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Chapter Text

Your shoulders are rigid, your neck throbbing. The station is buzzing with noise. This should not have come as a surprise—you wanted it to be busy. You need it too busy for anyone to spare you a glance, to notice you, what you’re wearing, or how you look. But the crowd is unnerving. The proximity, the overlapping voices—and you, jerking like you’d heard gunshots instead of arrival announcements. At least you managed to, by some miracle, keep your eyes facing forward instead of scanning the crowd for blond hair.

You count the money in your wallet, ensuring it’s all there. You’ll be living within limited means for a while. Your resigned sigh reaches your hands, warming your fingers. Carrying too much cash would be reckless. What you have will last you the trip, weeks of preparation made sure of that: Rosenheim, Salzburg, Villach, Udine, Trieste, and finally across the Slovenian border. A bus for that last part—less monitored than trains or cars. Not that you’re worried about border authorities, but the fewer people who see your face, the better. When you arrive in Ljubljana, you should be far enough to use an ATM without too much risk.

The thought of it should offer relief, but you don’t allow yourself to feel anything. You know if you do, it will all come rushing in—the dread gnawing at you since you first laid eyes on those photographs.

Such complicated effort for all this, and it’ll probably mean nothing to him. He’ll have it figured out in hours—days if you’re lucky. But you have to try. You can’t let fear paralyze you now. You’ll push through, sustained by the hope that, if you run far enough, for long enough, he might get bored.

“Destination?”

The woman behind the counter barely glances up, your beating heart less audible when measured against her clear, flat voice.

“Rosenheim.”

Her fingers clack against the keyboard while you glance around. You’re scanning the crowd, of course, but with a little luck it just looks like wandering eyes.

“One-way or return?”

“One-way, please.”

She nods, prints the ticket, and slides it under the glass without a word. You fumble slightly as you hand over the cash, careful not to let your fingers linger too long. The ticket feels so thin in your hands, so flimsy.

You hold it like you would treasure—or a still-beating heart.

“Platform 7. Departure in twenty minutes.”

You thank her, take the ticket, and slip into the crowd.

The train doors slide open with a soft hiss. The air feels cooler here, less dense and drier than the station’s. You walk through the train, toward the back, making the most of the minutes you have before takeoff. The train is quite busy, but your racing mind will need space to run its laps. You scan the carriage in front of you, resisting the urge to look over your shoulder, as if expecting to see him standing right there. Rows of seats stretch out before you—most of them empty. Perfect.

You choose a seat near the back, close to the window but far enough from anyone else. Your body melts into the cushions as you sit, though your neck remains as stiff as ever. The murmur of distant conversations fills the train, but you focus on the hum of the engine, the subtle vibrations beneath your feet. It grounds you, reminds you that you’re in motion, that there’s no turning back now. The train gives a soft lurch, and with it, you feel a slight release of breath.

You're moving.

The gentle sway of the train lulls you, the rhythmic clatter of wheels on tracks merging with the hum of the engine beneath your feet. Your eyelids feel heavy. The world outside the window blurs into shades of gray and green. As your mind starts slipping, you can’t help but wonder—

“You seem tired, [First]. When did you last sleep?”

It feels like freezing water poured down your back. Your eyes snap open, your heart stuttering. The words hang in the air, unmistakable, violently dragging you out of the fog you were drifting into.

The seat across from you was empty—was—not anymore.

He’s sitting there, posture relaxed, watching you with unsettling calmness. His voice echoes in your ears, soft and gentle.

“You seem tired,” he repeats, leaning slightly forward, his eyes scanning your face. “When did you last sleep?”

The train feels too small suddenly, the air too thin. You can’t quite manage to breathe—you can’t move. For a moment, you wonder if this is still a dream—some twisted scene pulled out of your anxiety-ridden brain—but he’s never so vivid in your dreams.

His gaze leaves your face, resting on your shoulders. Rigid as they had been for most of the day, they’re moving on their own now—up and down, shaking, their rhythm almost matching that of the tracks. His eyes leisurely follow the curve of your shoulders up, to your neck, to your mouth, and finally back to your eyes. 

You don’t think he’s expecting an answer, and to your credit, he doesn’t wait for one much longer.

“You did a good job covering your tracks,” he says, smile ever present on his face, despite never reaching his eyes. “It would have taken me longer to find you had Greta not told me you were gone.” 

Your stomach twists. Greta. Her name—so casual on his lips—hits you like a blow. It’s Tuesday. You and Greta have class together on Tuesday, which she knows you’d never miss. She must’ve wondered, must’ve gone to your dorm only to find it empty.

“Don’t worry,” he startles you out of your thoughts, voice calm, as if reading your mind, “I reassured her, of course. She thinks you’re traveling home to see your mother—medical emergency—you were so distraught, the thought of saying goodbye didn’t cross your mind.”

Your chest tightens, the air in the train feeling even thinner now. The thought of Greta—sweet, trusting Greta—believing his lies makes your pulse race. You can picture it now, how her face must have softened with concern when he told her, the guilt gnawing at you. But you force your thoughts back to the present. The fact remains: he’s here, sitting across from you, and any illusion of distance or safety you’d clung to is gone. 

"You look upset," he observes, tilting his head slightly, a hint of amusement flickering in his eyes. "How touching. Are you worried for her?"

Your hands clench into fists in your lap, nails digging into your palms, but you don’t respond. 

He sighs, a sound that seems almost disappointed. “You should be thankful, [First]. She could’ve made things much harder for you. But I made sure she’s not involved. See? I keep my promises.”

He leans back in his seat, one hand resting casually on the armrest, his other reaching into his pocket, pulling out a familiar notebook. "You didn’t answer my question," he says softly, and this time his voice carries a hint of something sharper, something colder. "When did you last sleep?"

You swallow hard, throat dry. He must’ve grabbed it at the station. You were so careful, yet apparently so oblivious that he managed to steal your journal from your bag in plain view. He’s brought it out to taunt you, surely.

