Berlin, Adlon Hotel private salon, 9:17 AM. Cuban cigarette smoke swirled above the ebony conference table like a black storm trapped indoors. The bullet‑proof windows turned the crystal chandeliers' light into sharp diamonds dancing across the faces nearby. Jürgen Schultz, the former Minister of Economy, curled his fat fingers around a glass of cognac.
"My projection is this: if we raise the international interest rate by another half‑percent, the Greek bond market will collapse by the fourth quarter as if the Tower of Babel has fallen."
At the far end of the table, Klaus von der Heyden, President of the European Central Bank, traced the Phillips curve on an orange peel with the tip of a steak knife:
"It's not a liquidity issue, it's the velocity of money. When funds get locked into short‑sell trusts, even injecting €200 billion is like pouring water onto a turbine worn to the breaking point."
A Polish attendant brought in a tray of 1982 Chardonnays. Alexander Meyer, the steel‑industry's chief lobbyist, theatrically tilted his bottle so the red sediment was visible in the light.
"Quite symbolic, isn't it? The oldest sediment lies at the bottom of the finest wines, just like national debt in emerging economies."
Polite laughter rippled around the table. Frank Weber, Deputy Foreign Minister, sent a ring of smoke toward the ceiling:
"Don't forget currency swap agreements with the central bank of China. If we accept the yuan as a strategic reserve, we're basically arming the dragon."
Von der Heyden slammed the knife on the table:
"A weapon? My dear, this is a currency war! Once the Fed starts quantitative easing, the Japanese yen loses ten percent of its value, and then our exports turn into overpriced trash."
Schultz looked down at Berlin beneath them. The city's lights glowed like candlestick charts.
"Let's be clear. The systemic risk now exceeds the tolerable threshold. If a liquidity crisis repeats in the CDO derivatives market, not even the IMF can stop the massive sell‑off."
Meyer stood beside him, raising his glass toward the bank buildings.
"See that glass tower? That's where the DAX index is born, and dies. This morning I got an email from NewAden. NIMBUS has proposed acquiring fifty‑one percent of Deutsche Telekom… at negative‑yield treasury bond prices."
A heavy silence fell over the balcony. The distant hum of security helicopters was a low threat. 23:01, in the underground garage, beneath bullet‑proof Mercedes S‑Classes, Weber whispered into his cellphone:
"Tell the foreign affairs committee to halt the Asia‑Europe monetary convergence plan. NIMBUS is using legal loopholes in Basel III like bridges."
His driver, a man wearing sunglasses in the dead of night, opened the trunk. Inside were sealed files marked "Only Confidential." On the very top file in red letters:
"Project Icarus: Risk computations for euro collapse under stagflation scenarios."
NewAden, 3:42 PM, the children's playroom looked more like a storeroom with a few faded tables and chairs. Pale green walls were covered with unfinished drawings of houses and families that would never be complete. Liza sat on the floor and drew on a piece of paper with a broken pencil. A girl with tangled brown hair and green eyes like autumn leaves sat beside her.
"My name is Martha," she said in a soft voice, like wind through a cracked window. Liza looked up. Martha wore an oversized, worn shirt with the number 217 stitched on its sleeve.
"I am Liza."
Martha leaned in to look at her drawing.
"What is it?"
"Our house," Liza said, pointing to a square shape with tiny windows drawn with her pencil. "There was an apple tree… in the garden."
"We had an apple tree too… my father said its roots went so deep they reached hell."
Rain began to fall. Drops on the barred windows sounded like the giant heartbeat of an invisible beast. Martha wrapped the blanket tighter around herself.
"Did you lose your mother too?"
Liza looked at her small hands.
"No… not yet. But she's very sick. My brother says… maybe she won't get better."
Martha stared at the window:
"The last time I saw my mother was in a hospital. She put her hands on the glass… I thought she was trying to open it. But the nurse said, she was saying goodbye."
"How about your father?"
Martha dug her nails into the blanket.
"I don't remember him either. I only hear a voice in my mind that said: Martha, run."
Liza broke her mint gum in half and offered some to Martha.
"My brother always buys this… he says the smell of mint reminds you of good things."
Martha popped the piece into her mouth.
"One winter we built a snowman. My mother used pieces of coal for its eyes. Then my father kicked it… said snowmen were stupid."
"Why would he say that?"
"I don't know. Maybe because they melt soon."
Hours passed. The dinner bell rang. Martha took Liza's hand:
"Come to my room. You can switch rooms. Don't stay with that crazy roommate, come stay with me."
"Yeah… but I always talk in my sleep. My brother said once I said mom's name a hundred times in a row."
Martha smiled for the first time since they'd met:
"I sometimes dream I'm shouting… but when I wake up, I see no sound came out of me."
