"What," Victor muttered under his breath, the sound so faint it could have been mistaken for a sigh by Igor.
"Can you raise it?" he asked.
Igor hesitated for a moment but complied to ease his mind for tonight's event.
The faint static cleared, replaced by the crisp voices of a news anchor and the hum of activity in the background.
As the sound filled the room, Victor caught snippets of reports—a dozen updates pouring in rapid succession. He leaned forward, his brows knitted together.
You see, Victor hadn't checked his phone today. Not that it was unusual; he never really could. Pulling out his phone during work was like inviting disaster—another scolding, another step closer to losing his job. And for Victor, that little paycheck, as meager as it was, kept him alive.
On the screen, at the very bottom he read:
BREAKING NEWS: Reports of alienation feelings flooded through and through.
They encouraged viewers to call in if they had any firsthand information, though the calls were often riddled with pranks and misinformation. Teams of analysts sifted through the data, compiling a statistical narrative from the fragments.
Victor listened to the reporter talk about the feeling of alien people experienced in their own homes—strangers to their families.
And how some husbands looked at their wives, children looked at their parents, and they felt... nothing.
A sense of disconnection, like impostors had replaced their loved ones.
Or the imposters had been they themselves.
He glanced at Igor, who was lighting another cigarette, seemingly indifferent to the image on the screen in front of him.
A while later, the reporter wrapped up that segment, adding a careful disclaimer: the information couldn't be verified with absolute certainty. It might all be a psychological phenomenon, she explained.
"Maybe stress," she suggested.
"Perhaps couples who've lost their spark are finding it easier to blame anyone but themselves."
And as for children? That explanation had come almost dismissively:
"Kids have a vast imagination, after all."
...
Half an hour later:
The newsroom was as chaotic as Wall Street in its early days.
Producers ran around like headless chickens, phones, tablets, papers, or graphs practically glued to their eyes. In stark contrast, the tech team sank deeper into their chairs, typing furiously to resolve issues with the live feed and prepare for the next segment.
After all, they were all witnessing a record-breaking number of viewers.
A producer talked directly into the reporter's earpiece. "We've got a doctor on the line. Says it's critical. Wants to go live. Name: John, Surname: Twin."
She nodded briskly, signaling the crew to verify the source. The technical team worked quickly, pulling up background checks, enabling safeguards to cut the feed if deemed necessary.
"Reporting live," she announced. "We have a call from Dr. John Twin, a professional psychiatrist."
"Dr. Twin, the world is yours, and its waiting."
The feed switched to the shaky, low-quality video of an old man holding a phone in selfie mode. His face, deeply lined and dotted with age spots, filled the frame. And a huge birthmark was on his face.
"Dr. Twin,"
"What pressing matter brought you to request a live broadcast?"
The video shook violently as if he were running. His mouth moved, but the words were drowned out by the wind and his heavy breathing. Behind him, the light-gray sky stretched wide, indicating he was outside.
"It seems Dr. Twin is experiencing some technical difficulties—"
She grit her teeth, thinking, Why the hell did I approve this? Another lunatic wasting my time, certifications or not.
Suddenly, the frame stuttered, the video moving at no more and no less than three frames per second. The shaking stopped briefly, and something as tall, perhaps taller, than a human, appeared in the background.
Victor leaned forward even more, rising onto the tips of his toes to get a better view, as the TV was positioned in the top corner.
At first, he saw a blurry, shape of mass against the bleak gray sky.
Then it was clear the white mass floated, its edges shimmering as though glitching in and out of reality.
Gasps echoed through the newsroom as the crew stared at their monitors. Even through the grainy quality, the shape was undeniably unnatural. The broadcast team hesitated, unsure whether to cut the feed or let it run.
"Doctor, what is that? Doctor? Doctor." the reporter managed to make herself ask.
The feed stuttered again, the mass flickering violently, growing and shrinking at the same time.
Then, the video froze, before turning black.
The whole newsroom fell silent, save for the hum of equipment. Then, all at once, the phones lit up with calls so they cut to commercial.
"Pfht. What a scam. At least they made their money back with the new record they set," Igor muttered.
Victor was even more confused than before.
His puzzled expression surprisingly pleased the old man, making him eager to finally share something for once. A broad smile spread across his weathered face, showing a rare moment of satisfaction.
Igor's mind wandered back to one year ago, the day he found the boy, frail and beaten, lying on the street. He had been cautious about hiring anyone, especially someone from Ruddia, but the kid was different—isolated, easy to control.
He had seen and done enough to know this was an opportunity. So he took the boy in, offering him food and shelter. The next day, Igor made a few calls. A new identity was quickly forged, complete with a fake name and backstory. The boy would never know the truth—he would just be an employee at the café, an Ameritan.
And all the connections between the kid and him—between the kid and them—couldn't be traced. It had been perfect, far better than hiring random Ameritans. He knew that once the randoms heard or saw even a single thing, the next day they'd end up in the grinder.
As to avoid giving him the fate of the grinder, he had been prepared to fire him: maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow and maybe not the next month, but someday.
However, now it was a different story altogether.
Since even after a year of having Viktor working there, there were no 'problems' caused whatsoever, fortifying his upcoming decision to keep the kid there full-time.
And oh he knew that Victor had already seen stuff but kept quiet all the time.
"Listen here, kid. I'm from Ruddia, and in Ruddia, things like this happen, planned by the president who controls the media. So, it's not impossible that this shit hole does the same."
"The president does?" Victor asked.
"Da. The president, to get votes or whatever."
Victor thought about both options and decided to leave it unresolved. His head buzzed and ached.
"Go, kid."
Ah, finally—those were the words and the time he had waited for all day.
"When do I come in tomorrow?" Victor asked.
"Tomorrow. Rest. When you come in next time, bring your stuff with you. You'll be living here with me from now on." Igor's words were clear and direct, typical of an order.
The boy Victor replied with an uneven yet satisfied smile. He had thought about a question or two but quickly dismissed it.
Why 'rest' was one of the questions.
And the answer was right at the doors...
...