Chapter 14
I noticed it first in the library, in how it kept following me after I’d gone.
No one really kept track of what I did during the day as long as I stayed out of the way and didn’t cause problems. And I had gotten very good at that then.
So I stayed at the library very often.
Often enough that the woman at the desk stopped looking at me twice when I came in.
Long enough that I knew which tables didn’t wobble and which shelves had that faint smell of glue and paper.
It was quiet there in a way the house never was.
The house always had something under it, even when nothing was happening. The library didn’t.
At first, I told myself it was just reading. Just something to fill time. But that’s not really true. It stopped being just reading pretty quickly. There’s a difference between picking up a book and studying it. I didn’t realize when that shift happened either.
One day, I was flipping pages. The next, I was memorizing things without trying to.
I learned it from animals first. Where the body gives, where it breaks, how it comes apart if you apply just enough pressure in the right places.
Bone, tendon, tissue. None of it was random.
And then I started translating it. From animals to humans.
Anatomy books became something else entirely.
Maps, guides, instructions. Over time, I didn’t need them anymore.
I carried it all inside me, an internal lexicon of the human body.
Every joint, every limit, every way it could be taken apart.
How much force is actually needed if you know where to place it, where the structure gives first, and where it doesn’t.
The books described it as technique, as skill, and as practice.
But once you strip that away, it becomes something else, something simpler.
How predictable everything was once you understood the structure of it.
I think that’s when it started changing something in me.
Because once you see that, really see it, you can’t unsee it again.
It doesn’t stay inside the pages; it follows you.
I started noticing things differently.
I had always observed my surroundings and the people in them, but it had always been about survival. This kind of observation felt different. Darker and more personal somehow.
The way Bartosz moved when he was tired versus when he had been drinking. The difference in his steps on the stairs. Heavier when he was angry, slower when he wasn’t.
The way Krystyna’s voice changed depending on whether she thought someone was listening. The small pauses in conversations that didn’t quite make sense unless you paid attention.
If you observe something long enough, little Ghost, it stops being random. It becomes a pattern, and patterns can be predicted.
It made things quieter in my head, more organized.
I started bringing the books home, just a few at a time, stacked neatly on the desk in my room.
At some point, the subjects changed. I didn’t decide that consciously; it just happened.
Hunting turned into anatomy, and anatomy turned into history.
The kind that gets written down because someone needed to understand how far the body could go before it stopped cooperating.
Torture methods.
There were illustrations, diagrams, and descriptions written in a tone that tried very hard to sound neutral. Like, if you removed the emotion from something, it stopped being what it was.
I read everything, sometimes twice.
There’s a certain way information settles in your body when you spend enough time with it. It stops feeling like something you learned and starts feeling like something you already knew. Like it was always there. That’s what it felt like.
Weeks passed. I think it was weeks. Time was… inconsistent, and I hadn’t seen Zwierek for a long time, not once. Every time I walked past that door, the lock was still there. Exactly the same, keeping him locked in.
At first, I thought maybe he had done something wrong.
That maybe this was the way they punished him. The kind where something just gets taken away, and no one explains why.
I had been getting used to having Zwierek by my side, and I felt the sudden absence. It’s strange how quickly you can get used to someone being there. Even when they don’t belong, even when they shouldn’t. And then they’re not and the space they leave doesn’t feel empty; it feels wrong.
So I stayed out longer, read more, and brought back more books. Filled the space the best I could. I think that’s when it started becoming something else. Something closer to intent.
It showed up in small ways at first. Thoughts that didn’t feel like thoughts, more like possibilities.
If you know where to apply pressure, you don’t need strength.
If you understand structure, you don’t need force.
If you can predict someone, you don’t need speed.
I didn’t question those thoughts; I just let them sit there.
The moment where you don’t push something away, that’s where it grows.
Six months is a strange amount of time. Long enough for things to change, short enough that you don’t always notice it happening.
I grew, physically, I mean. Taller, stronger.
But that wasn’t the part that mattered to me; it was everything else.
I didn’t think about Zwierek as something separate anymore, not really.
There’s a difference between someone being in your life and someone becoming part of the way you think.
He had done that without trying. Or maybe he had tried, I don’t know.
I never really knew what was going on inside his head, but that didn’t matter.
Some things don’t require language or understanding.
Zwierek came back after being gone for almost a month.
I’d started fearing I was never going to see him again.
Dark thoughts had taken over my head during those weeks, and part of me was convinced Krystyna and Bartosz had either gotten rid of him or sent him somewhere he wouldn’t come back from.
But then, suddenly, he was there again. And just like that, everything slipped back into place like he’d never been gone at all. That’s the thing, little Ghost.
Loyalty doesn’t always come from kindness; sometimes it comes from affinity, and affinity… runs deeper.
By the time I turned seventeen, I didn’t feel like I was learning anymore. Not in the way I used to. It felt more like I was remembering something.
The books got darker. That's the easiest way to explain it. Less about animals, more about people. Without ever saying it directly. What the body does when it’s pushed past what it was designed for.
How long it takes. That question came up a lot, in different ways, in different contexts.
But always the same answer underneath it.
Longer than you think.
I remember one night in particular. I was lying in my bed.
The room was dark except for the light from the street slipping through the edge of the curtain.
Same as always. Same ceiling, same walls.
