
He forces himself to walk forward. People give him a wide berth. Blood on his face, a swollen, broken face, a dirty T-shirt - no one wants to mess with him.
Good.
Twenty minutes later, Neil reaches a convenience store. He walks in and is immediately met with the intense gaze of the woman behind the register. She raises her hands reflexively.
"There's nothing to steal from us!"
Neil sighs heavily, pulling a twenty out of his pocket.
"I need water. And something to eat."
The woman nods quickly, throws two bottles of water, cookies, and a bag of chips into the bag.
"There's nothing else to eat. But I can give you a donut, too."
"Okay."
He notices a pack of antiseptic wipes in the bag and looks at it in surprise. The woman shrugs, a slight smile twitching at the corner of her lips.
"A gift from the establishment."
She nods at his face. Neil reflexively rubs his face. But he takes the bag and nods.
"Thank you."
Neil leaves the store, opens a bottle of water on the go, and downs it in one gulp. The water is cold and heavy, but immediately causes a nagging nausea. He covers his mouth with his hand, swallows - no, not now.
He's more careful with food.
The stale strawberry doughnut crumbles awkwardly in his hands, but Neil stretches it out for ten long minutes. He doesn't like sweets, but the heaviness in his stomach distracts him from the pain and creates the illusion of peace for a while.
Neil licks the strawberry jam off his fingers and kicks the empty bottle lying at his feet with all his might. Neil hates his life.
Hates.
His father - for beating him as a child, turning his body into a mangled map of bruises and broken bones.
His mother - for being too weak to leave, too stupid to take him with her.
The people around him - the judge who let the killer go free, the 911 dispatcher who sent help to his mother too late.
And himself. For fear. For the carelessness with which he spent the last of his money, living in cheap motels and spending the rest on new passports.
"Neil Josten" is a stupid name and his last one.
It is too similar to his real name. But he had no choice.
Neil kicks the empty bottle, throws the doughnut wrapper in the trash and moves on. He is still hungry. But there is no more money.
And in the backpack there is only a bag of chips and cookies - pathetic crumbs.
In the distance, Neil sees a playground. To hell with it, he can take a break. Let his stomach calm down and get used to being full, and if it gets worse, he will eat the chips.
Neil sits down on the creaky swing and takes wet wipes from the backpack. He is used to blood, but it has begun to dry, tightening the skin and causing an unpleasant itch. Neil is grateful for the relief she has given him. He slowly rubs his face, careful not to touch his aching nose, pushing himself off the ground slightly, rocking back and forth.
He repeats the motion, rocking slowly back and forth until blood stains remain on the napkins, which fall to the ground and spread into red streaks under his feet.
"Are you okay?"
A man’s voice sounds nearby. Neil looks up, straightening up. He can’t take another fight that night. But the man in front of him doesn’t look like a mugger, or in Neil’s case, someone who would fight over a few bucks or a bag of chips. He’s too well dressed. His hair is done, and his suit is expensive, without a single crease, as if it had just been pressed. Neil glances at his shoes, perfectly polished. What is a man like that doing out on the street at this hour?
"Sir?", the man repeats.
He has a slight accent, but it’s hard to hear. Not German, but rough. Not British, but fast. Like a fake. Like someone trying to sound different than they really are.
"Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine", Neil says.
He glances down at the napkins, hoping that’s what the man came up to him about.
"I’m not going to litter. Don’t worry."
The man smiles slightly, the corners of his mouth turning up ever so slightly.
"I’m sure you do. Do you have a minute?"
"I don’t believe in God."
"That’s not what I mean."
"Then… I’ll go. I have to go now."
Neil bends down quickly, picking up the bloody napkins. It’s best not to leave a trace behind.
The man, not taking his eyes off him, calmly sits down on the swing next to him. His movements are leisurely, as if he was just here to sit and not have weird conversations with a bloody guy on a late-night playground.
"Are there complications in your complicated life?"
Neil snorts, not hiding his amusement.
"What makes you think that?"
He throws the napkins in the trash and straightens up, ready to leave. That’s enough. Just some weirdo with nothing better to do at night. A rich guy who’s not afraid of getting robbed.
