Chapter 10 – Tension!

After the Gobby and German incident, the media stormed in like wildfire.

For two whole weeks, every major outlet buzzed – all trying to track down the man in the Panama hat who had attacked children. Social media boiled with reposts, theories, panicked threads. Comments surged by the thousands. People didn’t just discuss – they organized volunteer patrols. Everyone hunted the Panama Hat Maniac – a label given by the police and gleefully amplified by journalists.

For two weeks, officers were stationed near Gobby’s home. Other children were told to stay inside unless absolutely necessary.

And Drogo?
For him, the noise was different.

The media shredded him.

Once known as the Heart Reaver, he was now branded a pedophile and rapist.

But then – silence.

As it always goes now – outrage explodes, engagement peaks, and if nothing new happens, the public moves on – already looking for the next sensation.

Two weeks passed.

German spent the first week in the hospital, the second recovering at home.

Gobby, on the other hand, had been taken home by his parents the very next day – right after that conversation.

Still, the boys stayed in touch. Gobby visited German or called him every single day. They made plans.

German had one firm rule.

– No visiting during lunch break. Your brain turns into a food tracker, and your mouth follows.

When the two-week lockdown ended, police finally allowed the kids to leave their homes – but only under adult supervision.

Why?

They believed the Panama Hat Maniac had left town. No new reports. No sightings. No leads.

From one of the detective’s three house visits, Gobby’s father learned three things.

First – the police had already contacted the professor, but gained nothing useful.
Second – they did provide the professor’s home address.
And third – yes, he was retired. No longer in practice.

Gobby had been insisting on meeting the professor. His parents didn’t object – the professor had helped once before, and maybe he could help Gobby cope with the trauma again.

That’s what his parents thought.

But not Gobby.

This time, it was German who urged the meeting. He believed it might reveal hidden truths – offer deeper insight into who Gobby really was. And honestly, German couldn’t let it go. Curious about the past of someone so close to him.

A gray Mercedes van pulled up in front of German’s house. Inside were Gobby, his parents, and the quiet tension of anticipation. German’s grandmother – who had raised him since his parents died in childhood – rolled him out in his wheelchair. Moving was still difficult; the chair made it easier.

He was helped into the van.

They drove.

At the professor’s house, they stopped at the door together. The doorbell rang.

It opened to reveal the professor’s wife. Her face lit up.

– Lisa. Alan. Oh, hello. And Gobby – my goodness, how you’ve grown. And this must be your friend, the one who got hurt. Poor thing.

She seemed genuinely happy to see them, full of questions.

Alan smiled.

– Good to see you too. We’ll happily answer everything, but first – is the professor home?

She turned toward the stairs.

– Sergey. You’ve got visitors.

Moments later, the professor appeared on the landing. He stopped, saw who it was, and barked:

– Tell them to leave.

He turned and started back upstairs.

His wife gave a soft, knowing smile.

– One moment. I’ll talk to him.

She closed the door gently behind her.

Several long minutes passed.

Then the door creaked open.

This time, it was the professor himself.

He stood there like a scolded child who had just been told to stop sulking and act his age. His eyes darted sideways toward his wife. She leaned in, close enough that he couldn’t ignore her and whispered, teasing pride in her voice:

– There you go. Good boy.

He gave a small, reluctant nod.

– Come in, he muttered.

His wife led them into the living room and began setting the table. She laid out a few treats, brought in a small kettle, arranged a fine porcelain tea set with methodical warmth.

The professor turned to Gobby’s parents.

– Why are you here?

Lisa spoke carefully.

– You probably know what happened to the boys. And we hoped you might be able to help.

– I’ve already helped you once. Now I just want to live out my retirement in peace.

– Professor, please. Just talk to the boys. Make sure they’re okay. You’re a brilliant specialist.

The professor grimaced at the last remark, muttered something under his breath, then motioned for the boys to follow him. Alan picked up German and followed the professor upstairs.

Downstairs, the professor’s wife turned to Lisa.

– Don’t mind him. After Gobby stopped coming to see him, he began focusing on parallel processes and alternate worlds.

She spoke evenly, without apology.

– He published several articles, working with different patients. In them, he developed two ideas: that autism isn’t a psychiatric disorder, but a form of giftedness – a way of seeing the world differently. And that schizophrenia is a kind of uniqueness, allowing entry into specific states of consciousness – breaking the world into elements and particles.

– Those ideas nearly cost him his professorship. He was close to being labeled mentally ill himself. He had to publish a paper full of apologies, reframing everything as philosophy.

