After the incident with Gobby and German, the media storm did not calm down for two weeks. Everyone was searching for the man in the Panama hat who attacked children. Social media filled with posts, arguments and endless comment threads, and some people even tried to organize volunteer patrols. Everyone was looking for the “Panama Hat Maniac” – the name given by the police and quickly picked up by journalists. For two weeks officers stayed near Gobby’s house, and other children were advised not to go outside unless necessary. In the eyes of the media, Drogo quickly transformed from the “Heart Reaver” into a pedophile and rapist. But after two weeks the topic slowly began to fade. That is how stories work in the digital age now – first there is intense attention and high engagement, but if nothing new happens, the public quickly loses interest.

  Those two weeks passed quickly. German spent the first week in the hospital and the second recovering at home, while Gobby was taken home by his parents the very next day after that conversation. Every day he either visited German or spoke with him on the phone, and they constantly made plans. German had only one condition – Gobby was not allowed to visit during lunch time, because when food was involved he could not concentrate on anything except eating.

  After two weeks the police allowed them to leave the house, but only under adult supervision. The reason was simple – the police assumed that the “Panama Hat Maniac” had left the city, since no new information about him had appeared.

  From the detective, who visited their home three times, Gobby’s father learned three things: the police had already contacted the professor but gained no useful information, they provided the professor’s address, and the professor himself was already retired and no longer practicing.

  Gobby insisted on meeting the professor. His parents did not object much – the professor had helped once before and might help again after such a traumatic event. That is what Gobby’s parents believed. But not Gobby. This time it was German who pushed for the meeting. He believed it could reveal certain mysteries, help him understand Gobby better, and simply satisfy his curiosity about the past of his close friend.

  A gray Mercedes van pulled up near German’s house. Inside were Gobby and his parents. German’s grandmother – who had raised him since his parents died in childhood – rolled him outside in a wheelchair, because it was easier for him to move that way. German was helped into the van and they drove to the professor’s house.

  When they arrived, everyone walked to the entrance. The doorbell rang and the door opened. The professor’s wife stood there, her face lighting up with a smile. Lisa, Alan, hello. Gobby, look at you – how you’ve grown. And this must be Gobby’s friend who was hurt. Poor thing. She was genuinely happy to see them and immediately began asking questions. Alan smiled politely. Hello. We’ll answer all your questions, but first we’d like to know – is the professor at home? She turned toward the second floor and called out: Sergey, you have visitors.

  The professor appeared at the top of the stairs. When he saw who had come, he stopped and said sharply: Tell them to leave. Then he turned and started walking back upstairs. His wife gave a soft, apologetic smile. Please wait. I’ll speak with him and come back. She closed the door. About five minutes later the door opened again and the professor himself stood there. Come in. His wife invited everyone into the living room and began setting the table, bringing out treats, a teapot and a tea set.

  The professor looked at the parents and asked directly: Why have you come? Lisa answered calmly. You probably know what happened to the boys. We hoped you might be able to help. The professor replied without hiding his irritation: I already helped you once. Now I only want to live out my old age in peace. Lisa insisted: Professor, please. Just talk to the boys and make sure everything is fine. You are a brilliant specialist. The professor grimaced at those words, muttered something under his breath, and then motioned for the boys to follow him upstairs. Alan lifted German in his arms and carried him after the professor.

  When the men disappeared upstairs, the professor’s wife turned to Lisa and spoke quietly. Please don’t pay attention to him. After Gobby stopped visiting, he became deeply involved in studying parallel processes and worlds. He published many scientific articles while working with different patients. In those articles he proposed two ideas. First – that autism is not a psychiatric illness, but a form of giftedness that allows a person to see the world differently. Second – that schizophrenia is a unique condition that allows entry into specific states of consciousness where the world can be perceived as elements or particles. She paused briefly before continuing. Because of these ideas he almost lost his professorship and was even close to being declared mentally ill himself. In the end he had to publish another article apologizing and presenting those ideas as philosophical reflections. After that he withdrew into himself, spending most of his time in his study and no longer speaking about those ideas. Of course, in his pain and disappointment he partly blames me and you – me because I once approached you, and you because you brought Gobby.

