Baihu.
Nikolai jolted upright, drenched in sweat, heart thumping, as if trying to escape his body. The same nightmare had clung to him ever since he'd stepped into this accursed city. His chest heaved for air as he tried to calm down. Every few nights, it would strike, merciless as the waves on the shore.
Again...
On the opposite side of the flat, his three roommates stirred, blankets rustling and the tempo of their snoring growing irregular.
Thirsty...
Getting up slowly, his legs trembled, and he headed into the hallway towards the shared bathroom. His knees creaked and his feet ached. The cheap mattress had done no favors for Nikolai's sleep. Staggering with each step, his mind attempted to process the night terror, but the memory of it had departed as swiftly as it had arrived.
Like clockwork.
Hunching over the basin of the sink and splashing cold water onto his face, the shock quickly woke him up. A murmur of vigilance had quickly entreated into the fog of his mind. Nikolai stared, wide-eyed, at his reflection in the mirror.
His eyes were bloodshot, with veins of crimson seeping into the whites. His hair revealed an untidy mane, unfurled locks linked and knotted. Traces of moisture remained on his face, some sweat, some sink water. A small amount of stubble dotted around his lip and chin.
I look like shit.
He rested on the toilet, staring endlessly at a painting that was hung up on the adjoining wall. It was, even with his limited knowledge of art, a shoddy piece of work. It had vaguely resembled a bouquet of flowers, but the linework had been so sloppy that he couldn't have been completely sure. But however mediocre, it still brought a sense of comfort. Perhaps it was the charm that the imperfections held which made him admire the painting, a little personal ritual after every nightmare. The colors and hues metamorphosed with each different structure, dull green for the leaves and a bright red for each petal.
He smiled, gazing upon the work for a few minutes more. Or was it a few hours more?
What time is it?
Eventually, the warm glow of sunrise creeping over the horizon had made him realize that he had lost track of time, and so he hurriedly exited the washroom.
Stumbling back into the room, his eyes darted towards the wall clock by the stairs.
Two hours left.
When he re-entered the room, a roommate was already up, halfway through buttoning his white work shirt. His fingers moved steadily, each movement unhurried, maintaining a brisk calm demeanor.
"Good morning, Nikolai," he greeted without looking up, his voice cheerful despite the early hour.
"Morning, Tomas," Nikolai responded in kind, still shaking off the remnants of the nightmare. "Is Lukas still not up?"
Tomas smirked, walking over to a clump of sheets on the mattress next to his.
"Not yet. But I've got a solution for that."
Without warning, he grabbed the mass of quilt—blankets and all—and hoisted him over his shoulder, spinning him around like a sack of flour, before finally tossing the bundle back onto the bed.
"Hey! What the—!?" Lukas emerged from his cocoon, arms flailing. Tomas let out a boisterous laugh.
"I'm up! I'm up!" Lukas glared daggers at Tomas. "You know, I can get up by myself. That was really unnecessary."
"Oh yeah?" Tomas replied, still giggling. "You've got fifteen minutes left before the tram to the shipyard leaves. If you're late again, Sokolov is gonna have your head."
Lukas' head snapped straight towards the clock, startled by this newfound information. "Oh shit, fifteen minutes!? Why didn't you wake me up sooner!?"
He scrambled out of bed, almost tripping over his boots as he flung open the closet doors to search for his work clothes. Tomas chuckled to himself before turning to Nikolai.
"Ready for your first day?"
"I think so." He let out an anxious titter. "Still a little nervous."
"You're doing... journalism, right? Don't worry, just keep your head down, do your job, and you'll be fine. If you ever need anything, I'm just a ride away."
"Thanks, man," Nikolai smiled, grateful for the encouragement. "I wish I could be half as confident as you are."
Tomas grinned brightly. "It's all about mindset, my friend," Tomas said, slinging a jacket over his shoulder. "You've got this."
From across the room, Lukas muttered angrily as he struggled into his work clothes. "I swear, if Petrov even thinks about leaving early today..."