“I’ve been sleeping just fine,” you manage, your voice barely a whisper. It’s a weak lie, and you both know it.

Johan’s smile widens, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Is that so?” His tone is almost mocking. He shuffles through the notebook casually, his fingers trailing over the pages as if he has all the time in the world.

He stops at a page, his eyes scanning the words—your words. Your pulse quickens as you try to remember what you wrote. Which page is he looking at? How much has he read?

"You know," he says, his voice light and conversational, "you write beautifully. I’ve always admired how people pour their souls into the page, as if the ink can shelter what they’re afraid to say out loud."

Your stomach clenches. He’s playing with you. “My handwriting is horrible,” you mutter, trying to keep your voice steady. “My mother tried her best to help me with it, but I can't muster the effort to keep it pretty.”

He hums, flipping another page, his gaze flickering over the words. “I like it,” he replies, and his tone sounds sincere. “It’s very honest. I can tell the mood you were in when writing each sentence. The way the letters tilt, the pressure you use on the pen... it’s all very revealing.”

The thought of him analyzing every word, every stroke of your pen, makes your skin crawl. You try to control your breathing, to stop your hands from shaking. “Where are we going?”

His eyes leave the pages and meet yours again,“I want it to be a surprise,” he leans back slightly in his seat, as if making himself comfortable, as if he wasn’t already. “Don’t worry, you’ll figure it out along the way.”

You try to think of a way out. You consider standing up, but you know he’d only follow. You think about the emergency stop, but what then?

The train rattles on, but the ground beneath you feels less certain with each passing second. 

There’s nowhere left to run.

Chapter Text

Tuesday, 15 May 2001 – Salzburg

Rosenheim and Salzburg took roughly 2 hours to cover, but the ride to Villach would have meant over five hours on the train. With the events of the day, and the changes they warranted to my travel itinerary, Johan thought it best to continue the journey tomorrow, so we’ll be spending the night here at the Hotel Sacher Salzburg. 

It sits directly on the right bank of the Salzach river, which I can see from my window. Our room wasn’t one of the expensive units serenaded about by the chatty receptionist, but, like the rest of the hotel, it shares that same discreet Habsburg elegance: high ceilings, polished walnut trim, and brocade curtains that soften the afternoon light. I’m told the hotel was recently renovated–name and all. 

The Franziskanerkirche is on the other side of the river, tucked too deep in its block to see from here, but we’re close enough to hear the bells. I’d like to see it before leaving, so perhaps tomorrow—

You can’t quite get yourself to finish the sentence. First, it would require you to use, for the fourth time already, “we”, which was sufficiently unnerving the first three times you’d done so. Second, you would actually like to visit the Franziskanerkirche. Saying so would be sincere, and sincerity is a slippery-slope. Indulge it once and in a week you’ll find yourself pouring your heart out to a notebook he’ll be using for bedtime reading. Best not to push your luck. 

You need to gather your thoughts, they’ve been a mess since you left the train and during the ride you’re not sure they were present at all.

It was quiet. He spent the whole time reading your journal, your thoughts, your memories. You spent the whole time frozen, looking at him, waiting for some sort of ball to drop. In your memory his face doesn’t move at all, he shows no reaction to what he’s reading. 

Was that how it actually went, or were you too shaken to register his expressions? You can’t remember, you can’t think, you’re not sure you’ve breathed since this morning. You’ve had neither the time nor space to register the events of the day. 

Under normal circumstances you’d have made good use of the pretty notebook on your desk, pen and paper have always helped you think. But it only serves as a reminder of the one it’s meant to replace. The one he’s likely still reading, wherever he is now.

The agitation of it all makes you restless. You don’t think about getting up until you’ve done so, suddenly, loudly, dragging the chair with you and startling at the noise.  

The room is relatively small–the queen-sized bed takes up most of the space. Your little desk, better described as a vanity, was across from it, near a lavish sofa chair fashioned to match the wallpaper. 

The window is generous, standard casement but no lattice, about as wide as your desk, spanning from the curtain rod down to your knees. Had the ledge been deeper it would have made the best seat in the room. Shame about that. The chair you were using will have to suffice. 

Taking in the pretty view, you make a note of all visible surroundings: The river, of course, steals the show. Water is an excellent compositional device, the flat expanse gives the idea of a distance greater than what is, and the facades across the bank appear in their entirety–no trees or light posts in the way–though you attribute the latter to the high vantage point of your fourth floor room. How considerate of him, to take care you had some scenery for chewing. 

The river carries a slow scatter of leaves eastward, and your gaze drifts along the riverside buildings at a matching pace. Apartments, restaurants, and a grocery store are just about all you can see on the other side of the river. You lean over the ledge and turn your gaze sideways, noting the contents of your own block in the same rhythm, every entrance, every shopfront, your eyes stalling only at the sight of bright blue accenting crisp white letters. “Cafe Bazar”, a staple of the city. 

The awkward angle makes it hard to make out the marble tables and their cast iron legs, but you know they’re there, having passed by earlier before checking into the hotel. You remember them as well as you remember the familiar, roasted, faintly sweet smell coloring the air. The latter, not exclusive to Salzburg, nudges your memory further. 

Before train tickets and escape plans, before photographs and the unease that’s made its home in the back of your head. When the only horror you had to face before sunrise was dragging your own feet to the bakery under Greta’s flat, for the free coffee you couldn’t find anywhere else. 

Keys, wallet, backpack. Your hair’s seen better days, but the socks match, and the clothes are clean. What more can you wish for at 5am, really. 

Keys, wallet, backpack. It’s already cold in here, and it’s going to be so cold outside, but you can’t put it off much longer. 

Keys, wallet, backpack. You have everything, you’ve checked more than once. 

You brace yourself, face so somber old Mr Gerhard across the hall might think you’re mocking him. Not that you’ll be running into him now, not this early on a Saturday. 