  Gobby and German were now in the professor’s study while Alan went back downstairs. German immediately began telling his story – about himself, about how he met Gobby, and what had surprised and disturbed him. He asked questions, wanting to understand how the professor had worked with Gobby. At that moment Gobby noticed the cookies on the table and immediately reached for one without hesitation. The professor listened to German silently, but when he saw what Gobby was doing his stern expression softened, almost like a grandfather watching his grandson.

  Gobby, you may have grown, but you haven’t changed. You still love to eat. Alright, German, I will answer your questions. But one at a time. I see you brought a notebook – don’t forget to make notes. You remind me of myself when I was young. I also used to write down everything interesting.

  German leaned forward.

  Can I start with the main question?

  Go ahead.

  What illness did Gobby have? What were you treating him for?

  The professor smiled slightly, but there was bitterness in his expression, as if he had explained this many times before without being heard.

  Gobby was healthy.

  Healthier than any of us.

  German frowned.

  How is that possible? His mother said he spoke with spirits and could not build normal relationships with people.

  I spoke with his spirit as well. Or rather not a spirit, but an essence – the one he called “Deda”. And what do you mean by normal relationships? To submit to the structure of a society that teaches violence, murder, money, poverty and suffering children as if that were normal?

  German thought for a moment and slowly nodded.

  Exactly. Gobby built a perfect world around himself, but we could not accept it. We adults could not accept that a child could feel joy not because of the things we gave him, but simply because he existed. I realized how absurd this was during our very first meeting. 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 told me they were not his – they belonged to “Deda”. I asked him to introduce me, to describe him, and that is exactly what happened. After that we simply spoke through Gobby.

  The professor paused briefly before continuing.

  Do you know why I accepted the possibility that this essence existed? Because I could not diagnose a four-year-old child with dissociative identity disorder. It does not work that way. A child with such a disorder cannot produce knowledge beyond his own development. A four-year-old cannot discuss Ancient Rome, gods, war, or the nature of human existence like an adult. With Gobby we spoke about the structure of objects and their multiple functions. A child cannot understand such things. So I tried accepting that there was another participant in our dialogue, and everything suddenly began to make sense. The essence simply did not understand why it needed to adapt to society’s expectations. That is what we worked on – conversations about Gobby’s fate and development, so that while he was still small and unable to protect himself he would not bring greater trouble upon himself.

  He paused again.

  Then the incident happened, and together with the essence we decided it would be better if “Deda” left Gobby’s life.

  German asked immediately:

  Why?

  Because Deda was not only an essence you could speak with. He was also the source of Gobby’s abilities. From what we managed to understand, the main ability Gobby received from Deda was the ability to see other essences. But to restore the strength required for that ability one condition had to be met – the dominant need had to be satisfied. As you can probably guess, for Gobby that need was food. I did not manage to discover the rest of the abilities, because the moment Gobby saw the essence of that patient he was overwhelmed with extreme fear.

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  German was writing everything down rapidly while Gobby finished the last cookies. After a moment German stopped, leaned back in his chair and said slowly:

  This is difficult to process. I still don’t understand what an essence really is. Does everyone have one?

  The professor looked at him calmly.

  I think that is enough for the first conversation. I dedicated my main monograph to Gobby and to our work together, and because of that my family and I nearly suffered serious consequences. I am not ready to speak about it yet.

  He glanced at the empty plate.

  And Gobby has already finished the cookies. Gobby, go downstairs and bring a few more. Meanwhile, German, tell me about the incident with the patient.

  German nodded and began his story.

  A cheap hotel room. Brown wooden walls, a bed with worn linen, empty bottles of strong alcohol scattered across the floor. Drogo sat on the edge of the bed with one hand pressed to his forehead. The television murmured in the background. The news again. A scrolling line across the screen mentioned the “Panama Hat Maniac”. There were no thoughts left in his head. The anger had passed. What remained was despair.

  I don’t want to return to the old life, Drogo said to his essence. Without his abilities I will never reach my goal. He was in my hands, and I let him slip away like a fool. Now everything is lost. The whole city is looking for me.

  Then let us return to hunting, as we did before.