Tomas laughed at his brother's remark. "You've been saying that for months now! You finally gonna end him or what?"
"This time I mean it! That son of a bitch thinks he's my senior just because he's been on the job for a month longer than me! A single month! Můžete tomu věřit?! One of these days, I'm gonna let him have it!"
"Well, today's not that day. Jít dál." Tomas checked his watch again.
"I've gotta get to the factory. See ya later, Nikolai." He gave him a quick nod before heading out the door.
Lukas, now dressed in a wrinkled shirt and mismatched socks, was only a few steps behind. He paused at the door, as if forgetting something, before giving Nikolai a pat on the shoulder.
"Good luck with your new job, man. You'll do great."
"Thanks," he replied, watching them both disappear down the hallway, still exchanging words in Czech.
For a moment, the room was quiet again, save for the distant hum of the city outside. Nikolai stretched out on the bed, letting his eyes drift toward the window. The sun was hidden by clouds, its dim light glinting off the rain-soaked streets below. Briefly, it was even almost peaceful—until the creak of a bedframe pulled him back.
His last roommate, a hulking figure with an unkempt beard and bloodshot eyes, was slowly getting to his feet. He yawned loudly, rubbing his face as if he hadn't slept in days.
Nikolai quickly greeted him, not expecting much of a response. "Morning."
"Yeah, morning," he grunted, pulling on an old, grease-stained work shirt. He grabbed his suspenders, snapping them into place with practiced ease before slipping into a pair of worn-out socks that had clearly seen better days. Nikolai lies back down on his bunk as the man puts on some boots, worn from years of chemical spills at the factory.
"You heading to work?" Nikolai asked, more out of politeness than curiosity.
The man nodded, muttering something under his breath as he laced his boots. Without another word, he shuffled out of the room.
Nikolai stared at the door for a moment, waiting as if the man would return, before laying back, eyes locked onto the ceiling. The tranquility of the moment was comforting, but the nagging unease from the nightmare still lingered. He tried to clear his head, eyes half-lidded, sinking into the quiet of the room.
But something felt off—like a weight pressing on his chest, making it impossible to relax. The nightmare still gnawed at the edges of his mind, just out of reach but insistent, like an itch he couldn't scratch. Nikolai squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to drift off into a deep sleep.
Nothing.
The clock on the wall ticked louder than he remembered. The creaking in the attic echoed like distant footsteps.
Nikolai's heartbeat thudded in his ears, growing louder and more violent with each thump. He flipped over onto his stomach, burying his face into the pillow, but the heaviness in his chest only grew.
Every second felt like an hour. After a few more restless minutes, he gave up. Sitting straight, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and scratched the back of his neck.
The weight of fatigue remained glued on like a distraught memory, but sleep was nowhere to be found. The city outside, just starting to stir with the first signs of life, seemed more awake than he was.
Has it ever been this bad before?
He muttered to himself, running his fingers through his hair. The nightmares were one thing—He'd grown used to waking up in a cold sweat—but now, he couldn't even fall back asleep.
Pacing the room, Nikolai looked at the clock again. Only twenty minutes had passed since Tomas and Lukas left, but it felt like hours. The pale light of dawn was creeping through the window, casting long shadows across the floor.
He wandered over to the window, resting his forehead against the cold glass. The street below was wet from last night's rain, the puddles reflecting the faint, early-morning glow. In the distance, he could see the tram heading toward the factory, carrying his roommates—and dozens of others—off to the daily grind.
The minutes dragged on as Nikolai tried lying down again, pulling the blanket tight around himself, but it only felt more suffocating.
His mind wouldn't stop racing.
Images flashed through his head: the nightmare, blurred and frantic, a white blur—a name whispered in his ear.
He couldn't shake it.
Why was that name stuck in his head?
Nikolai groaned, sitting up again, wiping the sweat from his brow.
Maybe some water would help.
Maybe anything would help.