She paused.

– After that, he shut himself off. Spent more time in his study. Never spoke of those ideas again.

Her voice softened.

– In his pain and disappointment, he blames me… and you. Me – because I once reached out. You – because you brought Gobby.

Upstairs, Gobby and German were already in the professor’s study. Alan had gone back downstairs.

German launched into his story, barely stopping to breathe – how he met Gobby, what shocked him, what fascinated him. He asked questions, eager to hear about the professor’s past work.

Meanwhile, Gobby noticed a plate of cookies on the table and immediately reached for one.

The professor, who had been listening in silence, glanced over and noticed what Gobby was doing. His stern gaze softened into something warmer – like a grandfather watching a mischievous grandchild.

– Gobby, you may have grown up, but some things never change. You still love to snack.

He shifted his attention to German.

– Alright. I’ll answer your questions. One at a time. I see you brought a notebook – don’t forget to use it. You remind me of myself at your age. I used to write everything down too.

– Can I start with the big one?

– What exactly was Gobby sick with? What did you treat him for?

The professor smiled crookedly. There was bitterness in it – the kind that comes from explaining the same thing too many times without being heard.

– Gobby was healthier than any of us ever were.

– But… his mom said he talked to spirits and couldn’t form normal relationships with people.

– And I talked to his spirit. Or rather – an essence. A being he used to call Deda. That was the name he gave to the one he communicated with back then.

– And what do you mean by “normal relationships”? Surrendering to a structure imposed by a society where violence, murder, money, poverty, and misery rule?

German paused. Then nodded slowly.

– Exactly.

The professor leaned back.

– Gobby built a perfect world around himself. And we couldn’t accept it. We adults couldn’t stand that a child found joy in things we didn’t give him – that he simply felt joy.

He exhaled.

– I realized how absurd that was during our very first session. I jokingly asked a four-year-old about the structure of the world – and he answered me. When I asked where those ideas came from, he said they weren’t his. They were Deda’s.

He paused again.

– I asked him to introduce me. To describe this being. And he did. Then we just talked. Through Gobby.

His eyes narrowed slightly.

– Do you know why I accepted that this being existed?

– No… why?

– Because I couldn’t diagnose a four-year-old with dissociative identity disorder. It doesn’t work that way.

He spoke calmly, precisely.

– A child with such a condition doesn’t produce knowledge beyond their development. A four-year-old doesn’t discuss Ancient Rome, gods, war, the human condition. A child doesn’t grasp the structure of objects or how one thing can serve many purposes.

He folded his hands.

– So I chose to accept that a third party was speaking through him. And suddenly, everything made sense.

A short pause.

– This being didn’t understand why one had to fit into society’s expectations. That’s what we focused on – Gobby’s fate. Helping him develop in a way that wouldn’t bring more pain, while he was still too young to protect himself.

His voice lowered.

– Then the incident happened. And together – the being and I – we decided it would be better if Deda disappeared from Gobby’s life.

– Why?

– Because Deda wasn’t just a presence you could talk to. He was a source of abilities.

The professor’s gaze hardened.

– From what we uncovered, Gobby’s primary trait inherited from Deda was the ability to see other entities. To restore the strength needed for that ability, one condition had to be met – satisfying his dominant need.

He glanced at the crumbs on the plate.

– As you can guess, for Gobby, it was food.

He hesitated.

– I didn’t uncover the rest of the traits. The moment he saw another patient’s entity, he was thrown into absolute terror.

– So what happened to Gobby’s entity? What do you mean by “gone”?

– Deda didn’t leave. Not really.

A beat.

– He’s still there. Dormant. Buried deep in the unconscious.

German was scribbling down every word, nearly tearing through the page, while Gobby munched on the last of the cookies. At some point, German paused, leaned back in his chair, and muttered:

– It’s really hard to digest all this. I still don’t quite get it. What is an entity? Does everyone have one?

The professor didn’t answer right away.

– That’s enough for the first time. I dedicated my key monograph to Gobby and our work – and because of that, my family and I nearly paid a heavy price. I’m not ready to talk about that book yet.

He glanced at the empty plate.

– And Gobby’s out of cookies. Gobby, go grab a few more from downstairs, will you?

His gaze returned to German.

– Meanwhile, tell me about the incident with the patient.

German inhaled and began to speak.

But while words tried to explain the past, something elsewhere was already decaying

A shabby hotel room. Brown wooden walls. A cheap bed with wrinkled linen. Empty liquor bottles strewn across the floor. Drogo sat at the edge of the bed, one hand pressed to his forehead.

