The beginning of March had arrived. Sara stepped outside, drawn by the faint promise of spring in the air. The wind was still sharp, but the sun lingered longer each day, teasing the earth back to life. She closed her eyes and let the cold air fill her lungs. She missed her freedom—missed the days when she could walk through the streets without fear, without secrets. She dreamed that this nightmare would finally end, and she could go home.
Even if home meant returning to a father who didn't care whether she lived or died, to a stepmother who treated her like a stain on the furniture, and to Victoria—her smug, bleached-blonde stepsister—who lived to make her miserable. She'd gladly go back, just to rub it in their faces that she had survived. She longed to yank that bottle-blonde hair one more time.
A presence made her glance over her shoulder.
Alan.
He approached without a word and draped a sweater over her shoulders. The gesture was familiar—eerily reminiscent of a moment from the year before, when she had gazed at him like a painting come to life, convinced there was no one more perfect.
How naïve she'd been.
"Don't believe the psychologist," Alan said without preamble. His voice was low, steady. "He's trying to mess with your head. He's not going to help you. He's in collusion with the General. They're using you—trying to get information about the uranium."
Sara let out a quiet, dry laugh and looked away. She didn't bother responding, but he didn't give up.
"The General plans to split the jewelry with him and let him go, along with his father. They want to vanish before the school year ends. They know time is running out."
Sara turned back to him, arching an eyebrow.
"This isn't about uranium. That's nonsense. The psychologist explained it. They could've gotten uranium another way if they really wanted it. The General's not building a bomb—he wants the jewelry."
Alan smirked and covered his mouth, amused by her expression.
"Sara, you're cute," he said, his tone toeing the line between fond and condescending. "I mean no offense, but start thinking."
Her eyes flashed with anger.
"The General is ninety years old," Alan continued. "Why would a man like that need money? His days are numbered. He doesn't care about wealth—he wants revenge. He's hated this country for decades. He's been planning to wipe Poland off the map for over sixty years. If it hadn't been for your grandmother, the bomb would've been dropped long ago. Do you have any idea how hard it is to smuggle uranium over the border? And even if you get it, it has to be properly decomposed to be usable in an atomic bomb…"
Sara narrowed her eyes.
"How do you know all this?" she asked sharply. "You're working with him, aren't you?" Her voice rose with accusation. "You're planning to run off with him!"
Alan exhaled and stepped toward her, raising a hand in an attempt to calm her.
"Let me explain—"
"Don't!" she snapped, taking a step back. Her eyes brimmed with tears. "It wasn't me who betrayed you. It was you who betrayed me."
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"I don't trust you anymore. You're working with the General, and I have every reason to believe the psychologist over you."
She turned to go, but he reached out and grabbed her hand, holding her back.
"You're right," he said quietly. "I am working with him—but I'm doing it for you."
Sara let out a bitter laugh through her tears, her shoulders shaking.
"For me?" she choked. "You're finished, Alan. Go on—run away with the General, blow up the world if you want. I don't care anymore. You've already destroyed me."
She yanked her hand free and ripped the sweater from her shoulders, throwing it to the ground at his feet.
Alan didn't move. He watched her walk away, knowing this time there was no point in stopping her.
Because this time, he was the one who had broken what they had.
*
The teenager struggled to breathe, but she couldn't. She was submerged beneath the water's surface, and the pressure on her chest was unbearable. Shadows circled her like vultures—phantoms whispering shrill, incoherent words into her ears. She longed to rise, to break the surface and gasp for air, but invisible hands dragged her deeper into the darkness.
She thrashed with the last of her strength, desperate for escape—until something caught her eye. A rusty metal box lay half-buried in the silt below, its shape barely visible through the murky water. She reached toward it, convinced it held some kind of answer, but her hand passed right through it. It was an illusion. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't touch it. Couldn't change anything.
And then she woke.
Her eyes fluttered open. She was lying in the grass, soaked and shivering. Pajamas clung to her body, heavy with dew and dirt, and her bare feet were icy cold. Her whole body ached.