The old wooden boards of your floor are in excellent condition, except for the squeaky few right by the entrance. They’re louder than you’d expect, and something about the sound still makes you feel odd (like you’re stepping somewhere you’re not supposed to). But there’s something endearing about having your every entrance and exit announced, something to break the silence, to acknowledge your presence in the otherwise empty flat. 

Today, like always, your first steps out are loud.

You move quickly down the hallway toward the narrow staircase. The windows above it always leak when it rains, and past encounters have taught you the necessity of a careful, leisurely pace. You take the steps one at a time. 

On the ground floor you’re greeted by rows of mailboxes and a muddy floor. It seems you’re not the earliest bird in your building. 

You don’t stop to check your mail. It won’t arrive until nine anyway. Instead, you push against the entrance door, squinting into the wind as it bursts through.

Rather than dark grey skies you find yourself gazing at the familiar lilac of dawn. You pretend, only for a moment, that the rain stopped just for you. That the sky, too, knows what day it is, and is making a show of support in its own small yet potent way. 

Then you’re on your way again. 

Familiar surroundings blur like the thoughts drifting through your sleep-addled brain as you rush forward with what little energy you can muster. While mostly driven by the urgent need to escape the cold, the pull is one of warm coffee and comfort, both of which Greta so reliably provided. 

Somehow managing the pace, you turn the corner and run the final stretch, climbing those pesky shopfront steps and staggering through the door into the welcoming smell of coffee and pastries.

It takes a second to recognise the sigh you release as the breath you’d been holding most of the way there.

“Oh! Did you finally take up jogging?” 

Greta, true to form, is already seated, sipping what can only be tea. The morning paper covers her half of the table, held in place by an empty cup matching the one she’s holding.

She follows your gaze to it before raising the one in her hand and flashing you a sheepish grin. “It’s my second one.”

There’s a well-meaning childishness to Greta, which makes traits so unbearable in others—impertinence, prying, relentless cheer, and seemingly endless energy—appear charming in her.

Having finally caught your breath, you make your way to the table and offer her a well-earned “Good morning.”

“Okay, so—your interview’s in about two hours,” she wastes no time starting, twists her wrist to check the time before tugging at the belt of her loose green watch, trying to flip it upright. 

“And we’ll need about forty-five of those to get you ready. Yes, I’m certain.” 

She raises her hand and quickly glances towards the counter. At the sight of an approaching mug she immediately relaxes back in her seat.

You sit politely as the waiter sets the mug down. You wait patiently as he turns around. At last, his eyes diverted, you grasp the mug with both hands and sniff your heart out of the mocha inside. “I knew I woke up for a reason today.” You exhale, content and placated and sufficiently relieved to ignore Greta’s teasing grin. 

“You have 10 minutes of silence to enjoy yourself. And that’s on me.”

A catchphrase of sorts, those last few words. A throwback to your first meeting, when you found her sobbing at the very same bakery. Tired, overwhelmed, alone for the first time in her life, with a finished cup of tea and a forgotten wallet. 

The roles were reversed back then, of course, but she’s never let you pay since, no matter how much you insisted. 

You eventually pieced it together: Her family’s wealth. Her tendency to buy others’ friendship, not as a way to control them, but as a way to reassure herself that they’d stay. The only method to give her consistent results in the increasingly envious, opportunistic environment of her fancy boarding school. 

In the beginning, especially, it felt wrong, dirty, to accept. To actually enjoy her company but let her think she’s buying yours. Her deflection whenever you brought it up only made it worse. 

But this wasn’t something you could address head-on, only attempt to dance around it. 

So you paid her back in services she couldn’t buy. Tasks that were time consuming, inconvenient, explicitly laborious as you explicitly explained, every time, they were compensation. The reminder used to make her flinch, but it worked once she noticed its absence everywhere else. 

You wanted her to know your friendship was free. A separate package from your other exchanges.

The anxiety is still there, a little. So is the gesture. But you can see the knowing looks in every transaction, the ease in her face, countless little things she made no effort to hide.

She knows your friendship is sincere, you know she does.

And you also know her generosity is not for her benefit alone. Time and effort you have enough of, but they’re no replacement for money. You do find yourself wondering, now and then, how much of your little give-and-take remains because of this. Giving you access to luxuries you can’t afford, making your days a little nicer. 

So you voice your appreciation.“I’d marry you if I could, you know?” 

And she plays along with the kind of levity she alone can make work. 

“For my money? Oh I know.”

The comprehensive prep work Greta put together took exactly as long as she said it would. She was punctual to a fault. Sooner than you’d have liked, you find yourself back outside, at the mercy of the German late-autumn wind.

You, and others, sit outside the faculty building. You gaze through the crowd of faces, each one competition, each one staring at their shoes with messy hair and groggy eyes.

The sight prompts a smile you try your best to contain.

“Well, General, you were right,” you whisper, leaning closer as you do. “Waking up before dawn might’ve actually given me an edge.”

Greta flashes her cockiest smile, keeps it on until her teeth start to chatter.                               

“We should’ve waited inside,” she says, pulling her coat tighter. “Do these people want us frostbitten before they let us in?”

“Hey, you insisted on walking me here. I told you to wait at home.”

“And miss the payoff for my hard work? No chance in hell. I made you flashcards.”

It’s ridiculous, but somehow it works. It always works.

You glance toward the main entrance, half-expecting to be called in early, though you know there’s still time.

Greta notices, of course.

“Hey.”

You turn.

“Stop bracing for the firing squad. You’re not losing this one. They already like you.”

“How could I lose it?” you mutter, voice low but cadence light, “You made me flashcards.”

She smiles but it’s clearly sympathetic. And this time, she spares the teeth.

“Not to mention bought you breakfast. Want a pep talk?” 

“Might be nice.” 

Speaking louder than you’d have liked her to, gaze quickly shifting from you to the crowd, she tries. “They know you’re brilliant. I’d bet my hat none of these bozos were personally invited to interview.” 