In the background – the news again. A scrolling ticker:

PANAMA HAT MANIAC STILL AT LARGE.

His mind was blank. The rage was gone. Despair had settled in.

Drogo spoke to his entity:

– I don’t want to go back to the old life. Without his powers, I can’t achieve anything. He was right there – in my hands – and I let him go like a fool. It’s all over now. The city’s hunting me.

– Then let’s get back to the hunt. Just like in the good old days.

– This isn’t the same. The wildlings are after me. So are the cops. My Gobby’s in hiding, not even going to school. I don’t know where to start anymore.

He swallowed.

– Maybe I should just end it. Maybe in another world I’ll finally feel peace.

As Drogo spoke, he flipped through TV channels without focus – until a talk show snapped into place. A detective sat under bright studio lights, invited to speak about the psychology of serial killers.

The segment title flashed:

PREDATORS OF THE MODERN AGE.

The topic shifted.

The words Panama Hat Maniac appeared on screen.

The audience buzzed.

The host leaned forward.

– What do you think drives him? Can you give us a psychological profile?

The inspector adjusted his posture.

– That’s confidential. But I can share a little. Since we can’t dig up any background on him – except that he was once committed to a psychiatric hospital – it suggests he’s highly intelligent. Calculated. Composed.

He spoke evenly.

– He plans every detail. The location. The weapon. How to erase the evidence. These kinds of predators reject and despise social structure. They don’t kill instantly. They force every victim to stare fear in the face first.

The audience stirred, eager to ask more. But the inspector raised a hand.

– This is a classified case. I can’t give any further details.

Drogo froze.

His eyes locked onto the screen. His breath caught.

…since we couldn’t find any background on him…

– You couldn’t. Because I left none.

…except for one thing – he was once a psychiatric patient…

– A patient. Of course.

…which means he’s highly intelligent…

– Highly… intelligent…

…he controls himself. He’s disciplined…

– I am. I do.

…plans everything beforehand. The place. The weapon. How to hide the traces…

– Every step. Every cut. Every drop.

…such killers reject the structure of society…

– Structure… is a lie.

…and make the victim face their fear first…

– I show them. I am fear.

His lips parted slightly. A hand slid down his neck. He tilted his head back, chest rising with a sharp inhale. Then a trembling exhale.

He closed his eyes.

His back arched almost imperceptibly, as if something ancient crawled beneath his skin. Muscles tensed. A shiver ran down his spine. Fingers clenched. Released. His knee bounced. He bit the inside of his cheek.

– Don’t move yet.
– Just… hold it.

– Breathe.

– Almost.

– Almost there.

His eyes opened again – burning, clear, almost shining.

A small grin.

Not of joy.
Not of malice.
Of release.

– They see me now.

– Finally… they see me.

– And they won’t look away.

He stood.

Took off his Panama hat. Folded it neatly in half. Slid it into the inner pocket of his coat.

Shoulders squared. Neck rolled. Hands loosened at his sides.

He muttered under his breath, voice quiet but vibrating with hunger.

– Let’s get back to the hunt.

He walked out of the hotel, steps slow, measured, predatory. The door shut behind him with a dull click. Cold night air clung to his face like a wet cloth. Streetlights buzzed overhead. A drunk stumbled across the road, then vanished into the shadows.

The city was breathing. And it knew him.

Drogo didn’t look back.

His thoughts aligned – cold, sharp. He needed prey. Not just for the act. For control. For clarity. Something raw inside him needed anchoring.

He pulled up his collar.

– They saw me. On live TV. That little fuck of a professor gave them my scent.

He grinned.

– Then let’s give them something to really talk about.

The streets blurred into neon streaks as he moved through them – silent, fast, focused. The predator had remembered his pulse.

A few hours later, the city had plunged into night. Neon signs flickered on rain-slick streets as Drogo emerged from the shadows near a side alley across from one of the city’s most exclusive nightclubs. This place belonged to the lowest tier of the Higher Ones – the young, the rich, the reckless.

He waited. Watching.

A car that screamed money pulled up to the curb. Two glittering girls stepped out, laughing. The driver – a young man, visibly drunk – slammed his door and staggered to the other side.

With an arrogant grin, he flicked the keys toward the valet.

Not handed.
Not aimed.
Just tossed upward, lazily – as if it didn’t matter who caught them.

The valet reached. Missed.
The keys hit the ground.

The drunk burst out laughing, then started shouting.

– You blind or what? Idiot. I should fire your sorry ass right now.