Slowly, she pushed herself to her knees and crawled toward the edge of the pond. Her fingers trembled as she reached for the water's surface, yearning to see what truly lay beneath. Nightmares had plagued her for weeks now. She couldn't swim—never had learned—and water had always been her greatest fear. Still, something pulled her closer.
She leaned forward, eyelids slipping shut. Just a little further...
But someone grabbed her.
A pair of strong arms yanked her back from the brink. She let out a gasp as she was lifted off the ground and held tightly from behind. Warm hands clasped her arms, and a face pressed gently into her hair. She didn't need to turn around to know who it was.
"I'm sorry," Alan whispered. His voice trembled. "Forgive me for all the terrible things I've done."
He held her tightly, refusing to let go.
"There's no excuse for the way I behaved. I acted like a monster. But I love you, Sara. I love you so much, and when I saw you with Oliver... I lost control. Jealousy devoured me. I said horrible things, but none of them were true. Not from the heart."
She shivered from the cold, but said nothing. Her voice was trapped somewhere deep in her throat.
"I swear," he went on, holding her tighter, "I'll do everything I can to get you out of here—safe and whole. I'll protect you, even if it kills me."
Tears slipped silently from her closed eyes. She wanted to believe him. She wanted to run into his arms and let herself be held forever. But he had hurt her—again and again. And something between them had cracked. She still cared for him, perhaps even loved him, but the bond wasn't the same. Too much had been broken.
Her lips parted, but the words she spoke weren't the ones he was hoping to hear.
"How did you know I was here?" she asked quietly, her voice almost hollow. "It's the middle of the night. How did you find me?"
He hesitated. The question stung. She had skipped over everything he had just said—his apology, his promise, his confession—and gone straight to logistics.
He stepped back, biting his lip as disappointment flared in his chest. He took three slow steps away from her.
"I saw you heading underground," he muttered. "I followed you. I was worried."
He wiped at his face with the back of his hand, brushing away the tears.
"Do you even sleep?" she asked, finally turning to face him. Though it was dark, she could see how pale and drawn he looked. "You look awful."
"I could ask you the same," he replied, his voice soft but pained. "You're still haunted. The ghosts aren't letting go."
His eyes flicked toward the pond.
"That could've ended badly, Sara. You can't swim. What were you doing out here?"
She looked away. She couldn't tell him the truth. Not when she didn't trust him anymore. He had allied himself with the monster, and bit by bit, he was becoming one too.
"I don't know what I was doing..." she whispered. She tilted her head back, gazing up at the stars as if searching for an answer. Then she sighed. "But I do know one thing."
Her eyes met his, steady and unflinching.
"I will never forgive you."
*
She was still thinking about the night before—about the words that had slipped from Alan's mouth like venom. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't erase them. They echoed in her mind, over and over again. Something about them gnawed at her, a creeping sensation beneath her skin that wouldn't let her rest. Something was wrong. She could feel it. Yet she couldn't explain what.
What scared her most was that every time she looked into Alan's eyes, she believed him. Every lie, every half-truth. His gaze made her doubt her own judgment.
"Why won't you look at me?" Oliver's voice pierced through her thoughts. "I've been talking for five minutes and you're staring at the wall like there's a ghost crawling out of it."
His sarcasm made Laura chuckle. She sat beside him on the edge of the bed, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve.
"First you talk our ears off about your dreams," Oliver continued, "and say you're obsessed with fishing that box out of the pond—like it's cursed treasure or something—and when I say fine, let's do it, you go dead silent."
He leaned closer, lowering his face to match Sara's line of sight, as if trying to see through her eyes.
"Who do you see there? The ghost of a famous artist come to haunt your thoughts?"
Laura laughed and gave him a playful pat on the knee. He recoiled slightly, casting her a look of exaggerated disgust.
"We're not there yet," his face seemed to say.
"I just don't know if it's a good idea for you to be the one diving into that water," Sara said softly, turning her head toward Oliver. He was too close. Their noses almost brushed, and for a moment, she forgot what she was saying.