“If they liked my work enough to personally reach out, they could’ve just offered me the job while at it. It’s a stupid invitation.”

“This stupid invitation might land you in a cross-departmental research group with EU grant backing and two published professors. And god, it pays enough to get you out of that hovel and into my building. So get your whining out while we’re here, but the second you’re in there-"

“-I’ll be an absolute delight. So charming they’ll sing my praises, speak for decades of my performance. Books will be written in homage—no, songs, sonnets, epic poems—”

The door opens with a metallic click, and a tall man with silver-rimmed glasses leans halfway out. “[Last]?”

You stand.

“They’re ready for you.” All that effort to keep it together and your stomach still twists.

Greta gives your hand a quick squeeze, and you follow him inside.

“Your file tells me you are minoring in Political theory, is that right?”

A brief nod. Solid eye contact. You feel ridiculously proud of yourself for every small gesture, but in your defense, the effort you’re exerting just keeping yourself still is commendable. Academia calls for proper formal etiquette but many countries differ on what passes for the latter. The bulk of you and Greta’s early morning prep served to drill you in the German variety. 

No fidgeting, no filler words, no unnecessary smiles. “It complements Sociology well, but it’s not quite as…practical as European studies.” Don’t defend yourself unless asked. 

“This is a European project. We’re working within that context, and, I’m obliged to say, that kind of specific applied knowledge is much more valuable here.”

There’s no bite to it. Just a matter-of-fact observation, stated with the calm confidence of someone long past the need to prove anything. You hold your posture, just as you were taught. Chin level. Hands folded. Expression neutral. But the words graze something soft in you regardless. You’re getting the impression you’re about to lose what you’d convinced yourself was a guaranteed win. And if that wasn’t bad enough, the rejection’s coming from someone you’ve fantasized of working with. 

Professor Dr. Haas, chair for sociology, academic idol and wish-fulfillment father-figure for every student loitering around the 8th floor, browsing project flyers and hoping, daydreaming, he’ll memorise their face. You prefer the daydream version, if you’re being honest. 

Bitterness aside, there is righteousness in your indignation: you didn’t come here, on your own, asking for a shot. They invited you. Sent a nicely worded letter in a pretty little envelope with several, authentic, official stamps. And because professor Haas – sorry, Herr Professor Haas – was not one, you think, to handle such administrative matters, you make a point to turn your gaze to his fellow interviewer. 

Post Doctorate Lena Schmidt, your would-be direct supervisor, were this going the way you’d imagined it would, seemed about as lost as you, albeit notably less concerned. You’d read her PHD thesis on "The Ethnography of Bureaucratic Power." way back in your first year. You’d then gone on to read her every other publication.

If she does see your agitation she’s deemed it unnecessary to react. She readjusts her back and shoulders, shifts her weight to her right and rests her chin on the edge of her palm indicating, quite theatrically, dedicated attention to her colleague and team lead. It’s not exactly condescending, you don’t think. Sure, the gesture is dismissive, but her expression looks more awkward than anything else. Like she can’t think up a response. 

Herr Professor himself stopped saying much before his Post Doc. even turned, instead occupying his hands and eyes with the several papers on their side of the desk. At this point, you’re at a loss. The only other person in the room is your escort to the office, and he certainly won’t have a response. For one, he’s sitting on the other side of the room, writing what you assume are the minutes of your meeting. 

So your eyes return upfront, too perplexed for resignation at having been so completely ignored. Thankfully, you have not, as you were beginning to suspect, spontaneously turned invisible. The man in front of you meets your gaze, having finally found what he was looking for. 

To your surprise he even laughs: a brief, light yet quite well rounded, almost amused exhale. He grips the paper in his hand with purpose, lifts the sheet slightly, as if to scold it.

“This took very long to find.”

“I read a piece you worked on, a while back, in the Schriften. This paper, I believe, with Professor Sylvain Renaud.” He pauses, eyes flicking briefly across the page. “ The Sovereign's Ghost: Hoarded Identity and the Failure of Programmatic Erasure. We didn’t get a chance to work together, but, as his colleague, I have read Professor Renaud’s work and admired it.” He brings his eyes to yours again and resumes. “You were accredited in this paper as a bachelor student, which is impressive.” 

Maybe you’ll send Professor Renaud a gift basket, if delivery fees to Montpellier are within your budget. 

“What makes you interesting, though, is your disagreement with Professor Renaud. In his analysis of the Düsseldorf law student case, he posits that” —he glances down at the paper as if to confirm— “A state seeking to escape its own history does not erase guilt; it outsources it through a process of institutional dehumanization. It creates 'illegible subjects', monsters in the archive, to carry the burden of its sins. This strategy of radical individualism is a fantasy. The ultimate crisis arrives when society is confronted with the foundational truth it tried to deny: that accountability cannot be outsourced. It is the moment we realize that the person we dehumanised was never a monster, but a victim turned sacrificial lamb. We ourselves become complicit in their erasure.” His attention remains to the paper even as he addresses you. 

“Now, you disagree with this, yes?” 

“No.” 

“You don’t?” 

A beat of absolute silence. Dr. Schmidt’s pen hovers over her notepad, as do her eyes. The secretary in the corner remains a statue. You should be formulating a response but you’re still trying to understand the question.

“You said,” he intones, picking up the paper again and quoting your words back to you. “To label the dehumanized subject ‘erased' is to grant the system a victory it never achieved. It assumes the project of erasure was successful. The truth is far more pathetic, and therefore, far more profound.” He leans back slightly, a faint smile playing on his lips. “No subject consents to their own voiding. In the face of total erasure, the self does not vanish; it goes into hiding. ”

He looks you in the eyes for the first time since he first broached the topic. 

“I don’t find it very clear. I think you’re alluding.”

Before you can ask him exactly what he means you find yourself cut short again, this time by Dr. Schmidt.