"I've seen no one but you and my roommate here. Is everyone same age here? Or are there adults too?"
"Here, every person, any gender, any age, any kind of being is here, from animals to insects. From babies born today to old people who died today. This place isn't just for children. It's for those who can't take care of themselves."
Café Goldeherb, 20:34, the stale smell of coffee and warm milk filled the café. Dim lights cast long shadows on old walls and the crackling gramophone played Marlene Dietrich, pressing a sadness into Yan's throat. Emilia stood behind the counter drying glasses with a gray rag. Her blond hair was pinned loosely today, a few strands framing her face like faint candle flames. Yan sat in his usual seat. Even after washing his hands three times, they still smelled of oil and hot metal.
"Usual?"
Without waiting for an answer, Emilia poured the black coffee into a cracked Turkish cup.
"I saw Liza today."
Yan held the cup between his hands as if he drew life from its warmth.
"She asked about my mother. She said she knows she's dying."
Emilia draped the rag atop her shoulder. Her green eyes in the yellow café light were the color of autumn leaves, dying color.
"Kids understand more than you think."
She leaned on her elbows across the counter:
"When I was eight, I found my mother in the bathroom. She'd slit her wrists with a razor blade. I still remember the blood filling the tub, like a red lake."
"When love dies…"
Yan glanced at the black‑and‑white photo of the café from the 1950s behind the bar. Everything was the same, only the people had changed.
"I miss the stars."
"In Heidelberg, they don't ever appear, because of all the city lights."
Emilia switched off the strip light behind the counter. Moonlight filtered through the small café window and turned their faces silver.
"Let's go somewhere the stars still live."
Old Neckar Bridge, 21:17, a chilly wind blew off the river. Yan and Emilia sat on the rotten wooden railing, their feet swinging above the water. Overhead, the few stars that had escaped the city's glare flickered faintly. Emilia opened her handcrafted beer and took a swig.
"My grandfather said every star you see may have died thousands of years ago. Only its light is reaching us now."
Yan took the bottle. The golden liquid sparkled in moonlight.
"So maybe… my mother's dead too… and I'm still seeing her light."
Emilia rested her head on Yan's shoulder. Her shampoo smelled like rain‑softened pine, a scent Yan didn't know the name of.
"Some lights are so strong, they stay forever."
In the distance the roar of a train crossing the other bridge sounded like a monster's growl. Yan reached toward the sky as if he could catch a star.
"You know what? One day I'm going to leave this city. With Liza and my mother… if she lives."
Emilia laughed, voice tinged with tears:
"Everyone says that, Yan. But Heidelberg is a swamp. The more you fake it, the deeper you sink."
His shoulders sagged under the weight of memories.
"So we have to leave in a way that isn't fake at all."
Emilia took the bottle and drank the last drop.
"That's not a bad plan."
23:55, outside Café Goldeherb, the streetlights went dark one by one. Yan and Emilia stood in the shade of an old tree, as if neither dared to take the next step.
"Can I see you again tomorrow?"
Emilia buttoned her tattered coat.
"I'm here every night… until Heidelberg swallows me whole."
Then she vanished into the darkness. Her footsteps clicked on the wet cobbles. Yan looked at the sky. A star flickered, and went out.
Rhein‑Heidelberg Refinery, 5:17 AM, the morning shift whistle shrieked like a wounded beast in the industrial fog. Yan showed his ID card to the guard. A man whose face was burned by sulfuric acid growled under his breath:
"You're on catalyst cracker unit today. Watch the pressure relief valves, three engineers inhaled H₂S last night."
Giant processing units growled like prehistoric beasts in the darkness. Two‑meter pipes hung from the ceiling and thirty‑bar steam escaped from corroded fittings. Yan tightened his helmet and moved toward the main reactor.
Ralph, an old worker, shouted under his gas mask:
"The catalyst bed temperature has exceeded 720°C! If we reach runaway temperature, the whole unit will blow!"
The control screen blinked like a Christmas tree:
Warning: Catalyst bed temp 723°C rising
Warning: System pressure dropping 28.7 bar
Warning: H₂S concentration in zone 17 ppm
Yan grabbed the emergency gas isolation valve. The hot metal burned through his asbestos gloves.
"We must shut off the feed diesel! Close the regenerator inlet!"
A minor explosion in the catalyst silo line sent glowing zеоlite particles raining from twenty meters high. Yan threw himself behind a fire‑proof wall. The escape siren rang deafeningly.
Jürgen's voice crackled over the radio:
"Evacuate unit four! Declare Level 3 emergency! Sour gases heading to flare stack two!"
When the crisis was contained, Yan collapsed onto a metal bench in the break room. His hands shook. Sulfur smell seeped from every pore.
Kurt, a young coworker, tossed him a bottle of water:
"Today was our lucky day. Last month at Ludwigshafen refinery, the hydrocracker exploded. Twelve people turned into vapor."
