In the distance, even through the trees, thin trails of smoke were already visible—as if rising from chimneys.

  Dima didn’t notice them.

  With every step, a realization pulled tighter around his thoughts: nothing of what he once knew remained.

  No comfort.

  No soda.

  No computer.

  And then—

  He had killed people.

  The thought hit him suddenly, like a physical blow. His body shook, his step faltered, and he stopped.

  “What’s wrong?” Stasyan asked sharply.

  Dima didn’t answer. His gaze darted from the trees to the ground and back again, unable to latch onto anything. His hands trembled, his breathing broke apart. He took one step, then another… and abruptly sank down, his back hitting the trunk of a tree.

  He covered his face with his hands.

  “Oh God…” he muttered. His voice cracked. “Where am I…?”

  He swallowed, forcing himself to breathe deeper.

  “Let this be a dream…” he whispered. “Please… let it be a dream, not reality. I want to go home so badly…”

  “Hey, champ,” Stasyan barked. “We’re almost there. You can already see smoke from the houses, and now you decide to panic?”

  Dima didn’t hear him.

  He saw Stasyan pacing in front of him, saying something, waving his arms—but the words never reached him. The weight of everything that had happened crashed down all at once, without warning.

  He tried to stand, but the thought that he would never again have the life he was used to crushed him anew. His legs gave out, and he slumped back down, curling in on himself by the tree.

  No warm home with a soft bed.

  No comfortable chair.

  No friends.

  No family.

  Only this world—wild, alien, filled with slavery, fear, and people who could not be trusted.

  Stasyan fell silent. He watched Dima for a while, then pulled a flask from his belt and silently held it out.

  Dima didn’t realize right away that something was being handed to him. Only a couple of seconds later did he take the flask and swallow a few gulps.

  The water was warm and tasted strange, but it helped him breathe.

  “Thanks…” he muttered. “Sorry. I just… it’s hard.”

  He exhaled, keeping his eyes down.

  “I just realized it all at once—that it’s over. That the world I knew doesn’t exist anymore.”

  For a moment, he forced a crooked, joyless smirk.

  “And you yourself… well, you’re not exactly a normal person either.”

  “What do you mean, not normal?” Stasyan asked.

  “Your skin is kind of blue,” Dima said. “And you’re… short. Back where I’m from, short people weren’t uncommon, but skin color like that—this is the first time I’ve seen it.”

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  Stasyan crouched down beside him. Dima handed the flask back, and Stasyan took a couple of slow sips.

  “Well,” he said calmly, “if that didn’t exist in your time, then you’re going to be surprised by a lot of things here.”

  They sat in silence for a bit longer. Gradually, Dima came back to himself. The shaking eased, his breathing steadied.

  Then they got up and headed toward the smoke.

  Stasyan walked faster now, as if eager to reach other people.

  “Better not waste time,” he said as they went. “We need to restock—at least water and food. There’s nothing nearby, but a village always has a well. And food’s easier too—otherwise we’ll be chewing roots and catching bugs soon.”

  “I’ve seen so many movies and played so many games that I’m pretty sure bugs are crunchy and tasty,” Dima tried to joke.

  “Ugh,” Stasyan grimaced. “They’re disgusting. No idea what you’ve been watching…”

  He cut off abruptly.

  “WATCH OUT!”

  Stasyan slammed into Dima with full force. The world flipped upside down as they both crashed to the ground. At the same instant, something sharp and fast whistled through the air above Stasyan’s head—cutting through the space where his neck had been a second earlier.

  They rolled across the ground. Dima slammed his elbow painfully, the air knocked from his lungs, and Stasyan’s weight pinned him down.

  “Quiet…” Stasyan hissed, not getting up.

  A voice came from behind a tree—raspy, pleased.

  “Well well…” someone drawled. “Two nice pieces of meat. Not going hungry today, Fang.”

  A shadow moved from behind the trunk.

  A man of average height stepped out, draped in filthy furs, a short rusty knife in his hand. A little behind him stood another man, shorter, gripping a similar knife.

  Stasyan sprang to his feet, yanked a club from his back, and took a fighting stance.

  Dima, wincing through the pain, slowly pushed himself up beside him.

  “Maybe we can part ways peacefully?” Stasyan said, not lowering his weapon.

  “Oh wow…” the man sneered. “The food can talk. Keep quiet, or you’ll rot.”

  He lunged forward.

  Dima barely managed to lift his eyes—someone was already charging at him with a knife, the second right behind. His legs felt rooted to the ground, his breath broke, his body refused to move.

  And then the knife flew upward.

  Stasyan smashed the attacker’s arm with his club. Drops of blood flashed through the air. Almost at the same time, the second knife slashed across Stasyan’s shoulder, leaving a ragged cut.

  Dima still stood frozen.

  Stasyan swung—missed—and immediately took a cut across the face from the one called Fang. The first attacker, nameless, was writhing on the ground, clutching his arm—clearly broken by the blow.

  “DIMA! SHOOT!” Stasyan screamed.

  It didn’t register at once. Then it hit him—hard.

  Dima jerked, fumbled for the pistol with a shaking hand, yanked it free, and pulled the trigger.

  A shot rang out.

  The bullet tore through a pocket and went wide.

  Stasyan heard the crack, saw Fang flinch for a split second in fear—and immediately smashed his club into the man’s face. Teeth sprayed outward as the body slammed into the ground.

  Without stopping, Stasyan charged the second attacker and brought the club down on his head. The man went limp and collapsed unconscious.

  Dima finally raised the pistol, tried to aim with his shaking hands—and only then realized it was over.

  “Real useful you were,” Stasyan rasped, dropping down onto the ground. “How the hell did you manage to kill my guys back then, huh?”

  “I… I… I’m sorry,” Dima forced out.

  Stasyan sat there, breathing heavily, pressing a hand to his shoulder.

  “You’re bleeding. We need to stop it,” Dima said, putting the pistol away.

  “Better check yourself,” Stasyan waved him off. “You shot at your own damn self. I’ve had scratches worse than this.”

  Dima looked down, patted himself over—no wounds. The bullet had gone wide.

  Only a neat hole gaped where his pocket had been.

  Stasyan tore a strip of fur from the nameless man’s clothes and tightly bound the cut on his shoulder. On his face there was only a shallow scratch—barely bleeding.

  A scratch, Dima thought. It’ll heal.

  “We need to finish them,” Stasyan said calmly. “Otherwise they’ll wake up and come looking for us. For revenge.”

  Dima swallowed.

  “I… I can’t.”

  Stasyan snapped his head toward him.

  “You could kill my guys, but not these?” he snapped. “What are you, some kind of piece of shit?”

  “I’ve never killed anyone,” Dima said through clenched teeth. “And what happened to your friends… I don’t even understand how it happened.”

  Stasyan looked at the bodies.

  “We have to kill them at least so they don’t make it to the village,” he said more quietly. “They eat people. Even we never sank that low.”

  He bent down, picked up one of the attackers’ knives, and without hesitation drove it into each of their chests in turn.

  Quick.

  Wordless.

  Then he quickly went through their belongings: took the second knife, a couple of water flasks, stripped the hides from their bodies.

  “That’s it,” he said shortly. “We move. It’ll be dark soon. I want to sleep under a roof, not in the forest.”

  Dima rose unsteadily. Without a word, he took everything Stasyan dumped on him, and together they slowly headed toward the village.