 “I believe,” she says, in deep and dulcet tones, “what Herr Professor Haas would like to know is: If the self goes into hiding, where does it go? Or rather, where do we look to find it?”

“It hoards.” you begin, your voice finding its footing. “The self, the person, clutches onto whatever it can. Small, fragmented bits of itself and of the others who have defined it. Especially the others. Even when we struggle to identify ourselves, or lack the space to do so, those we’ve talked to, acted around, been alive with, will still identify us, and become an anchor in that sense.”

The argument is meant to follow Renaud’s. You’re unsure what Haas meant by emphasising your “disagreement”, and he himself offers no further clarification. Instead he lingers on your final words.

“An anchor to personhood.”

Chapter Text

Despite your expectations, you don’t get to see much of Professor Haas once the introductions are over and the project sets off. Having set the grand theoretical direction, he spent most of his time schmoozing with funders and diplomats, all to maintain the research grant his reputation secured. Instead, the highest authority on the floor is Dr. Schmidt, followed by her hand-picked research associates who have their hands on the real meat of the project. You, on the other hand, are left to appropriately less important tasks, befitting your status as a student assistant. 

Still, you’re content.

You like the project, you like the team, you like your little office and the person you have to share it with. You especially like how happy he was to handle the project’s library and leave the fun tasks to you, though you’re sure that’s not how he saw it at the time. 

“Tell me I didn’t miss anything.” You hope so as well. It’s 8pm and you’d love to get home. You’d spent the whole day on transcripts – dozens of interviews gathered over the previous weeks, all raw data in need of analysis. Your poor partner had spent that same time running back and forth from the university library, to the departmental records, to a number of offices spanning the building. Apparently the commotion of his frequent trips and the volume of papers he’d had to photocopy and bring back didn’t sit well with the university librarian. 

“Don’t. Don’t make me go back.” Despite spending the whole day on his feet he couldn’t sit still, shifting his weight from one foot to another as he hovered over your head, waiting for your confirmation as you skimmed the papers he’d brought back. “She’ll know I emptied the ink cartridge – and she’ll kill me .”

“Markus, she’s 72. I’m sure you’ll outrun her.”

“Can’t outrun her cold, disapproving eyes.”

With mock-sympathy in your eyes and relief in your sigh, you ceremoniously slap the paper on your desk and give him the happy news: “You’re in luck, my friend. We’ve got all we need!” And poor Markus takes a seat at last. Sinks into it, in fact. 

“Can we close shop for the day?”

“I still need to finish the transcripts…”

“Mm. The meeting’s in the morning.” His gaze moves from the floor to you. 

“You need my help?” He really doesn’t want to. It takes all of his strength to make the offer, you can tell, but the boy’s a saint at heart. Still, you can’t bring yourself to make him, and you doubt he’d be of much use anyway. The transcript analyses must be consistent, so the duty falls to you alone.

“Thanks buddy.” You smile, a little in gratitude, a little in pain. “But no, you can go home. I’ll lock the office when I leave.”

He doesn’t try that hard to hide his relief. He’s picked up his things before you could finish your sentence. “Don’t stay too late. Lena prefers your morning briefs over the written summaries.” Remembering his manners he manages to wish you a good night before closing the door.

You allow yourself a moment of anguish for the hours of sleep you’ll be sacrificing, before dutifully returning to your work. You cannot afford to leave this for tomorrow. The project has barely started, there are no concrete findings, the database is in its infancy still, the team cannot afford a delay and you cannot afford to be the cause for it. 

You look at the stack of transcripts on your desk, frown at them like a kid would at broccoli, and pick the one on top. Today’s stack comes from a village near the Czech border. It reads like all the others. 

"Well, since the border opened up, more tourists come through, which is good for the shop, but also more traffic."

Normal statements about ordinary lives.

"I worry about my daughter. She goes to Prague with her friends on the weekend. It's so easy now. In my day, that was another world."

The people might differ – some polite, others bordering on rude, one a farmer, others shopkeepers, clocksmiths, shoemakers, local youths.

"The police, they seem to be around more. I see the patrols. They don't bother us, but you feel... watched. It's not like it was."

But all share a kind of sincere honesty.

"Yes, I had to give a fingerprint for the new border pass. It felt strange. Like I'm a criminal."

It’s soothing, in a way, cosy, to read their statements and how their lives proceed through these novel intrusions.

“Yes, things have changed. Just yesterday, I was down at the market on Marienplatz, and I saw the border police checking passports. You never used to see that."

Marienplatz? You read it again to make sure your eyes aren’t fooling you. 

First you sigh, then you groan.

Marienplatz is the main square in the center of Munich, and a two hour drive away from the target village. Munich isn’t a target for the project at all. If Markus was tired enough to mess up the transcript this badly, you’re very happy to have sent him home. Every audio he transcribes should make its way to Lena before reaching your desk. Either he’s forgotten, decided to forgo the step in his exhaustion, or Lena’s slipping. Either way, you have to redo the transcript yourself and get her clearance post-analysis. 

The audio’s somewhere in the stack on Markus’s desk, one of many MiniDisks unceremoniously shoved in a chunky cardboard box. To your relief, they’re labelled with the corresponding transcript numbers. 

You grab the one you need, nr.72, fumble with the player until you manage to get it in. Your pen hovers over the page as you wait for the audio to start, having no intention to go as far as to type the damned thing out. Not tonight at least. 

The interview should be normal. It seems the average conversation you’ve learned to expect. Questions about the border opening. About how it’s affected their everyday life. But you can’t help yourself from getting caught up with details. The accent is off, the voice smooth and casual but the wording…

 "Die Veränderungen sind signifikant. Es gibt eine erhöhte ökonomische Aktivität, aber auch eine erhöhte staatliche Präsenz."  

Who uses the word “signifikant”? He sounds like he’s reading from a textbook. And though you rewinded once, twice, to make sure you heard what you did, the mistake was there too.

