Petre stood outside nuncle's building with a stone in his gut.

He looked around for some idle distraction, but the streets were largely empty. The only people who remained on the sidewalks moved in a hurried huff. Petre had passed at least three trucks on the road blaring news of a citywide lockdown. The loudspeakers mentioned some dribble about VAT-E1, but Petre could only think of Blurb and the violence.

"And I don't want to think about it either," he said as the memories rushed back in a blaze of crimson. The soldier's head rolling off his shoulders. The burnt smell of meat (Petre did not think it veal or pork).

He clutched his stomach and clamped his eyes shut. He would not vomit. He would not vomit.

"Please, please, please!" Petre said under his breath, his legs weak and trembling. If only Blurb were here. If only he could sink into her wet embrace and forget.

"But I can't forget, and even if I could..."

Soldiers had tried to abduct him, and now they were dead. Which meant more soldiers would come knocking on his door. Petre could not return home, so where else could he go?

He pushed the buzzer with a shaky finger. Because who knew what nuncle would say (Violence seemed a forgone conclusion).

There was no answer, so Petre pushed the building's buzzer a second time. He held it longer and started to bite his lip.

"Still no Blurb..." He looked around as he waited, but his savior was nowhere to be seen.

She had filled his hurts with a wet slobber of love and then had slunk away. It was hard not to think of it as some small betrayal, but Petre knew she would not have left him unless if it was absolutely necessary.

"And I don't want her to fight anyways," Petre said. Just the thought of soldier's shooting guns and throwing grenades at his treasure made him feel lightheaded.

"WHAT!?"

Petre jumped at the violent burst of noise.

"Nuncle! Nuncle, s-so sorry," he said as Lyov Predav's heavy breathing appeared from the other side of the intercom. "It is... Petre."

A silence hung between them. Petre's mouth went dry as he thought to ask to come inside. But what if nuncle refused?

There came a click from the building's heavy door.

"We need to talk," nuncle said, flatly.

"Thank you, nuncle!" Petre said. He almost wanted to cry (And after having been shot at and blown up he had reason enough to cry). "Thank you, thank you!"

He slipped inside the building and squinted against the darkness. It was the same complex Petre worked in most days (Or at least the days he decided to show up) at the publishing house. There had been other tenants for a time, but nuncle had kicked them all out.

All that remained was the office on the upper stories and nuncle's apartment on the first floor.

Petre groped for a light switch, but after a few breathless moments the darkness gave way to the distinct shapes of doors and hallway obstacles. Odd that his vision seemed so sharp, but Petre scarcely had time to wonder on the strangeness.

He walked down the unlit hallway with only a sparse trickle of light from the front-door window. The deeper he delved down the hallway, however, the more the day fled until he arrived outside nuncle's door.

A soft coo of light bled out from underneath the door.

"He's not going to hurt you," Petre said as he braced himself. There was no one else he could turn to, and he was not even sure what nuncle could do.

If soldiers were chasing after him, was there anyone that could help?

A wash of light spilled over the hallway. Petre squinted as nuncle's burly bear-frame entered into the hallway, arms akimbo.

"Petre?" There was a soft concern to his words, and then harsh laughter.

"Is that your disguise?" nuncle asked as he continued to fill the hallway with laughter. Petre looked on in stunned confusion. "Did you do it then? Are you a murderer?"

"What?" Petre hissed out the word. He took a step back as a flood of worry filled his head. Because what if-

"Get inside," nuncle said, the cold finality of his words cutting through Petre's unease. "My nephew is no killer. Come."

Lyov Predav's bearish back disappeared into the apartment and Petre slunk in after him.

It had been three years since he had last been inside nuncle's apartment. Petre had visited when he had first moved to Solca, and it did not feel as though the apartment had changed since.

"There is tea on the kettle," nuncle said. "You will drink a cup."

The room was made cramped with a large sofa that could sit at least six and a coffee table that would not have looked out of place in a banquet hall. There were at least seven bookcases crammed full of books and magazines (In many cases the books spilled off their shelves) spaced unevenly throughout the main sitting area. Stacks of unbound manuscripts and large boxes marked with seemingly random phrases contributed even more to the clutter.

Nuncle reappeared with a steaming mug and a furrowed frown.

"I can hardly recognize you, nephew. Is that all... real?"

Petre smiled sheepishly as he patted his new girth. What could he say? Nuncle had seen him a few days ago with shorter hair and a sleeker physique.

"A disguise. Yes."

It seemed the only explanation he could offer, though he immediately regretted the words.

"But I didn't do anything! Nuncle, w-what did you mean? Wha... wha... murder? A murderer?"

A dark pall fell over nuncle's square face at the word, and Petre cringed.

"The polici were here. They said you shot someone. Quiet, nephew." Petre had opened his mouth, but nuncle's eyes flared with frustration. "They... They threatened us. They threatened my star, Petre."

"I didn't... do anything..." Petre could not meet nuncle's stare. He wanted to crawl into a hole and die. He had come here for help, had come here because he had nobody else, but all at once it felt like the height of foolishness.

"I know that," nuncle said, his words softer, almost warm. "But I don't know, can't understand what is going on."

Petre bit his lip. There was no way he could tell nuncle about Blurb. And if he did, what could nuncle even do? The man was a publisher. And he had a family, no matter how small.