He uncapped the bottle. The water tasted of metal.
"Why do you still work here?"
Kurt chuckled, a kind of cough:
"My father died in this unit in 2012. Now I come every day to see whose turn it'll be."
Desalting Unit near Tank 421, Yan sat in the shadow of giant crude oil tanks eating his sandwich. The bread was dry, the cheese smelled of petroleum. From the overhead piping, benzene droplets fell. A yellow warning sign read:
Warning: Carcinogenic area, long‑term benzene exposure causes acute leukemia.
His mobile phone rang. A message from NewAden:
"Lizabeth Schultz has been transferred to quarantine. Please come sign the forms."
Centrifuge pump repairs in line eight. Yan was removing the pump's felt seal. Hot oil dripped onto his glove. Ralph knelt beside him:
"Did you hear? Newch Hazel signed the refinery purchase contract. They plan to replace old workers with new machinery."
He froze mid‑wrench:
"How? Automation completely? Even security guards replaced with armed robots?"
From the distance, hydraulic cranes sounded like joints of an iron giant. 20:08, under a cold shower, the water ran black and greasy across the concrete floor. Even after washing with heavy‑duty degreaser soap three times, black oil lines under his nails remained, a forced tattoo of this job.
Yan grabbed his case and stepped into the darkness.
In the office of Managing Director Hermann von Dracht, a bronze bust of Karl Bosch glowed sickly green under fluorescent lights. Yan stood before von Dracht, who wore a fine Italian suit scented with Acqua di Parma, a stark contrast to the sulfur odor in Yan's work clothes.
With barely glancing off his Bloomberg terminal screen, Hermann said:
"Do you know how much the global price of sour gas vaccine dropped today? Every minute you're absent costs the company €2,800."
Yan locked his cracked hands behind his back. Petroleum oil had embedded into his skin, lines of dark mystery that wouldn't wash away.
"My sister was taken to NewAden quarantine. I have to go see her…"
Hermann finally looked up. The blue light reflecting in his glasses turned his pupils into two cold points:
"Quarantine?"
His thin lips straightened.
"They suspect Protocol 42. If that's the case, you can't enter, even with my permission."
Yan ground his teeth:
"She's eight years old. What protocol could possibly..."
Hermann spoke softly, chillingly calm:
"One in eleven children in advanced care centers develops acute neurodegeneration syndrome. That statistic is for insurers, not me."
A heavy silence filled the office. The refinery machinery murmur seeped through sound‑proof windows like menacing whispers.
"Then I resign," Yan said.
Hermann suddenly laughed, like pipes bursting under pressure.
"Production workers don't have the right to resign, Schultz. Energy‑sector contracts include a technical enslavement clause."
The fax machine behind Hermann began spitting out pages. Yan approached. A red stamp marked the top:
Hermann picked up the paper and tore it quietly.
"You have a pressure test shift tonight. If you're absent, not only is your pay cut, but your monthly visitation rights with Liza are revoked."
Yan doubled over in the corridor and vomited. Rancid yellow bile dripped onto the metal plaque reading: 1,264 days without incident. Over the refinery loudspeaker came the shift announcement:
"All catalyst unit personnel report to station four. Catalyst bed temperature is now 735°C."
He closed his eyes. Liza's image flickered in his mind, the day she wore her clean blue hair ribbon at NewAden.
Quarantine corridor, green‑washed to the point of hospital yellow, Yan stood outside glass‑walled Room 14. A label read:
Patient: Schultz, Lizabeth, Quarantine Level Two. Visiting permitted with protective gear. A nurse in yellow gown handed him an N95 mask:
"Fifteen minutes only. No physical contact with patient."
Liza lay on a metal bed beneath a thin, barely‑heated blanket. Her face glowed red, not from fever, but from UV lamps overhead. Her left hand attached to a saline drip flowing its colorless fluid.
"Yan…?" Her voice cracked like heavily folded paper.
He sat on the plastic chair at her side. The latex gloves made a disturbing crinkle.
"How can I help, little kitty?"
Her cough began, dry and deep in her chest:
"Last night… they took Martha away. With strange people wearing gloves."
Yan scanned the vital‑sign monitor. Her heart‑rate line jagged like uneven mountains.
"Did they give you anything? A pill? An injection?"
Liza slowly shook her head:
"Only a red liquid in my IV. It smelled like strawberry… but it tasted bitter in my mouth."
He gently placed his hand on her forehead, through the gloves he still felt her abnormal warmth.
"How's my mom?"
Liza's eyes stayed half‑open, as if keeping them fully open required effort:
"She's… the same. Doctors say…"
Yan had a lie ready, but when he looked into his sister's ivory eyes, the line stuck in his throat.