"Ja, die Dinge haben sich geändert. Gestern erst, ich war unten am Markt am Marienplatz, und ich sah, wie die Grenzpolizei Pässe kontrollierte. Das hat man früher nie gesehen."

You take a moment to collect yourself, to make sure you’re not hallucinating the whole thing, or making some mistake from exhaustion. You rewind again, hoping it’ll somehow magically change the contents of what you’ve heard, but it only serves to aggravate your suspicions when you hear the bells.

At the very beginning, at the exact moment Mr. 72 gets the turn to speak, a series of distinct, melodic chimes. A tune you’re well familiar with and which has no place in the audio you’re playing. 

You rewind, over and over and over again, but the sound remains, unmistakable. 

This is not good. It’s very, very bad, in fact. 

You call Markus, but no one picks up. You pace the room, drink some water, open the window. It doesn’t solve much, but at least it clears your head. There’s only one thing you can think of still left to try, so you close shop. Go home. Go to sleep. 

You tidied the office, returned the files to their shelves and the transcripts on Lena’s desk where they belong. All but nr.72, which you bring home with you, intending to bring it up to Lena first thing before the meeting.

There’s nothing you can think of to do about it today. There’s nothing you can think of to do about it yourself. 

You can only show her what you found, and hope it’s a mistake, a weird little prank from the study associates, something smaller that doesn’t mean what you suspect it might.

“This is very, very bad.” The gravity in Haas’ voice does not shake you. You’ve had the same words echoing in your head too long to allow for that.  “You are certain we’re not mistaken?” He’s addressing you. His face is apprehensive, but you both know it’s true. He heard that same recording. His features twisted with the same recognition as yours each time he rewinded. 

Perhaps hearing it out loud from the mouth of another will help it sink in. It worked for you, when you played it for Lena this morning and only knew it was real when the words left her lips. 

So you state the obvious. 

“Completely. The chimes in the background are from the Glockenspiel right here in Munich. In the Marienplatz. If we had interviews from Munich I'd chuck it up to a mistake, but as is, it seems more like a joke.”

He sighs, deep and long. 

“What do you make of this, Frau Dr. Schmidt?”

Given the squeak she let out when you told her, something bad you suspect. She looked close to fainting during the meeting. 

“I don’t know what to say.” She begins with a stutter, but it doesn’t stick. 

As a student assistant, this could be a negligible ink stain in your past. Haas is more involved due to his titles and position as team lead, but he’s been hands off enough to survive the scandal with the appropriate damage control. Out of everyone present Lena Schmidt has the most to lose. As direct supervisor, she would be ruined. It comes as a surprise, then, that she’s handling this so well. 

“I already spoke to Herr Bauer about the interviews, but he knows nothing about this. He believes the audio has been doctored–” 

“–And he is solely responsible for the interviews?”

“Yes. It’s his voice asking the questions, but it was cut from another interview.”

“I see” He lowers his gaze in both disappointment and contemplation, and speaks the following with heaviness in his voice.  “If we are indeed talking about a falsified interview, we are lucky to have caught it. What worries me is the potential for others we might fail to catch.” When he looks up next, it’s to clarify, to make sure his point lands. “We would risk our funding, academic integrity, our careers. We could get sued, should anyone find out – and vetting will be exhaustive, so they will.”

The words leave your mouth without your consent. A knee jerk reaction. Anxiety in a man like Haas is too intimidating, too unnerving for you to take and yet stay still. You’re startled into action, into speech. “What can we do about it?” 

And the panic in your voice must be palpable. He, at least, must’ve heard it, because the smile he offers is reassuring, and his words hopeful. “All is not lost, yet, frau [First].” It makes you feel like a child.

His next words are addressed to you both. “I think it can be salvaged. But no word of this should leave this room, understood?”

You both nod, and he seems satisfied. 

“Good. I’ll make a few calls and let you know this week. Dr. Schmidt, if you could set up a team meeting first thing on Friday?”

“Will do.”

“Then I'll see you both there. Please remember, not a word.”

The week did not fly by. It wasn’t just you – Lena was visibly on edge. She’d always done rounds around the floor to check on the teams, but they’d noticeably increased in number and intensity. And she’d stay in the offices. She’d hover.

 It was hard on poor Markus.

“She keeps checking my records. Are you sure we had everything last week? Did I miss a title or something?” And you laugh, because it’s funny. 

It was horrifying, but once that settled, it began to resemble an inside joke. You and Lena didn’t talk about it. You barely talked all week outside of your briefs. But there was a tension in the air when she was in the room, be it your office or any space on the floor you’d encounter each other. For the rest of the team this might have been an intimidating unknown. A question mark filling the air like fog. For you, however, it was very well known. It was familiar. It was a point of mutual understanding, a silence the both of you, and only the both of you, made sense of. And it became funny, especially when it made everyone else squirm.

At one point you had found her in the halls, scolding Stefan Bauer, the Phd handling the interviews, for a joke he’d made midway through the morning brief. It was outside his office, where Markus had sent you to pick up recordings. His teammate, Katja Vogel, was standing to the side, visibly uncomfortable at the scene. 

This was particularly funny to you as, from what you’ve heard, Katja was no big fan of Stefan. As Data Architect, she handled the more technical aspects of the work, including the devices Stefan played around with in the field. The latter would break his fair share of equipment which Katja had to account for every time he returned to campus. And, if Markus is to be believed, she has no problem voicing her displeasure with very colourful language where Stefan is concerned. 

Lena did not, however, act this way with you. Maybe she felt no need, given what you too knew. Maybe the tension of your shared knowledge got to her as well. Maybe it felt like camaraderie to her. It did to you, in a way. 