  This is different. The Savages are looking for me. The police as well. My Gobby is hiding and no longer goes to school. I don’t even know where to begin. Maybe it would be easier to end everything. Perhaps in another world I could finally feel peace.

  While speaking, Drogo switched channels on the television until he stopped at a talk show. A detective had been invited to discuss the motives of serial killers. The title of the discussion appeared on the screen – “Maniacs of the Modern Age”. During the conversation the detective mentioned the “Panama Hat Maniac”. The audience immediately became more attentive, and the host leaned forward.

  What do you think drives him? And can you describe his psychological profile?

  This is classified information, the detective replied, but I can say a few things. We cannot find any background on him. The only thing we know is that he was once a patient in a psychiatric hospital. That suggests high intelligence. Self-control. Discipline. Such people plan their crimes carefully – the location, the weapon, the way to remove evidence. They reject and despise the structure of society. And they do not kill immediately. First they make their victims face fear.

  The audience reacted immediately, ready to ask more questions, but the detective raised his hand and stopped them, saying the investigation was ongoing and he could not give further details. Drogo, however, felt something entirely different. So they had learned about his past. Only that psychiatrist could have told them. He would find him. And through him, he would find Gobby again. But before that he needed to calm himself and prepare.

  Drogo removed his Panama hat, folded it carefully in two and placed it inside the inner pocket of his jacket. His face was pale, the skin stretched tight over sharp cheekbones. A birthmark stood on his left cheek. His eyes were deeply set, their color unusual – something between yellow and green. He stood up and walked toward the door.

  We return to the hunt, he said quietly to his essence.

  Night. One of the most expensive nightclubs in the city. People with power gathered there – the Higher Ones of the lower level. Drogo stood in the shadow of a nearby alley, watching the entrance and searching for his next victim. A few minutes later an expensive car pulled up. Two girls stepped out, laughing. The driver, a young man clearly drunk, slammed the door and walked around the car. He put an arm around one of the girls and casually threw the keys toward the valet. It was obvious he threw them so the man would not catch them. The keys fell to the ground.

  The drunk began shouting at the valet, threatening him. Then he slapped him across the face. The man fell. The drunk stepped on his stomach and walked past him toward the club entrance. The girls only laughed.

  That will do, Drogo said quietly.

  This one will do.

  Three hours later the drunk man came out of the club with one of the girls, barely able to stand on his feet. They slowly walked down the stairs. The valet brought the car and apologized again, but the drunk only threw some money at his feet.

  That’s better. You should have done that from the start.

  They both got into the front seats and the car quickly drove away. Drogo was already sitting in the back seat, hidden in the shadows. Because of their drunken state they simply did not notice him.

  After about fifteen minutes of fast driving the car stopped in front of a large house. The driver braked sharply and began revving the engine loudly as if showing off the car. In that moment Drogo quietly opened the door and stepped out.

  The driver turned off the engine and immediately began kissing the girl. He gestured for her to move lower and she disappeared from view between his legs while he leaned back in the seat. After a couple of minutes he lifted her by the head, kissed her again and nodded toward the house, showing that he wanted to go inside.

  They got out of the car and walked toward the entrance. At one point the girl stopped to take off her shoes. Someone tapped her on the shoulder. She turned automatically and saw Drogo standing behind her. For a moment something strange happened to her vision – Drogo seemed to flip upside down and then return to normal.

  In that same instant he broke her neck. One hand pressed on the top of her head, the other under her chin. He pulled sharply upward and her neck snapped. The girl died instantly and without a sound. Drogo caught the body under her arms and followed the driver.

  The driver had just opened the door when Drogo struck him in the back of the head. The man collapsed on the floor, losing consciousness for a moment. Drogo dropped the girl’s body beside him.

  A few seconds later the driver opened his eyes. The girl lay next to him with her neck twisted. Drogo calmly closed the door. The driver tried to jump up and run, but Drogo pressed his foot against his chest and pinned him to the floor.

  Please… don’t. I’ll pay you. I’ll give you whatever you want. There’s money upstairs. Let’s go, I’ll give you everything.

  Turn over.

  The man obeyed.

  Do you know why you?

  No.

  Because you are a mistake.

