Chapter 1
The wind, a malevolent hand, scraped icy fingers down Vienna’s spine. March, a month usually heralding the tentative hope of spring, had morphed into a cruel parody of winter’s grip. An unsettling stillness hung heavy in the air, broken only by the defiant crunch of frosted leaves under Erwin’s boots. Sunlight, a usual companion, now felt like a distant memory. It glinted off the frozen cityscape with a cold, unforgiving glare, transforming car windows into sheets of impenetrable ice.
Erwin, bundled in a coat that offered scant protection against the insidious chill, quickened his pace towards his call center job. Despite the brisk walk, a tremor ran through him, a physical manifestation of the unease gnawing at his gut. The rhythmic pounding of Linkin Park through his headphones did little to dispel the growing sense of disquiet.
Reaching the subway station, he was met with an abnormality as jarring as the weather. The usually bustling platform was eerily quiet. Gone were the hurried exchanges, the impatient shuffles, the cacophony of the daily commute. An oppressive hush had descended, thick enough to choke on. A prickling sensation crawled up Erwin’s neck. Something was terribly wrong.
“Did you hear?” one woman asked, her voice laced with worry.
“About Alin?” the other replied. Erwin’s ears perked up.
The first woman’s whisper sliced through the oppressive silence like a rusty blade. “Found dead in the river,” she rasped, her voice barely a tremor above a gasp. “Not even knee-deep.” The words hung in the air, heavy with a morbid weight. Erwin flinched, the echo of the news reverberating in his skull.
He stumbled onto the train, desperately seeking refuge within the pulsating rhythm of his music. He cranked up the volume, Linkin Park’s raw energy, a desperate attempt to drown out the chilling whispers and the unsettling quiet. Through the haze of sound, a flicker of movement caught his eye. A figure, shrouded in an outlandish mix of baggy clothes and what seemed to be hip-hop attire, stared at him with an unnerving intensity. A single star, stark against pale skin, marred their cheek. Erwin met their gaze for a heartbeat, a primal sense of unease prickling at his skin. Then, in a blink, the figure was gone, vanished like a phantom.
The train lurched forward, packed with a sea of humanity. Students, office drones, a spectrum of faces all glued to the glowing rectangles in their hands. But the usual morning bustle was absent. Instead, a chilling silence hung over them, punctuated only by the rhythmic tapping of thumbs on screens. In their eyes, Erwin saw a reflection of his own growing dread – a silent desperation that mirrored the desolate landscape outside. He mumbled along to the music, the lyrics resonating far deeper than usual: “What I’ve done?”
Stations blurred by in a monotonous dance of concrete and steel. The biting cold outside seeped into his bones, a physical manifestation of the dread settling in his gut. By the time he reached Laganfeldegasse 25, the chill had morphed into a suffocating internal winter. His call center, housed in a once-grand historical building, reeked of damp and neglect. It felt like a monument to a bygone era, a decaying relic of the communist dream. A dream that now stood as a grim reminder of shattered promises. A world of equality Erwin would have once fought for had become a monotonous cycle of underpaid drudgery. As he poured himself a cup of coffee, the last dregs of honey adding a touch of bittersweetness to the stale brew, Erwin couldn’t shake the feeling that this day, this city, held a darkness he hadn’t even begun to fathom.
Erwin froze. The lukewarm water cascading down the sink suddenly felt like a torrent of icy accusation. The coworker’s voice, dripping with a smug sympathy that grated on him, echoed in his head.
“Poor wife,” she’d said, her eyes glued to the screen displaying the news report. “What a coward!”
Erwin slammed the faucet shut, the sharp click a punctuation mark to the anger that surged within him. Coward. The word hung heavy in the air, a festering wound exposed. He stared at his reflection in the grimy mirror above the sink – a reflection that looked increasingly unfamiliar. Was he a coward? The question hammered at him, relentless and insistent.
Alin. The name surfaced in his mind, a tidal wave of memories sweeping over him. Alin, his childhood friend, his shadow, a reflection of his own struggles mirrored in worn clothes and hungry eyes. Alin, the fighter, the one who always got back up, even when life knocked him down. Why him? Why not me? The bitterness was a familiar taste, a stale aftertaste that lingered in his mouth. He, Erwin, a washed-up husk drifting from one dead-end job to another. Alin, with the potential for a life, a family, a future. And now he is gone. Leaving behind a hollow shell staring back at him from the mirror.
He stumbled back to his cubicle, the repetitive calls of the call center a dull roar in his ears. Each ring felt like a hammer blow, each customer interaction a meaningless transaction. He sought refuge in the familiar world within the worn pages of his novel. During breaks, he’d escape into the fantasy realm, transforming into the formidable Merrick the Devil, facing fantastical beasts and battling impossible odds. Here, in this world of his own creation, he felt a flicker of power, a sense of control that was missing from his own life.
Time seemed to warp and bend. One moment he was lost in the fictional world, the next he was jolted back to reality by the rhythmic rumble of the train. And there she was again, the strange figure from before. This time, however, the enigmatic grin on her face sent shivers down his spine. He steeled himself, trying to ignore her, to retreat back into his cocoon of silence.