He stepped forward. Pushed the valet. Then slapped him across the face.

The man fell.

The drunk stepped on his stomach like trash and walked right over him into the club.

The girls beside him giggled.
They didn’t stop him.
Didn’t flinch.

Drogo’s jaw twitched.

– Alright then… this one will do.

Three hours later, the drunk stumbled out of the club, barely staying upright. One of the girls hung on his arm. He descended the stairs, smirking.

The same valet rushed forward with exaggerated cheer.

– Your car is ready, sir. I apologize again, sir.

The drunk squinted at him, satisfied. He pulled a few bills from his pocket and dropped them at the valet’s feet.

– That’s more like it. Should’ve done that from the start.

The girl chuckled. They both got into the front seats. The car peeled away from the club.

Drogo was already in the back, hidden in shadow. His breathing steady. The storm inside him – barely held.

Fifteen minutes later, the car braked sharply in front of a fancy-looking house. The driver began revving the engine theatrically, grinning like a child showing off a new toy. Then silence. He killed the engine.

Drogo opened the door without a word and stepped out.

The driver turned to the girl. Their lips collided – wet, messy, desperate. His hands roamed, searching skin, clutching at her waist. He pulled her closer, kissed her neck, then slid one hand behind her head, pushing her gently down.
She smiled, obedient, and disappeared between his legs. He exhaled sharply, his body relaxing as pleasure surged through him. A low moan escaped his lips, and he let his head fall back against the headrest. Fingers twitched against the seat.

Two minutes passed.

Then he lifted her by the hair, not roughly, but with urgency. Their mouths met again – hungry, electric. Then he jerked his head toward the house.

They both climbed out. Walked side by side toward the door. But halfway there, she stopped to kick off her shoes.

That’s when a hand tapped her shoulder.

She turned, unthinking.

Her eyes locked with his. And in that instant – reality twisted.

In her vision, Drogo flipped upside down. The sky spun beneath her feet. Her balance faltered. And then he snapped back into place – like a glitch in the matrix. Her body froze in confusion.

At that very same moment – his hand was already on her crown, the other beneath her chin.

With terrifying precision, he jerked upward – not twisting, but pulling her skull free from the spine, like popping the top off a sealed jar.

A silent, immediate death. Her body sagged, eyes still wide.

Drogo slipped his arms under hers and hoisted her limp body over his shoulder. Moving silently toward the house, he adjusted his grip – balanced, prepared.

The driver had just unlocked the door. As it swung open – Drogo stepped up behind him.

He drove the heel of his palm upward, directly into the base of the skull – hitting the point where spine meets cranium.

A sickening thud. The man’s brain ricocheted inside his skull – and he dropped, instantly unconscious. He crumpled across the threshold, body twitching.

Drogo exhaled – slow, measured – nostrils flaring like a predator tasting blood. His eyes, cold and glassy, didn’t even blink.

Without turning his head, he shrugged the woman’s body off his shoulder – letting it drop beside the man like a sack of garbage.

The driver stirred. His eyes fluttered open.

Next to him – the twisted body of the girl, her neck grotesquely bent. Across the hallway, Drogo was calmly closing the door.

Panic surged. The driver tried to scramble to his feet – but Drogo slammed his boot down, pinning him between the shoulder blades, forcing him flat against the floor.

– Please – don’t! I’ll pay you, okay? I can pay whatever you want. There’s cash upstairs, second floor. Let’s go – I’ll give it all to you.

Drogo didn’t flinch.

– Turn over.

The man obeyed.

– Do you know why it’s you?

– Why…

– Because you’re a mistake.

And with that, Drogo planted his foot squarely on the man’s stomach – just like he’d done to that valet.

He began to repeat the movement – stepping, shifting, turning, stepping again. Each motion deliberate. Mechanical. Ritualistic.

And with every step – a sickening crack of bone.

The man screamed, begged, gurgled through blood.

– Please… stop… I can’t… please…

Drogo paused.
Crouched.

Then drove his fingers into the man’s chest – and tore the heart out.

He lifted it to his face like an animal, ready to devour.

But as the scent hit his nostrils – he gagged. Wrenched.

– What’s wrong? his entity asked.

– I can’t. I need the boy’s heart. Only his.

Right there, Drogo stripped off his clothes. Naked, his form was lanky and tall – arms unusually long, nearly to the knees. His posture, always hunched, made him appear even more twisted. Now visible on his body – a single tattoo: a broken shackle encircling his neck. From it, a jagged black chain descended along his torso – not a clean line, but rough, like torn ink – snapping apart across the stomach, ending mid-abdomen in frayed, broken strands. A symbol of freedom wrenched from captivity.