Oliver cleared his throat and leaned back, uncomfortable with the sudden proximity.
Laura, in a fit of distraction, ran her fingers through her greasy hair—then immediately regretted it. She sniffed her hand and wrinkled her nose in disgust.
"Ugh, that's disgusting," she muttered, pressing her hand under Oliver's nose. "I seriously need to wash my hair. Ever since this whole lockdown or whatever's going on, I've completely neglected myself."
Oliver gagged and swatted her hand away. "Good thing you still brush your teeth…"
"What am I supposed to do?" she protested. "I'm running out of everything. My parents used to send care packages, and now—nothing."
"Do you think someone's going to hand-deliver your shampoo and toothpaste?" he retorted. "They dump everything in the storage room on the first floor. I brought some supplies to Sara the other day."
He shot Sara a quick glance before turning a warning glare toward Laura.
"And don't even think about taking anything from her pile."
He practically lunged at her for emphasis, making Laura recoil with wide eyes.
"Go fetch your own damn conditioner."
Laura crossed her arms and scoffed dramatically.
"Do you really think you can go through with it?" Sara asked suddenly, turning to Oliver and cutting through the pointless banter. Her tone was quiet, serious.
He met her gaze and nodded without hesitation.
"I'm a strong swimmer," he said. "And I can hold my breath for ages. This'll be easy."
Still, a knot twisted in Sara's stomach. She stared at the floor.
"I don't know... I just have this awful feeling. Like there's something evil down there. Something waiting. Something that could hurt you."
"The only thing down there is algae and maybe a few ghost fish," Oliver said with a soft laugh. He placed a reassuring hand on her back and gently stroked her shoulder. "Let's do it tonight. You shouldn't have to live through those nightmares every single night. You need peace. You need rest."
Sara lowered her head. Her fingers clenched tightly in her lap, and for a long moment, she didn't speak. But eventually, she gave a small, hesitant nod.
*
The sound of the wind stirred a vague, creeping fear in her chest. It whispered through the trees and rustled the leaves like ghostly fingers reaching from the darkness. She turned her head slowly, scanning the area with caution. Her gaze lingered on the crooked trees behind the fence—twisted silhouettes that loomed menacingly in the gloom, like watchers in the night.
A chill ran down her spine.
She glanced at Oliver again, and the unease deepened. Something about the pond tonight felt different. Ominous. Heavy. As if something was waiting at the bottom—hidden and ancient.
"You can still back out… You don't have to do this," she said softly.
Oliver paused and turned to her. He raised the waterproof flashlight in his hand—the one he'd found in the storage room the year before, during a punishment clean-up. He had pocketed it without thinking, suspecting it might come in handy someday. Now, it felt like fate.
"I want to," he said. "And besides, we need to know what's down there."
Laura stood a short distance away, chewing on her finger. Her eyes darted nervously around the clearing, as if she expected someone to step out from the shadows at any moment. She wrapped her arms around herself and shifted from foot to foot.
Sara noticed Oliver stepping toward the pond's edge and sprang forward without thinking. She grabbed his hand, clutching it tightly. He looked down at her, surprised by the sudden intensity in her eyes.
Her panic was written all over her face.
He smiled gently. It was rare to see her worry like this, and a part of him liked knowing she cared.
"You could at least give me a kiss," he teased softly. "Then I'll know it was worth risking my life."
She frowned and gave him a light smack on the shoulder.
"You'll cry when I don't come back," he added with a smirk, but she wasn't laughing.
"I want to see you come back," she said, her voice trembling slightly. Her eyes locked onto his, wide with unspoken fear.
He held her gaze, and slowly, a quiet smile tugged at his lips.
"I will," he promised.
And then he turned toward the water.
*
The psychologist paced the room slowly, a cynical smile playing at the corners of his lips. His eyes drifted toward the glass partition, where a mentally unstable man pounded his fists against the surface with manic intensity. The man was mute—his mouth couldn't form words, but his eyes screamed. He had heard too much. Conversations that weren't meant for him. And though he had tried, again and again, to warn Sara… he had never found the way.