Neil turns around, but barely has time to take a step before the man speaks again.
"You need money, don’t you?"
Neil freezes. Of course he does. He doesn’t trust this guy, but if he’s offering a job without papers, maybe he should listen.
Neil turns slowly, and the man, as if taking that for an answer, smiles wider. He nods toward the swing, which is still swinging.
"Let’s play a game. Whoever wins gets the money."
Neil winces.
"That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Why don’t I just rob you?", he asks, squinting.
The man shows no fear.
"That’s against the rules."
"The rules?"
"Yes. We play fair. Whoever wins gets the money."
Neil crosses his arms.
"I don’t have any money to play with."
The man nods, as if that was the answer he was waiting for.
"No problem. You can pay with your body."
Neil's eyes widen and he takes a sharp step back. He takes any job that doesn't require identification. He carries boxes, scrubs floors, washes dishes, does laundry - but he doesn't sell himself. This is all he has left. What his father couldn't take from him. And Neil will never give up this scrap of freedom for a few measly dollars.
He knows it's easy to run away. They're in an open playground, no one else is around. But something about this man makes him wary. His piercing gaze, his too-cheerful smile... It's like he likes to see fear in Neil's eyes.
A voice inside screams: danger.
"Slap."
The word breaks Neil out of the chaos of his thoughts. He blinks, trying to process what was said.
"What?"
The man's smile widens, as if he's anticipating something funny.
"I'm just talking about a slap. We'll play a game, and if I win, you get a slap. If you win, you get a $100 bill. Deal?"
Neil exhales slowly, holding back his irritation. A hundred dollars. He could live on that for a week, maybe more if he saved. But something inside him is scratching. It's too easy. Neil clenches his fists, forcing himself to remain calm.
"What's the catch?" he frowns. "Why do you need this?"
The man pushes off the ground slightly, rocking the swing, and shrugs casually.
"Nothing. Just looking for someone to play with."
His tone is light, relaxed, but this calm only makes Neil's shoulders tense even more. He's lying. But a hundred dollars…
Doubts gnaw at him from the inside, but the temptation is too great. Neil grits his teeth, forcing himself to nod.
"What kind of game is this?"
"A typical children’s game. You probably know it. Rock, paper, scissors."
Neil blinks. He’s never heard of it. He grew up afraid and beaten, and he had no time for games. The man notices his confusion, tilting his head to the side as if studying him.
"Since you haven’t heard, I can explain the rules. Will you sit down?"
His eyes are shining with excitement, but not just any excitement – he’s genuinely enjoying this moment. Neil hesitates, but eventually slowly lowers himself back onto the swing, never taking his eyes off him. The man nods like a teacher before a lesson.
"It’s a children’s game where the players simultaneously make one of three hand signs…"
The man extends his hand forward and clenches his fist.
"Rock", he says calmly, gently swinging his hand.
Then he straightens his index and middle fingers, making the sign of scissors.
"Scissors."
Neil watches his movements carefully, memorizing the sequence. The man opens his palm, straightening all his fingers.
"Paper."
"And how do you play that?"
Neil asks, squinting. The man’s smile widens, as if the question amuses him.
"Both players simultaneously count, ‘Rock, Paper, Scissors!’ and on the count of three, they show one of the three gestures."
He extends both hands in front of him, making a fist on one hand and two folded fingers on the other. Then he makes a sharp movement, slamming one hand against the other.
"Rock breaks scissors."
He slowly moves his fingers, as if cutting an imaginary sheet of paper.
"Scissors cut paper."
Finally, the palm gently covers the fist.
"And the paper covers the rock."
Neil frowns.
"And if we both pick the same sign?"
"A draw. We play until three wins in a row", the man explains, smirking.
"That's it?"
Neil raises an eyebrow in disbelief.
"That's right. If you win three times, you get a hundred dollars."
"If I lose?"
"Then you get a slap in the face", the man reminds, as if this is an insignificant detail.
Neil hesitates for a few more seconds before extending his hand forward.