He twisted the metal ring on his wrist, wincing from the pain, and walked, still naked, to the bathroom.

After a long shower, he returned to the bedroom. Opened the victim’s closet. Dressed with methodical calm: a white shirt, jeans, a deep cherry blazer, moccasins. From the man’s watch collection, he chose one without hesitation. Finished with cologne.

In the kitchen, he grabbed a bottle of liquor. As he moved back toward the front door, he let the alcohol spill in a loose trail across the floor.

At the bodies, he stopped.

From his old coat, he retrieved the panama hat and slipped it into the inner pocket of the blazer.

Then he searched the victim’s pockets. Cash. Cards. Car keys. House keys. Everything went with him.

He lit a cigarette, took one slow drag, and flicked it into the pool of alcohol.

The flame caught.

He stepped outside, locked the door behind him, got into the dead man’s car, and drove back to the very club his prey had left.

At the curb, he handed the keys to the same valet. The valet froze – recognizing the car, but not the man.

Drogo noticed.

He raised a finger to his lips.

– Shhh.

Then slid a thick roll of bills into the valet’s breast pocket and disappeared inside.

Drogo entered the club with a clear goal. To release tension. To take someone for the night.

His essence was no ordinary one. A god of war – in myth, a presence that took the form of ravens. One power to absorb the strength of the fallen. Another to bend desire toward him, his body radiating an invisible storm of pheromones.

By the time he reached the bar, eyes had already found him. Hungry. Possessive. Submissive.

He scanned the crowd with cold precision. Locked onto a woman – dark hair, sharp lips, tight dress. Gave her a subtle nod.

She came without hesitation.

He handed her a cocktail. Bit her neck softly. She trembled.

– You’ll do.

– I’m not alone, she whispered, breathless. My friend’s here too.

– Then bring her.

He took two bottles of champagne from the bar, popped them both, handed one to each girl.

They left the club together.

The valet barely needed a signal – the car was already waiting.

Inside the vehicle, the pheromones wrapped around the girls like invisible ropes. They moaned. Touched each other. Touched him. One pressed her lips to his neck. The other slid a hand between his thighs. They drank and writhed, losing rhythm.

Drogo sat still. Unmoved. Eyes forward.

A god among insects that didn’t even know they were crawling.

At the hotel, he asked for a room no higher than the third floor. Paid immediately.

The girls clung to him in the elevator, licking his collarbone, biting his shoulders, breathing his name.

He gave them nothing.

In the room, he locked the door. Took two steps inward.

– Undress me.

Their hands moved with religious devotion.

When he stood naked before them, he nodded to the bathroom.

– Shower. Then wait on the bed.

They obeyed instantly, giggling and slipping into the steam.

The moment the door closed behind them, he brought his wrist up.

And slowly loosened the chain. Just a notch. Just enough.

Something inside him snapped. A wave of euphoria crashed through his brain. Heat flooded his veins.

His breath deepened. Hands trembled. He kicked the door open. And the beast took over. They never had a chance.

He seized them both – lifted, spun, pinned. Their screams turned to moans, their resistance to begging. He rearranged them like dolls, contorting their limbs, throwing them into positions no human man could dominate.

They clung to him like he was their god, his strength both terrifying and addictive.

They were drowning in him. In sweat, saliva, champagne, and feverish gasps.

He had them – how he wanted, when he wanted. Each second was a new possession. A new conquest.

He was relentless. They – euphoric. Eventually, they collapsed onto the bed, breathless and dazed.

He stood above them. Then retightened the chain on his wrist. Blood pricked the skin.

He sat in the armchair, facing the bed. Watched them as they slept, limbs tangled in sheets and each other. Slowly, his eyes drifted shut.

At 10:00, he awoke.

Dressed quickly. Went downstairs. Took a black coffee to go.

Stepped into the street – sharp, composed.

The night before, he had noticed a secondhand store. He went there now. Fifteen minutes later, he came out with a full bag of clothes.

Back in the room, the girls were stirring.

He offered breakfast.

They followed him downstairs to the restaurant. Still hungry – but now for food.

One of them started talking.

Too much.
Too loud.
Too stupid.

He ate fast. Finished his omelet in silence. Stood. Dropped a handful of bills on the table. Walked away.

The second girl called after him.

He didn’t look back.

This would be his rhythm now.
His release.

Until the scent of blood faded from the air… and the police forgot his name again.