It’s not like you needed more pressure anyway. No, you were doing a fine job of pressuring yourself. After that first file as well as Haas’ words echoing in your ear the time you spent per transcript significantly increased. You had to analyse every detail, scan the words for any possible sign. That first transcript was obvious, it was silly, but what if the next is not. What if the next is subtle, believable, realistic, dismissible. What if you miss it? Would the commission’s auditors miss it too? Would it evade the peer review? The university’s ethics committee? That’s not a chance you can take. So you agonised over every page. Maybe that’s why Lena left you alone. Maybe she could see her attention wasn’t needed, best apply it elsewhere. 

The week did not fly by, but it passed. Friday came, and with it the meeting you’d both been waiting for. 

Lena had everyone gathered in the faculty seminar room. Haas was the last to enter, and he did so with a thick pile of papers in hand. We were not supposed to mention the incident. It was not to be shared or even acknowledged. Clearly, he had a cover story planned, and you were too anxious to hear it. As he takes his place and fiddles with the papers in his hand, you find yourself searching for Lena. When your eyes meet, you get the impression she was searching for you too. Seeking one final acknowledgement of the reality you shared, before it was forever replaced with the fiction Haas will enforce.

“Thank you all for joining me today.” His voice is by no means booming, yet it still fills the room. Meetings with him are so rare no one dares to so much as breathe too loud as he speaks. You allow yourself relief at knowing his words will take. You allow yourself relief at knowing his solution will be a good one. 

He proceeds to set the scene, reminding everyone of the high ethical standards of our project. Emphasizing the stakes, its value, the necessity of credibility and transparency with what has been entrusted to us. 

“To ensure we are beyond reproach, I have decided to bring in an external consultant to conduct a proactive audit of our data integrity protocols. I believe such a measure will not only be a testament to our work, but also serve to protect us all.”

Lena is smiling, rightfully so. It’s a good solution. Great, even.

“Dr. Felix Reiter, a top policy advisor from Bern, will join our efforts. I spoke with him a few days ago, and he has graciously agreed to begin his preliminary consultation with us immediately.”

His speech is cut short by a knock on the door. Instead of being disturbed, Haas smiles in recognition and rises from his seat. The sekretär, the same tall man with silver-rimmed glasses whose silence you’ve yet to grow accustomed to, enters the room. Following in his steps is a face unfamiliar to you, and everyone else from what you can tell. 

“Dr. Reiter,” Haas looks delighted at the appearance of his guest. “Thank you for joining us. Just in time, I might add.”

He’s a young man, Dr. Reiter. Polite, well-dressed, well-kept. He makes his way around the table with unassuming grace. Pauses before sitting where Haas gestures for him to do so. His skin is pale, his hair is pale, his eyes are pale, and even his smile you would describe as pale. 

As he speaks, his voice rings soft and familiar in a way you can’t quite place.

“Dr. Felix Reiter, policy advisor. It’s a pleasure to meet you all.”

Chapter Text

Dr. Reiter, it seems, was a man of many talents. The first, you were introduced to mere minutes after his grand entrance. With Haas’ announcement out of the way, the meeting continued as they normally did. A series of updates about the work, in this case limited to particularly relevant ones, as not to waste Haas’ time. Lena had come with issues regarding key legal documents related to the Schengen Agreement. 

“'The subject's data may be retained for purposes of administrative continuity.' I’m not sure what they mean by ‘continuity’, legally speaking.” She’d said.

“Ah,” he’d responded. “That’s a poor translation. The Czech word here, 'návaznost,' doesn't just mean continuity. In a legal context, it implies 'subsequent linkage' or 'consequential action.' They're not saying they'll retain the data to keep the file open; they're saying they can retain it to link it to future, unrelated investigations."

Dr. Reiter was a linguist.

His second talent revealed itself two days later.

“The ambiguity poses an issue. Transcripts 14 and 32 could arguably fit both.” He’d told Katja, as you were waiting to pick up that week’s tapes. He’d gestured to her computer screen, coffee in hand. She’d furrowed her brow before abandoning your conversation to see what he was talking about.

“I would merge them…but the results will lack nuance.”

“Have you considered a nested sub-code to link them? That would inform the interpreters of the connection and still allow you to keep the original tags.” And Katja had nodded, apprehension dawning on her face.

Dr. Reiter was also a data methodologist, apparently. 

The most recent of your discoveries happened this very morning, just as you’d entered your little office for the day. You’d found the man of the hour sitting at Markus’ desk. The owner of the desk in question was on his feet, face full of awe and relief.

He looks at you, elated. “This file from the ‘95 study is in an old Quattro Pro format. The new software won’t even recognize it.” Gesturing to the intruder with his head, he continues. “Dr. Reiter fixed it for me.”

He smiles before speaking.“It was nothing.” A sheepish shake of his head accompanies the words. “You just had to open it in a hex editor. The raw data is still readable, and you can paste it into a new spreadsheet.”

If the policy advisor thing didn’t work out, Dr. Reiter could possibly find employment as a technician. 

With all of his helpful interventions around the office, you were beginning to wonder how he’d stumble about them so reliably. Did he spend his days wandering the halls, waiting to hear the frustrated call of some poor soul in need of assistance? It couldn’t be that. Markus was loud but Katja certainly wasn’t. Whenever she cussed she made sure to do so under her breath. When snapping at Stefan she stuck to low growls.

Curiosity had you on your toes, waiting your turn to run into some dead end he could enthusiastically lend a hand for. You wanted to see what bushes he’d jump out of. And you didn’t have to wait long. The very  same afternoon, you’d come to Lena with a preliminary data summary and an outlier in the results. 

“The respondents from the village of Waldmünchen show a statistically significant 20% higher level of reported 'anxiety' than any other location. I can't account for it. The economic conditions are the same, the policing is the same…”

"That is strange. Is it a sampling error, perhaps?"

Of course, Dr. Reiter was there, file in hand, seemingly focused on whatever he was reading. But reading aside he seemed to have caught every word that left your lips, or at least enough to understand the point.