But it didn’t feel the same. My head was full of thoughts.
Everything I had read, everything I had learned.
It didn’t stay separate; it blended. Ideas started connecting in ways they didn’t before.
Control… structure… the body. It shifted, slowly, into something else.
I felt it in my chest, then low in my stomach until my cock was pressing itself against the fabric of my sweatpants. My hand moved instinctively until it was wrapped around my hard shaft as a silent moan escaped from my lips.
I let the tension build up in my body, let the thoughts sit there instead of pushing them away, let them unfold. My breathing shifted into low and heavy breaths. Slowly, everything narrowed; the rest of the room stopped existing in the same way. Just pure sensation, just pressure.
I completely lost track of how loud I was. It happened fast, too fast to catch. The heavy growl leaving my mouth before I could stop it. A few minutes after that, the door to my room slammed open.
The sound cracked through the room so hard it felt physical.
I froze for half a second, maybe less. Then everything moved at once.
I sat up too quickly, jerked my hand away from my cock.
I didn’t even think about it, I just reacted and pulled my pants back into place, trying to make it look like nothing happened.
Like that was even possible, because he was already there, standing in the doorway.
Bartosz.
His eyes moved across the room first, not me, but the room. Like he was expecting to find something, or someone. Then they landed on me, and something in his eyes shifted.
“Are you fucking masturbating to the thought of my wife, you little shit!” he yelled loud and aggressive.
I didn’t answer. Of course I didn’t. I just looked at him.
Straight at him, not backing down. I didn’t think about it, but something in my chest tightened, and a burning sensation traveled up my spine.
He stepped closer. “You think you’re brave, huh? ” Another step.
“Do you really think I can’t see what’s going on inside that sick head of yours?” My eyes stayed locked with his, and then everything happened at once.
The grab on my arm, the pull until I landed hard on the floor. Air left my lungs before I even understood what was happening. He kicked me hard in the stomach, forcing the small amount of air I had left to leave my body.
Then another kick, this time to my ribs, forcing me to turn around.
He kept kicking and stomping on me like I was some fucking insect under his shoe. There was no rhythm to it, just force and rage. Ribs, side, stomach, head. Again.
Again.
Again.
Again.
The room tilted, and my vision started to blur at the edges. Another kick in the face, making my head spin toward the door. I just lay there and let it happen while the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth.
The blur at the edges got more intense, and I was on the verge of passing out. That’s when I saw familiar boots standing in the hallway past the open door. My vision dragged upward, following the legs until my eyes landed on his face.
Zwierek.
He was just standing there, looking at me with a cold expression in his eyes. Not moving, not jumping to my rescue, just fucking standing there observing me getting my ass kicked.
Our eyes met while Bartosz continued to kick me, oblivious to Zwierek’s presence. We locked eyes, and for a second, everything else disappeared. He just stared at me. And then, a small movement, barely there.
A nod.
That’s it.
And suddenly, everything became very clear.
I grabbed Bartosz' ankle mid-air, hard. My other hand pushed up, and I put everything into it, all my force. A loud crack echoed from his bones. He screamed in pain as he collapsed to the ground. Adrenaline burned through my veins, spreading through my body until it felt like I was on fire.
My gaze flickered to the heavy metal doorstop, and without thinking, I grabbed it. I turned toward Bartosz and brought it down on his face with all my strength. I straddled him, another blow. His hands flailed around my face in a desperate attempt to defend himself.
Another hit.
And another.
And another.
It was as if everything I had ever experienced had been leading up to this moment.
One more, harder this time.
My thoughts scattered, crashing into each other inside my head, an inner chaos that translated itself into heavier strikes. I could barely hear the sound of bones breaking over the rushing roar of blood in my ears.
Another blow.
Blood sprayed more and more with each hit until I was covered in it.
Another hit.
And another.
Eventually, my arm stopped. I had no idea how long it had been, how long I had been hitting him.
All I knew was that there was nothing left to hit.
No face anymore, just… something unrecognizable.
If you hadn’t known it was Bartosz lying there, you wouldn’t have been able to tell.
Whatever had once been his face didn’t even resemble one anymore.
The room smelled different at that point.
My hand loosened, and the doorstopper hit the floor. The sound felt far away. I stood up slowly, my body shaking uncontrollably, keeping my gaze fixed on what was left of Bartosz. My head moved to the side, locking eyes with Zwierek.
He hadn’t moved the entire time, not even a step.
He just stood there, watching me. And for some reason I couldn’t explain, I broke my silence and spoke for the first time since I was a child.
I could hardly recognize my own voice; it had changed, deepened, darker than I remembered it.
The words came out broken, worn, and deepened by adrenaline and years of silence.
“I fucking killed him.”
Zwierek tilted his head towards the dresser.
“Put some clothes on,” he said.
“We’re leaving.”
That’s all he said, and something about that, something about how simple it sounded, made the room feel even smaller.
Like it was always meant to happen, like it was only a matter of time.
Just a line I crossed like it wasn’t something irreversible that would change the trajectory of my entire life.
But that’s the thing, little Ghost. Some lines don’t feel like crossing; they feel like something aligning in the deepest and darkest parts of yourself.
And once you step over them, you can’t look back.
You won't need to. Because something in you already knows, you were never meant to stay on the other side anyway.