As though summoned by the thought, a patter of steps appeared from an adjacent room. Petre brightened at the thought of seeing Manya. It was wild, and proof enough of how unwell he was, but Petre almost wanted to see how his cuz would react to his transformation.

Her tangle of red locks bounced into the room with a mischievous smile plastered across her small face. Petre felt his chest lighten, some of his unease slip away.

And then Manya turned to look at him, and she recoiled in disgust.

Her face contorted in the blackest sneer. Her lips pulled back, her brow furrowed. Her shoulders tensed and the very air around her seemed to turn stagnant with revulsion.

"M-manya?" Lyov Predav seemed almost as shocked as Petre at his daughter's foul reaction. "W-what's wrong?"

Manya shook her head with such heavy disapproval that Petre's shoulders slumped under the weight. She raised a solitary finger and stabbed at him.

"You. You stink."

Her words were not met with laughter. There was no humor.

"Manya!" Lyov Predav waddled over to his daughter, his mouth agape. "That... That's your cuz. Petre. W-what, what do you mean by stink?"

Her eyes did not leave Petre. She did not blink.

And then her shoulders relaxed and the sneer melted from her face. It was replaced with her typical mischief, but Petre could not forget her earlier revulsion.

"A little too much running, cuz?" Manya asked. There was not even a hint of her earlier disgust. "I could smell you from upstairs. But that is not the only reason I came down."

"You little imp," nuncle said, and he mussed his daughter's hair, the relief in his voice palpable. "I think your cuz has enough worry on his shoulders without your rudeness."

"And he'll have even more if we don't hide him," Manya said with a bark of laughter. "I saw some polici heading towards the building."

A lance of unease returned, and Petre almost forgot about Manya's strangeness. Both he and nuncle exchanged a look. Not for the first time, Petre wondered why he had even bothered to come here.

"You should wait in the basement for now," Manya said as she walked over and took Petre by the hand. He did not miss how she shivered when she first touched him. "We can sort this all out once they've left."

"The basement?" nuncle asked before Petre could open his mouth. "But... Petre's family."

Petre did not understand what nuncle meant, but he was not allowed the chance to ask. It seemed every time he tried to open his mouth, Manya opened hers first.

"And that is why we need to hide him in the basement. To protect him."

Petre had worked in the building for three years, and he had never known about the basement.

Nuncle and Petre walked in darkness down the hallway. They stopped outside a nondescript door with faded paint and a rusted doorknob. Manya had stayed behind in the apartment for when (A small suspicious part of Petre wondered if there even were polici) the polici knocked on the front-door.

"We'll figure this all out, nephew," nuncle said as he unlocked the old door.

"The basement..." Petre groped for something to say. "I didn't even know there was a basement."

Nuncle did not answer. He opened the door, and Petre followed after him, his heart heavy. He wanted to go home. He wanted to shut his doors, close the blinds, and just live as a rock. If he had known what awaited him outside, Petre never would have left his bed. He would have made fun-fun with Blurb until he had turned white and grey.

They had not walked far before a cold unease tiptoed across Petre's chest like spiders. Because there were no windows in the hallway. There were lightbulbs, but none of them were turned on.

So how could Petre see? And how could nuncle see for that matter?

"Down here," nuncle said, and he stopped beside a small set of stairs. There were only five or so rungs, and they led to what looked like an overlarge door. "You can... You will wait inside until... You will wait like Manya said."

"A-are you... all right? Nuncle?" The words slipped from his mouth as Petre's unease became too much. Both at the apartment and the walk from it, there had been something off about his nuncle. The man scarcely seemed to be his normal brutish self.

Nuncle did not answer. He instead undid latch and key and bolt, and Petre was left to wonder why there were so many locks on the basement door. And why on earth nuncle thought Petre would waltz inside after seeing how secured the door was?

"Get in," Lyov Predav said, but Petre stepped away. He shook his head in the absolute darkness as a hundred thoughts raced and worried.

Because nuncle wanted to hand him over to the polici. He would lock Petre inside and then call them up.

Or nuncle was worried for his publishing house. If news broke that his family was a murderer, it would hurt his business.

It could have been that nuncle was sick, with the VAT-E1. They said confusion was a symptom. There seemed to be no end to the different kind of symptoms.

"You're scaring me," Petre said because no matter what was wrong, something was wrong.

Lyov Predav moved through the dark like a shade. Petre felt nuncle's massive bear mittens grab hold of his wrist, and then Petre was falling through the air. Something slammed into his back, and he stumbled through the basement door.

A definitive metal clack sounded and then a clatter of click, clat, clang, klung as the bolt was put back into place, the lock was shut, and Petre was left trapped behind the massive door.

"Nuncle!" He slammed a fist against the door, and it rang out with a metallic clatter. "Nuncle! Open the door!"

Petre screamed and shouted until his throat felt bloody. He slammed his weight against the door. He yanked and pulled at whatever he could (There was no knob or window on his side). But the door remained shut.

It was only when exhaustion fell over him that Petre noticed the noise.

He went absolutely still. He tried to hush the labor of his breath, and then he turned, slowly, towards the distant rasp.

Amidst the black emptiness of the basement were familiar human shapes. Some moved, the rise and fall of their chests rhythmic and faint. Others lay still, either asleep, exhausted, or dead.

Petre was not alone.