Now the psychologist's gaze slid downward, toward the underground level of the office. A teenager appeared at the bottom of the stairs. Alan. He moved quietly, but tension radiated from his every step. He dropped into the chair with a heavy sigh.
"Does anyone know where the hell the General has disappeared to?" he asked.
"Do you think the General is the kind of man who discusses his every step with others?" the psychologist replied, voice smooth and slightly amused.
Alan narrowed his eyes at him, suspicion flashing behind his stare. He hadn't forgotten what he'd learned—the conversation Sara had once had with this man had been repeated to him word for word. He knew what this bastard was up to. And worst of all, Sara had fallen for it. Trusted him too easily. Alan didn't understand how, but he had no intention of letting the man manipulate her any further.
"Well, I don't know…" Alan began with mock sarcasm. "You three seem pretty close. You, Daddy, and dear Uncle General." He grinned coldly. "And here I am, the grandson—completely left out. Guess I'm not trustworthy enough to be looped in."
"You used to work with your friends. Sara was your girlfriend. You think he'd tell you everything?"
Alan raised an eyebrow, intrigued.
"How do you know I'm no longer in a relationship?" he asked with an arched smirk. "Ah, these rumors fly fast." He stretched lazily in the chair. "Though it has reached my ears that you and Sara are working together… behind our backs."
The psychologist stiffened ever so slightly, then forced a weak smile. He swallowed hard.
"So you were the one who bugged us…" Alan said softly. "Impressive timing. The real question is—what do you plan to do with that information?"
"That depends," the man said cautiously. "On what you plan to do. Tell me your intentions, and maybe we can come to an understanding."
He sat across from the boy, folding his hands under his chin, eyes steady. A long silence followed. Alan watched him think. Watched him calculate.
Then he cut in.
"Let me answer for you," he said darkly, his voice low and cold. "Whatever reason you might invent, you'd never truly side with a teenage girl. That's absurd. The General told you about the jewelry. The thought of the money—it consumed you. You saw your chance to finally escape this hellhole, run abroad, start a new life." He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. "Am I close?"
The psychologist raised a finger in admiration. "Not bad," he admitted. "Though you didn't grasp it all. There was a time when I wanted to protect Sara. I found out she was the daughter of someone I once cared for—deeply. I wanted to help her, believe it or not. But the General found out. He gave me a choice. Either help him get the information about the uranium, or suffer the consequences. Then he told me about the jewelry. Promised me a reward. Freedom. Redemption. And then I realized something."
His expression hardened.
"She's not his daughter. She belongs to him. A man I loathe. Why should I die for her? Especially now, when a better life is within reach?"
Alan let out a breath and ran a hand over his forehead, his eyes gleaming with disdain.
"Money really does corrupt people. My father used to say that right before he beat the shit out of my mother," he said with a bitter smile. "So what now? You're going to use Sara—milk her for information—and then destroy her? All for some cash?" He let his head fall back, exhaling slowly. "Nazis are heartless bastards."
The psychologist squinted at him, trying to read beneath his words.
"Whose side are you on?" he asked, voice sharp, probing.
Alan stood slowly. He didn't answer right away. Instead, he reached into his pocket—and pulled out a knife.
"Certainly not yours," he said calmly. "I won't let you hurt her."
Without another word, he lunged.
The blade met flesh with terrifying precision. Alan didn't hesitate. Not for a second. He drove the knife in hard and deep, silencing the man before he could even shout. The sound of the body hitting the floor echoed off the walls like a death knell.
Alan stood over him, breath steady, eyes unreadable.
The phantom had been right. The vision of the future had come true. The boy had taken a life—again.
But this time, it was different.
This time, he did it to protect the only person he had ever truly cared about.
He felt no remorse. No guilt. No fear.
Because deep down, he had always known.
He was going to hell anyway.