"Waldmünchen.” He said, eyes still on his lap, on the file he was reading. “That was a major crossing point for Sudeten German refugees in the late 1940s, wasn't it? The collective memory of a border being a site of existential trauma might still be present, subconsciously heightening the community's anxiety around any new changes to border policy, even generations later." 

Then he turns to you. "Cross-reference your anxiety data with the age of the respondents. I wager you'll find the effect is strongest in those who had parents or grandparents with a direct connection to that historical event."

“So he’s good at his job. That’s gotta be a relief, right?” Ever the optimist, Greta feels great about the new addition to your workplace, at least from what you’ve told her about him.

“Eh…i suppose.” It was. No risk of doctored audio slipping through the cracks with someone like him around. “I mean, Stefan’s been shouted at much less this week.”

“And it’s nice to have some…” She has the gall to wiggle her eyebrows at you. “Scenery, to chew on.”

“Stop.”

“You did say he was handsome.”

“I said he had a pretty face.”

“Which translates to ‘He’s handsome’. Come on, I'm stuck helping lanky rich daddy’s boys export their spreadsheets. Throw me a bone. Tell me about the eye candy.”

“Stoppp! I'm not fawning over a policy advisor at my office I barely ever work with.”

“Ugh, don’t fawn. Tell. Describe. Paint a picture. I’m begging for crumbs here.”

“Ummm he is…” You stall, not for coyness but for accuracy. What Greta is looking for is a physical description. Simple, easy, short. You’ve seen the guy, met him, talked to him, you can deliver that much. Yet when prompted to describe him, to think of him with any effort, you find your mind wandering. “oddly… generic.”

“Huh?”

“He’s very bland, as a person. He’s nice, sure. He’s polite, and pleasant, and very capable. But other than his competency, nothing about him says anything. Or says ‘anyone’, I guess. People are all different, sure, but there’s always a flavor to them that reminds you of someone else, right? Even extremely boring people with nothing going on have a flavor. This guy reminds me of no one. Not just a type of person I haven't met yet. I mean no one.” You keep reaching and your hand closes on air.

“He sounds charming.” You can tell she’s holding back a laugh.

“I’m being serious.”

“Oh please. You’ve known the guy for a week. You’ve spoken to him like, what, twice?”

“That’s enough to tell–”

“–Nuh-uh it’s not. I know it’s not. You know it’s not. What if the guy’s just shy?”

What a silly question. “Then he would’ve seemed shy, and I would've described him as shy.” You know what ‘shy’ looks like.

Greta isn’t buying it, though. She cranes her neck and squints her eyes, for just a moment, before voicing her response. “I think those hours of sleep you’ve lost are dulling your senses a little. You’ll spend some more time with him, eventually, and find that flavor you’re looking for.”  

“Might be sooner than later actually.” 

“Oh?”

“He’s finished with the associates. It’s our turn to be audited next.”

“Your handwriting is nice.”

“It’s really not. You don’t have to be nice about it, just let me know if there’s anything you can’t make out.”

He hummed, softly, eyes on the page. He held the paper in a way that kept his fingertips off the ink. You watched his face for the expression you wanted—interest, boredom, anything. What you got was something practiced: attention as muscle memory. Kind, almost. Hollow at the edges.

He turned a page. “You use a dot for anchor items.” The word made your stomach catch. “It keeps interpreters from drifting.”

“I— It’s just a way to keep threads straight,” you said, and wished you hadn’t explained. Threads. Anchors. You wished the words weren’t yours.

“May I?” He tapped the chair across, waited for your nod, then sat—close enough to place the file between you, far enough you could pretend it was for the light. “Walk me through your Waldmünchen outlier.”

You did. Sampling, age spread, your first pass at confounds. He listened with that careful blankness, tracking without interrupting, until he did.

“May I suggest a split?” he asked. “Group by respondents with direct familial displacement versus none. I’m guessing you’ll see a steeper slope with grandparental proximity than parental.” He paused, and only then looked at you. “The stories that are told to children are gentler. The ones told to grandchildren are sharper. Less duty, more myth, I suppose.”

“It’s a… good guess.”

“It’s a common pattern,” he said lightly, eyes dropping again. “Memory tends to hoard at a generation’s edge.”

Hoard. There it was again, and it landed in the place under your ribs that kept a ledger.

He flipped another page, and the clock on the wall marked the quarter hour—clean, cheap chime. His gaze followed your margin notes like footprints. He smiled, late, the way people smile when they remember they should. “And your dots help. Anchors,” he repeated, a little softer, like he was testing the weight of the word.

“Do you…always know this much about everything?” It came out lighter than you felt.

“No,” he said, easy. “Only more than is useful.” Then, as if remembering the shape of concern, “You must be sleeping less, with this audit cycle.”

You did not flinch. Your throat did. “I’m fine.”

He accepted the lie without registering it as one. Or he registered it and let it pass. “Tea helps,” he offered, almost gentle. “Coffee makes your right hand shake more. Your dots go heavier when you’ve had two.”

You looked at your own margins, at the darker marks that could have been emphasis. It wasn’t secret information. It was observation. Still, how specific. How could he tell you’d had two?

He set the pages down in a careful stack and aligned them to the desk’s edge. “Your summaries are clean. Keep the dot system; formalize it in a key. I’ll note it in the audit as a ‘linkage indicator’ so the pipeline picks it up downstream.”

“Návaznost,” you said before you could stop yourself.

His eyes touched yours again. File-light, nothing behind them to catch. “Yes,” he said. “That’s the word.”

A laugh from the corridor, Stefan’s by the sound, clipped by the door. He slid your pages back toward you, the top one returned the way you’d had it, your pen beside it with the cap aligned to the clip. Courtesy as ritual. A softness that wasn’t warmth.

“If you need me,” he said, already half turned toward the handle, “I’ll be in records for the next hour.”

The clock chimed once as the door clicked behind him. You listened to the small echo decay in the fluorescent hum, then drew a dot beside “Waldmünchen” that was heavier than you meant it to be.