Her delicate hand rested on his wrist:
"I know you're lying. You always close your eyes when you lie."
The nurse opened the door:
"The visiting time is up. The patient needs rest."
Liza weakly moved her fingers:
"Will you come tomorrow?"
"I can't every month... I can visit once a month. This time they allowed it because you were sick. Otherwise, I snuck in three times this month already."
Back at Café Goldeherb, neon lights flickered like dead stars. Yan sat at the bar, a glass of whiskey, empty for the third time, still reeked of despair. His fingers traced the tremor against the glass, trembling from the depths of his being.
On the other side of the café, Emilia washed glasses. The brewery light danced over her hollow cheeks. Every movement of her hands, every twist of the towel across the glass, was a mysterious choreography Yan alone could see.
Their eyes met in the mirror behind the bar. Without a word, Emilia picked up a bottle and approached him:
"This one I set aside for you… eighteen‑year single malt. I thought maybe you'd like something to, you know… pull yourself together."
Yan's voice was splintered by exhaustion and whiskey:
"They're taking everything from me… everything. Yesterday I found out what Protocol P‑42 means… it means..."
His hands began to shake. The glass slipped and rolled across the bar.
Emilia caught it quickly. Her warm hands touched Yan's frozen fingers:
"Protocol… hell. I know. Three months ago they took my little sister with the same excuse… she never came back."
Her green eyes in the moonlit café seemed deeper than ever, the depth of a lake that holds all the city's secrets in its depths.
The cold November wind drifted through her hair. The city beneath their feet lay like a lifeless corpse. Yan looked toward NewAden... the white building in the distance whose windows glowed like soulless eyes.
"What are you thinking?" Emilia asked, holding a cigarette between her fingers.
"I think… I think I have nothing left to lose."
Tears welled under his eyelids.
"There's always something to lose, Yan… even if it's just a piece of your own self."
Yan looked down at his hands, hands that had worked all their life but had never managed to hold onto anything.
"Yesterday, in quarantine room… Liza asked me if she dies where she goes. What do I tell her… that she goes to hell? A place I live in every day at the refinery?"
Tears streamed quietly down Yan's face like a warm river. Emilia held him tight, fearfully, as if she might lose her last support. The scent of her shampoo, pine rain and evergreen, took Yan somewhere else for the first time in months.
"You know what?" Emilia whispered, "I think heaven is a place where the people you love can still hold you… even if it's only in memory."
Yan lifted his head. His teary eyes glistened in the moonlight. He leaned closer to Emilia, softly, like a ship after a storm reaches shore.
Then their lips met. That kiss lacked exhilaration or passion: it was warmth, two souls remembering how to feel alive. A kiss filled with all the things they couldn't say, fear, loneliness, and that small spark of hope neither dared voice.
When they parted, tears shone on Emilia's cheeks. She whispered:
"Yesterday… I read something in the paper. It said stars always exist, even if we can't see them."
Yan raised his hand toward the sky, where no star was visible.
"So maybe… maybe heaven is the same. It always exists, even if we can't see it."
The cold wind made the vodka bottle clink between Yan and Emilia's hands, adding delicate rings to the night. They wandered the old, narrow streets, their feet catching uneven stones. Their laughter echoed off the brick walls.
"My grandfather used to say…" Emilia, laughing and swaying under the bottle's weight, continued:
"…drunk people are the closest to God!"
Yan took the bottle. He took a long sip. The burn poured down his throat and ignited his chest.
"So now I… I am a drunk saint!"
Under the moonlight, concrete walls cast monstrous shadows. Emilia pushed Yan against a wall, fingers threading through his hair. The scents of vodka and rain rose from both skin.
"You're warm…" she whispered, "…like a furnace burning in winter."
Yan's hands slid from beneath her coat to her warm waist. The refinery ID badge still clung to his arm: Schultz, Distillation Unit.
Garments dropped one by one onto the wet pavement. Skin met skin in the cold air, sparking life's embers in both. Emilia locked her legs around Yan. He pressed into her. Their Sex was swift, intense, fueled by a need to prove they were alive, demanding warmth in a world that had lost all warmth.
Later that night, the lock turned. Yan entered the apartment, eyes glazed with drunken fatigue. He smelled medicinal chemicals and barley soup in the air.
His mother sat by the window in a chair, gazing into the dark street.
"It's late," she said, her voice brittle like autumn leaves. Yan sat on the floor beside her thin legs, resting his head on her lap. The scent of oil and Emilia's cheap perfume rose from his clothes.
"I'm sorry, Mom… I… I was a bit lost today."
His mother's cold hand brushed over his head, like childhood days when he had fevers.
"We're all lost, son… only some of us have the courage to admit it."
Moonlight spilled through the window onto her wrinkled face, highlighting the dried tear stains like little rivers.