  Drogo stepped on his stomach with one foot, just as the man had done earlier to the valet. Then he began repeating the same movement again and again – stepping, shifting, turning, stepping again. With every step there was a loud crack of breaking bones.

  The man begged him to stop, choking on blood. Drogo finally stopped, crouched down, drove his fingers into the man’s chest and tore the heart out. He lifted it toward his mouth, intending to eat it like an animal, but the smell made him recoil.

  What happened? his essence asked.

  I can’t. I need only the heart of that boy.

  Right there Drogo removed his clothes and stood completely naked. He was very tall and thin, with unusually long arms that almost reached his knees because of the way he always walked slightly hunched. On his body there was a single tattoo – a shackle ring around his neck with a chain running down toward his stomach and breaking apart. For Drogo it symbolized freedom.

  He adjusted the metal ring on his wrist, grimacing slightly from the pain, and walked naked into the bathroom. After taking a shower he opened the victim’s wardrobe and calmly chose new clothes: a white shirt, jeans, a dark cherry jacket and moccasins. From the man’s watch collection he selected one that matched the suit and then used cologne.

  In the kitchen he took a bottle of alcohol and as he walked toward the entrance he poured it across the floor. Near the body he first took his Panama hat from his old jacket and placed it into the inner pocket of the new one. Then he searched the victim’s clothes and took the money, cards, and the keys to the car and the house.

  He placed a cigarette in his mouth, lit it, took a drag and dropped it onto the alcohol.

  Then he left the house, locked the door, got into the car and drove back to the same club from which the victim had left earlier. He handed the keys to the valet. The man looked confused, recognizing the car but not the driver. Drogo noticed this, raised a finger to his lips and quietly signaled shhh, then slipped a large roll of money into the valet’s breast pocket.

  Drogo entered the club with a specific purpose – to release the tension that had built inside him and to find a partner for the night. Drogo’s essence was unusual. In myth it was described as a god of war that could take the form of ravens. One of its abilities allowed Drogo to absorb the strength of those he defeated, and another made him sexually attractive to both men and women by releasing pheromones. Because of this, the moment he approached the bar he was already being watched. Curious and hungry glances followed him through the crowd.

  He stopped at the bar, calmly observed the club and noticed a striking woman. With a small nod he invited her closer and she did not hesitate. He bought her a cocktail, leaned toward her and quietly told her that he wanted her. She smiled, but answered that she was not alone and that her friend was with her. Drogo asked her to bring the friend. He took two bottles of champagne from the bar, opened them and handed one to each of the women.

  The three of them left the club together and walked toward the parking area. The valet immediately brought the car when he saw Drogo. They sat inside. The pheromones released by Drogo affected the women strongly; they touched him, kissed him and drank the champagne while the car moved through the night streets. Drogo remained completely calm and distant.

  At the hotel he asked for a room not higher than the third floor and paid immediately. The women surrounded him with growing excitement, but he remained cold and controlled. When they entered the room he closed the door, took a few steps forward and said quietly:

  Undress me.

  The women obeyed without hesitation. When he stood completely naked, he ordered them to take a shower and then wait on the bed. They followed his instructions obediently, as if under a spell. As soon as they entered the bathroom, Drogo slightly loosened the chain on his left wrist. A wave of euphoria rushed through his mind and desire flooded his body. He entered the bathroom and the three of them gave themselves over to raw physical instinct.

  Later they returned to the bed and after some time everything ended. Drogo tightened the chain on his wrist again and small drops of blood appeared under the metal. He sat in an armchair opposite the bed, watching the women while they slept. After some time he fell asleep as well.

  At ten in the morning he woke up, dressed quickly, went downstairs and took a coffee to go. When they had driven to the hotel the night before he had noticed a second-hand store nearby. He went there now and about fifteen minutes later came out with a bag full of clothes.

  When he returned to the hotel room the women were already waking up. He invited them to breakfast and they agreed. They went downstairs to the hotel restaurant. Unfortunately one of the women turned out to be talkative and rather foolish – something Drogo could not tolerate. He quickly finished his omelet, stood up, left money on the table and walked away. One of the women tried to call after him, but he did not even turn around.

  Drogo realized that this routine would help him calm himself for a while. For the near future his nights would look exactly like this – at least until the police finally stopped looking.