The entire family sat around the festive table, celebrating the little birthday girl, Julia.
Laughter, music, raised glasses—everything looked right. Everyone seemed happy.
Everyone except her.
Julia felt nothing.
Emptiness wrapped around her chest like a cold fog. Loneliness pressed down on her, even in a room overflowing with people. She had felt this way for as long as she could remember.
Why?
She slowly reached out and tugged at her mother's dress.
"Mom… Mom," Julia whispered.
Her mother turned toward her with a tired, irritated expression.
"What?"
"Why isn't this fun?" Julia asked quietly. "Why don't I feel happy?"
Her mother sighed, looking away.
"I already told you. We're not quite human," she said flatly. "You, me, your father, your brother—we were born this way. It's nothing special. Just who we are."
Julia looked down at her birthday cake, candles melting into colorful wax. She tried to understand.
Not human.
How could someone live without feeling?
She raised her eyes—and froze.
On the rooftop across the street stood several figures, all dressed in black. Tactical gear. Masks. Military posture. They were staring directly at her window.
Her heart skipped.
A sudden wave of panic crashed over her. Her hands shook, her vision blurred—and the figures vanished as if they had never been there.
W… what was that?
Glass shattered.
The window exploded inward. Strange metal objects flew into the room, hissing violently as thick smoke poured out.
Julia's eyelids grew heavy.
Just before she lost consciousness, she saw her grandfather step forward and inhale the smoke in one sharp breath, as if pulling it into himself.
The next second, a grenade rolled across the floor.
The explosion tore him apart.
Julia screamed.
But as pieces of her grandfather scattered across the room, one thought echoed inside her mind:
Why don't I feel anything?
Why does this bag smell so damn awful?
Her brother cursed under his breath as he carried the trash toward the dumpster behind the building.
Then he heard the blast.
He turned in time to see soldiers in dark uniforms throwing grenades into his apartment and storming inside.
Panic hit him instantly.
With nowhere else to go, he dropped the trash and jumped into an empty garbage container, slamming the lid shut.
He held his breath.
Seconds passed.
Then voices.
"Herr Perepelitsa! Where are you going? We're in the middle of a raid—you'll ruin everything!" a soldier shouted.
"Quiet," another voice replied—high-pitched, sharp, irritated. "I can feel one of them."
The lid was ripped open.
The boy screamed.
But the man staring down at him only smiled.
"Well hello," he said pleasantly. "What's your name?"
"G… Hans."
"And your last name?"
"Ramper."
"Egor Perepelitsa," the man replied, nodding approvingly.
He grabbed Hans's hand—not to shake it, but to pull him out of the container. Keeping a firm grip on the boy's shoulder, Egor guided him toward the street corner.
"Your family is bad, Hans," Egor said calmly. "You do know you're not quite human, right?"
"What?"
"You're a god."
Egor handed him several documents.
Hans flipped through them. Arrest records. Mass casualties. Unexplained disasters.
Every page bore the same surname:
Ramper.
Egor's tone darkened as he took the papers back.
"Gods like you are reincarnations of ancient ascetics," he said. "You have abilities. Gifts. Power."
"But you don't have a human mind. No empathy. No real joy."
"Your kind suffers from a god complex."
Hans trembled.
"M… maybe," he whispered.
Egor smiled again, suddenly warm.
"But if you understand that," he said, handing Hans a bundle of cash, "then maybe you're different."
"Five hundred euros. There's an orphanage a few blocks away. Good luck with your independent life."
Hans ran.
Egor watched him go, then sighed.
You never stop disappointing me.
He calmly pulled out his Mauser and shot the boy in the head.
"Well then," Egor said cheerfully. "Back to work."
Blood soaked the stairwell.
Egor moved through the building almost joyfully, breathing in the scent of death.
A godling had burned an entire floor—only to be killed by a frightened soldier.
Egor approached the soldier, ready to praise him.
Then he saw the tears.
"What's wrong with you?" Egor scoffed. "It's scientifically proven—gods are parasites."
"They felt pain," the soldier sobbed.
Annoyed, Egor raised his Mauser and executed him without hesitation.
Weakness had no place here.
He sensed something behind him.
Three children.
They raised their hands, chanting, trying to summon power.
"As long as we're together, we're invincible!" Julia shouted.
Then fear struck her.
Real fear.
Primal.
A pistol pressed against her forehead.
In seconds, her friends were dead.
Julia collapsed, shaking violently, overwhelmed by terror she had never known.
Egor approached her slowly, adjusting his thick Cossack mustache.
"Together?" he mocked softly. "I thought gods couldn't understand friendship."
She saw his left eye darken completely—an abyss staring into her soul.
"Did you really think the government would send humans?"
He crushed her skull beneath his boot.
Panic flooded the entire building.
Egor walked in slow circles, smiling as he spoke aloud.
"God of thunder. God of life. God of fear."
"We all deserve death."
"I hate gods," he whispered, "but not myself."
Bodies fell.
Some were innocent.
Some were monsters.
All were powerful.
And Egor knew one thing with absolute certainty:
This fate was never meant to be escaped.