"Okay", he agrees. "Let's play."
"Rock. Paper. Scissors!"
Their voices sound in sync, their palms moving quickly, the tension hanging in the air. The man abruptly throws out a fist — rock. Neil clenches his fingers into scissors, but realizes his mistake too late.
"Damn", he grits his teeth.
The man smiles, shaking his head.
"Remember, you have to win three times."
Neil nods, rubbing his fingers. He stares ahead, trying to figure out which move to use next time.
"Rock. Paper. Scissors!"
Neil smirks smugly as his scissors cut through his opponent's paper.
"One-one", the man comments, raising his eyebrows slightly.
Neil swallows hard. Everything is decided now.
"Rock. Paper. Scissors!"
This time his rock loses to paper. He doesn't even have time to curse before a loud slap hits his cheek. The pain in his broken nose flares up with renewed vigor, deafening and depriving him of air. Neil grabs his face abruptly, doubling over.
"Fuck!"
"I'm sorry, but you lost", the man says calmly. "Do you want to play again?"
Neil exhales, angrily raising his head, fire blazing in his eyes.
"Yes."
He plays again — and loses again. Again. And again. The slaps rain down one after another, burning his skin, making his teeth grind. Neil winces, but continues. Something is wrong here. This is not just an accident.
As he concentrates, he begins to notice patterns. People don't act randomly, but out of habit. After a few lost rounds, he notices that his opponent is choosing rock more often than not. So to win, he must choose paper.
"Again!"
Neil says firmly. The man nods approvingly.
"Good."
"Rock. Scissors. Paper!"
Neil enthusiastically throws away the paper, catching his opponent's rock with his eyes. The first step is done. Two more to go. Now that the man has lost with rock, he will likely change his choice. But to what?
Neil considers. He can either choose scissors or rock. His opponent will probably choose between scissors and paper. If Neil takes rock, he risks losing if the man chooses paper. But if he chooses scissors, he has a chance of either winning or drawing.
"Rock. Paper. Scissors!"
Scissors. Neil smirks as he looks at his opponent's paper.
"Damn", the man smirks, but he doesn't look upset.
It's the last time left. The man is unlikely to take paper now. He'll probably either choose scissors to try to win against paper, or rock again.
"Rock. Paper. Scissors!"
Neil freezes. Scissors versus rock.
"I won", he whispers, realizing it.
The man breaks into a genuine smile.
"Congratulations on your victory!"
He slowly takes a perfectly flat, unwrinkled hundred-dollar bill out of his inside jacket pocket and hands it to Neil.
Neil can't believe his eyes. He just made a ton of money just playing. He usually couldn't get more than thirty bucks for his hard work, but here he got a hundred.
He carefully takes the bill and holds it up to the light of the flashlight, trying to check its authenticity. He doesn't know if it's real, but he watches the man's reaction furtively. The man is still smiling calmly, not even trying to rush him. Not a drop of irritation, not a hint of offense. As if he expected nothing else. Neil hopes that means the money is real.
"Before you go, Mr. Josten, I'd like to give you something."
The man's voice is calm, but there's something in it that sends a chill down Neil's spine. He jerks away at the sound of his name, but before he can take a step, the man's fingers close around his wrist. The grip is unexpectedly firm, but not rough.
"I'm not who you think I am," the man says. "But yes, I know you. I mean, I know everything about you."
Neil freezes. His heart hits his ribs with painful force.
"You live under a bridge, thirty minutes from here."
The stranger continues, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.
"You work part-time in the evenings for a couple of dollars. Recently spent a large sum and were left with almost no money."
Neil swallows, feeling an unpleasant tension growing in his stomach. The man smiles indulgently, like an adult talking to a child who is sure he is hiding, even though his legs are visible from under the table.
"Yes, and I know that your real name is not Neil Josten."
Neil freezes, all his muscles taut as a string.
"Who are you?"
"But let me assure you."
The man releases his wrist and takes a step back.
"I have no interest in your past or your attitude towards it."
Neil narrows his eyes.
"Then what do you want?"
