Marek walked quickly, fists shoved in his coat, eyes scanning the walls. He was a more than a witness at this point. The past couple of days, the way his brain filtered out impulses had changed.
It was one that suited him. When the lights flashed off without being touched, he felt a small thrill, albeit furtive.
When a cigarette burnt out without a lighter, he didn't feel shame. It was convenient, and convenience counted for something. He had learned that with every new mastery, he was made stronger. He had learned that power could be used.
On the street, he met a man whose face revealed something like old accounts. The man disappeared and looked at Marek with a bewildered expression.
Marek stopped, backed away, and wordlessly, the man turned onto another street, unconcerned.
Marek enjoyed it, not guiltily. If he had his way, he would have continued in that moment into a series of small manipulations. He knew that his influence worked on vulnerabilities. He knew that with every use, he learned.
Akira was waiting by the door of the old bakery, eyes slitted, posture on standby. When she spotted him, there was something she sensed was different about him. She approached him without hesitation.
"You were too careless yesterday," she informed him bluntly. "I found that the symbol appeared in one of the company's internal documents. Not an accident.
Someone added it to the drawing. Who takes such precautions?"
Marek smiled, though it was parched. "I don't think they're doing it for normal people. Something bigger is overflowing into the room. We can take advantage of it."
Akira shot him a sharp look. "Take advantage of it? What are you saying?"
Acquire knowledge. Exercise power. He who possesses the symbols is more intelligent. He who is more intelligent, commands. We do not need to be mere spectators." Marek did not seek permission. He talked like someone who valued results over consequences.
Akira growled. "I will not be made a pawn. I want to know the truth. And if you use it as a tool for power, we will lose command.".
"Control is a myth," Marek replied. "I work with reality."
Flickering illumination in the bakery. Aging counter, flour dust, aroma of freshly baked bread. They had a table in the back.
Akira pulled out a map from her bag, and between her and Marek the argument opened wide — swift, sharp, concrete.
They discussed contacts, a place where people would go to restore the symbols. They discussed one name that had emerged in the archives. It was not a name of grandeur, but of history.
Marek did not share much of this with his coworkers. He wished to understand where the weaknesses were.
"Who is responsible for it?" he asked.
"The name in the archive is duplicated in documents of another era. No one knows who that is. But there were clues, codes, where they used to meet. They're not arbitrary places — they're places where people forget." Akira replied softly, but her words were incisive.
Marek nodded. Forgetting — that was his chance. Those who forget do not pose questions. If he kept the city's memory in his hands, he would keep its tacit infrastructure. At that time, he was making a decision.
Not if he wanted to be part of something larger, but if he wanted to be the authority that imposed his order.
The next day they moved into a location that appeared abandoned. An old warehouse at the edge of the industrial complex, its doors weathered with markings that ranged from their circle.
Marek stood in the doorway and felt the vibrations in the space respond.
He did not need to say a word. Akira took a flashlight and went in first, and Marek followed. It was large inside, dusty, there were footprints in the powder dust. On the wall, next to an old sign, was a symbol cut this time deeper, more recent.
This is where it begins," Akira said to him, and something changed in her eyes. She was seeking information, Marek was evaluating the space. In the corner a pile of cloths, markers, pictures. Something had documented it. Marek stepped forward and touched the symbol. At touch, a memory flared in his mind — not a coherent scene, but a burst of images: a ritual, cacophonous chanting, a feeling of promise. The air grew tight.
Akira sensed it and moved back. "Did you hear that?"
"Yes," replied Marek. "It's not the marks themselves. It's what left something there."
There were footsteps suddenly. Two dark-robed figures stood in the doorway.
They were not threatening, but they were a warning. One of them had a card with an incised symbol. They walked in cautiously.
We can see you've found material that wasn't meant for the public," he in a brief voice said. "Are you here out of curiosity?"
Akira stood firm. "We're pursuing old signs. We don't want trouble.".
Marek stepped forward, his confidence growing. He stood quite close to the man. He didn't flinch. "We don't want trouble," he said again, and his voice was both threat and promise. The man smiled, but caution gleamed in his eyes.
I notice," he said. "When one person starts making curious moves, the other person begins wondering why. If you know the costs, you realize not everything is about gain. Some things are about the price."
Marek grinned, and before too many words passed, the man realized this wasn't wretchedness both ways — it was just a disagreement over who paid what. When the man rotated his head
Marek slid his finger across the symbol and the energies within shifted. When the man retreated, his hand came up on its own. The air hissed. The man jerked his hand back as if he'd been stung by a needle.
"Don't be stupid in front of us," Marek muttered. There was a sternness in his tone. Akira was shocked. She did not know if she was upset or should agree.
"Marek," she said.
Marek turned around. "If we need to find out in secret who is spying on you, then we will find out. But I do not want us to move under fear. We will proceed with a clear objective."
The men pulled out. They made no further comment. Their retreat wasn't retreat — it was a strategy to restructure the dynamics. Akira faced Marek, questioning him with her eyes.
"Your application of influence was active," she said. "We can't afford to risk exposure."
"Don't be concerned," Marek said.
That night Marek lay awake for hours. Not so much the threat of power that it posed. It was about confirmation.
Each application was accompanied by more. Each victory increased the craving. He knew all too well where this would lead him. And not always did the price concern him.
The following days were an exercise in testing boundaries. Sometimes he tried to ease the pain of an old man on the bus who suffered brutal fretfulness. Other times he maneuvered the step of a young confidence trickster so that he lost a small bundle of cash.
Some would call them both good, some bad. Marek did his own thing. He thought order which ensued with authority required selective intervention.
Akira reminded him every opportunity she had that it was about evidence. "Don't forget that power changes priorities," she'd say. "It can change your reasons."
Marek heard, but with every word that she spoke he saw concrete results. Where she labored with procedures and forms, he computed effects. Seeing a man debt-free, seeing a criminal humbled, seeing a neighborhood cleansed — these were things in which he felt strong.
One night the voice of the mysterious caller was heard again. Once more an anonymous path, no one's name. This time, trying to get some information.
He spoke just one sentence: "Know your boundary before the boundary knows you." Marek asked himself what he meant. Was it a warning note, or was it an attempt to frighten him? The answer was not immediate.
Days flew by quickly. Symbols mounted. People were going through the beat of the city without being aware that somebody was altering their routes. Marek was becoming bolder, more commanding.
He knew that if he went on, he would lose a part of himself. But he also knew that unused power was a lost opportunity.
Akira retained her sense of morality. She knew that information was worth something, but she did not want him to be exploited as a means to an end.
Marek smiled at the idea. He knew he needed her. He needed her perspective and systematic thinking, but he provided pressure. Combined, they were effective.
With the due date approaching when they had to submit the results of the archive, Marek already had a plan. He didn't want merely to know the name in the records.
He wanted to have control over what was to become of him. He wanted to know who within the city was wiser. He wanted the moment when he would decide the fate of those who stood against him. He understood that this was not simply a fight for knowledge. It was a struggle for power.
And when he sat at his table in the evening hours, he saw a movement in the darkness. The darkness was like a glove that stretched. Marek did not smile.
He knew that what came to him was not just a test. It was an offer. And he accepted it with his outstretched hand.