His legs guided him back to the bathroom, the faint creak of the door breaking all stillness.
Nikolai's hands ran across the faucet, turning the knob on. The cold water was a shock, but even that didn't snap him out of it.
Staring at the same painting again, he felt a strange sense of dread creeping in, the sloppiness of the linework now unsettling rather than comforting. His reflection in the mirror looked worse than usual—pale skin, dark circles under his eyes, like he hadn't slept in days.
You need to pull it together.
He gripped the edge of the sink.
It's just a nightmare.
But as he looked at his reflection, the face staring back at him didn't feel entirely like his own. It felt alien, like he was wearing someone else's skin.
Backing away, his breathing hastened. His heart pounded again, a surge of anxiety welling up inside him.
The name echoed in his mind once more.
That strange name, foreign but familiar, repeating like a chant, like it was calling to him – or warning him.
He couldn't decide which.
Slumped against the doorframe, exhausted but still wide awake, his pulse raced, veins popping out in his wrist.
The cold sweat returned, and he found himself shivering.
What is wrong with me?
Sleep felt like an impossible dream now.
Nikolai glanced at the clock—only an hour left before he had to get ready for the day. He groaned, collapsing back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. His mind was spinning, the name still echoing.
Every second stretched out, and exhaustion felt like it would swallow him whole. He pressed his hands over his eyes, trying to block it all out—the sounds, the thoughts, the gnawing tension that had taken root deep inside him. But no matter what he did, the tightness in his chest wouldn't let go.
Maybe it was this place. This cursed metropolis. Ever since he'd arrived, it had felt like something was pressing down on him, a heaviness he couldn't explain.
For the last few days, Nikolai had never felt truly rested, but tonight was the worst yet. It was like the city itself didn't want him to sleep. He sat up again, resigned now.
Sleep wasn't going to happen. There was no point in pretending anymore. He reached for his clothes, feeling the weight of the day pressing down on him even though it had barely begun.
First day at work.
The work felt like a distant concern compared to the heaviness in his chest and the persistent whisper of that strange name. Nikolai was nervous before, but now? Now, he just felt drained.
The walls of the flat felt like they were closing in. Every breath he took seemed shallow, like the air was thick, pressing down on him. Without thinking, he grabbed his jacket, slipped into some boots, and placed a cap on his head.
I need some air.
As he stepped out into the hallway, the dull thud of his boots echoed in the silence. The front door creaked as he pushed it open, and a cold gust of autumn wind attacked his face as soon as he stepped outside.
The air was sharp and biting, but it felt like a relief. The chill cut through the fog in his mind, grounding it.
Nikolai shoved his hands into the jacket's pockets and took a few steps down the narrow cobblestone path, feeling the cool breeze tug at his hair. The cold air filled his lungs, clearing away the lingering dread from the nightmare. He tilted his neck back, staring up at the pale sky, the sun still hiding behind layers of thick clouds.
His footsteps echoed in the empty street, the only sound besides the distant hum of the city. Nikolai didn't know where he was going. He only knew that he just needed to keep moving, to do something—anything—to escape the heavy, restless feeling that had wrapped itself around him. He stopped at the corner, looking out toward the harbor in the distance.
The smell of saltwater and faint smoke lingered in the air, familiar and comforting in a way. But it didn't shake the unease that gripped him. Nothing seemed to. The chill in the air followed him as he wandered further from the flat, his feet instinctively carrying him toward the docks.
It had been a good while since he'd returned here—the first time since the day he arrived, if memory serves him right—but something about the cold, salty breeze felt... pleasant.
Freeing.
As Nikolai neared the waterfront, he saw the sprawl of ships, moored in their berths, the ropes creaking as they swayed with the gentle roll of the tide. The harbor was always busiest during the day, but at this hour, it was eerily still.
He breathed in the smell of saltwater, tar, and fish, eyes scanning the benches that lined the docks. Most were empty, save for one at the far end, near the edge where the pier met the breakwater.
There, sitting alone on the last bench, was a man.