The stranger doesn't answer right away. Instead, he takes a business card from his jacket pocket and holds it out. Neil takes it automatically, although his fingers are shaking slightly. The man adjusts the cuffs of his sleeves, as if talking to him is just a short pause in his evening plans.
"If you want to change your life and stop running."
He gives him one last look, in which Neil thinks there is hidden interest, and slowly walks away, not hurrying and not turning around. Neil remains standing there, looking at the business card in his hands. A sense of danger mixes with irritation. Why the hell does this man know so much about him?
But he doesn't have time to figure it out. He can't go back under the bridge. Definitely not now. Neil takes a deep breath and heads towards the cheap motels.
...
"I need a room for the night. The cheapest one."
The man behind the counter looks at him strangely, slowly looking up from the magazine he was reading. He looks him over lazily, assessing his shabby clothes, then reluctantly takes out his key.
"Forty dollars."
Neil silently takes out a hundred and places it on the counter. The cashier squints, as if assessing where he got that much money, but still takes the bill, opens the register and counts out the change. Neil takes the key and the money without even checking. Today, he just wants to lock himself in the room and not think about the fact that his life may be in danger again.
Neil closes the curtains tightly and sits on the bed, unclenching his fingers for the first time and looking at the business card. It is slightly wrinkled, the edges curled from how hard he squeezed it. He straightens it with his fingers and examines it. On a pure white background are strange, minimalist symbols: a circle, a triangle, a square. No name. No address. Just symbols.
Neil frowns. He's never seen such symbols on any business or establishment in this city. He turns the card over. On the back, neatly printed, is a phone number.
"What is this?", he whispers to himself.
He sets the card down on the bed, but his eyes keep returning to it as he rummages through his backpack for a change of clothes.
The shower is running with a booming noise, the pipe almost shaking from the pressure of the water. Neil stands under the warm streams, watching the water run down his body, washing away a week’s worth of dirt and street dust. He hasn’t showered in over a week, maybe longer. Washing in public places is difficult, and getting into the river is dangerous.
There is no hot water in this motel. But compared to the icy wind outside, the warm, slightly cool water feels almost like a blessing. Neil stands there for so long that his skin begins to go numb from the cold. The water no longer warms him, but he doesn’t move, just listens to the drops drumming on the tiles.
He needed this.
When his toes go numb from the cold, he finally gets out, wrapping himself in a cheap towel. It used to be white, but now it's more of a grayish color, thin and stiff from repeated washings.
Neil finally gets a bag of chips out of his backpack. When he opens the package, the sharp, chemical smell of seasoning hits his nose. He sticks his hand inside, pulling out several chips at once, but doesn't rush to chew.
First, Neil licks off the spices, feeling his tongue tingle from the excess salt and flavor enhancers. Then he puts the chips on his tongue, letting them soften, and only then does he swallow. It takes longer, but this way he'll definitely be full.
With every rustle behind the wall, his muscles tense. This motel is a hole, the walls are so thin that he can hear a man arguing with his wife in the next room. The woman's voice breaks, then suddenly stops.
Neil looks at the ceiling. He doesn't want to be afraid of his father forever.
He remembers his mother's words.
"Don't stop. Run."
But to really run, far and forever, you need money. A passport, a ticket, maybe plastic.
His gaze falls on the business card. Neil doesn't give himself time to think. He just picks up the phone and dials.
Beeps. One. Two. Three. Click.
"I'm listening."
The voice is flat, emotionless. As if mechanical.
"Hello?"
Neil turns the card over in his hands, trying to think of something to say.
"I... I was given this card today."
His pulse is pounding in his ears. What is it doing?
"Want to join the game?"
Neil opens his mouth to ask what game they're talking about. Will it be rock, paper, scissors again? But the voice on the other end of the line continues.
"If so, state your name and date of birth."
Neil pauses. The card feels heavier than it did a moment ago.
"Neil Abram Josten, March 31, 1987."
The memorized words roll off his lips like a reflex. A brief silence.
"Tonight, take Route 13 at 3 a.m. The password is "Green light. Red light."
Click. Beeps. Neil slowly lowers the phone.