Chapter One: In The Wake Of Strangers

Andrei:

The first thing I registered was the scent of paint. Thick, almost chemical. Acrylic, I think. Not Blood.

My body protested before my mind could ask why. Pain surged under my ribs, and I tried to move, only to feel warm hand press lightly against my shoulder.

"Easy, easy. You're safe"

The voice was gentle, low, careful in its calmness. That was the first warning sign.

My eyes snapped open, and for a second, everything blurred. White ceiling. Rough brick walls. Tall windows letting in the cold, grey light of morning. I wasn't bleeding out, at least not fatally.

I was somewhere else. Somewhere clean..

I flinched, instinct taking over. I was shirtless, my hand went to my side but the bandages stopped me, tight and secure, professionally wrapped. I hated that it meant I was passed out long enough for a stranger to touch me.

The hand on my shoulder withdrew the moment I tensed. I looked towards the voice.

He was sitting on a chair a few feet away, giving me space. Slim build. Dark Hazel and messy hair that curled near his eyes. A black framed glasses placed neatly on his face. He wore a simple black t-shirt that was a little bit smudged with paint and a green flannel. A brush stuck out of his back pocket like it belonged there. His expression wasn't curious or worried, it was tired. Like someone who hadn't slept but didn't mind.

"You passed out in the alley near my studio. Thought you were dead at first," He said, voice even. "You're not. That's good"

My throat was dry. "Why did you bring me in?"

He tilted his head. "Didn't think the rats would patch you up. Plus the nearest hospital is like a mile away from here so yeah"

I said nothing. The silence was intentional. I needed time to piece it all together, my wounds, my escape, and now, this boy with paint-stained fingers and no idea who I was.

The room, studio I assumed, looked lived-in. A couch was pushed up against one wall with crumpled blankets thrown over them. There were shelves of spray cans, canvases both finished and unfinished, and photographs pinned to a board above a desk cluttered with tools. There was a coffee machine too and a fridge. No sign of anyone else. This was his home.

Not a safe house. Not a trap. Just.. a place someone like him lived.

"I cleaned the wound and changed the dressing twice," He continued, picking up a mug of something steaming from a small round table near him. He didn't offer it. "Didn't take anything from you. You can check, if you want" He said as he took a sip of what I assumed to be coffee.

"What's your name?" I asked, my voice rough.

He gave a lopsided grin while lowering the mug and hold it with both hands, like he wasn't sure if I was being serious. "You can call me Matthew"

No last name. Smart.

"What do you want from me, Matthew?" I asked and he tilted his head again, still having that grin on his face

"Nothing, you have nothing on you so why would I want something from you? Plus I can't have a dead body beside my studio, do you know what impression from people that will give me?"

So he do have a motive. Well.. At least it wasn't a bad one. He's too kind. Too normal.

I didn't trust him. But I didn't trust anything, so that didn't mean much.

"Where am I?"

"My studio," He said. "It's just near the alley you stumbled into. Lucky I stayed late last night, or I wouldn't have heard you collapse outside."

I remembered something, barely. Cold rain. Pain. Staggering past locked doors. A light in the window, flickering. I must've seen his window.

"You live here?"

"Most of the time." He took another sip from his mug. "I have a family place uptown but.... I don't like staying there. This feels more like mine."

I let the silence stretch, watching him. No obvious weapons. No signs of surveillance. He didn't even ask me for my name.

"Don't worry," he said after a pause, almost reading my tension. "you don't have to tell me anything for now. Just rest. the stitches need at least a day before you try to move or or anthing."

I didn't respond.

Matthew just casually leaned his back againts the wall. "You've got that look," he added, smiling faintly.

"what look?"

"The obe people have when they think I'm too nice and that must mean I'm dangerous."

I stared at him fo a beat too long.

He laughed under his breath. "You're not the first injured person I've dragged inside like this, if that helps."

I didn't believe that either, but I let my head sink back into the pillow. My body was too sore to argue further. My mind, though, stayed sharp. Watching. Measuring.

He said his name was Matthew.

What he didn't know, yet, was that I hadn't come to this country for a vacation.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

I woke up again, this time to silence.

The light was different, brighter, softer. My ribs ached less, though the tightness of the bandages reminded me I wasn’t just dreaming. I sat up slowly, careful not to tear anything open, and scanned the room.

He was gone.

The boy, Matthew, he said his name was, wasn’t anywhere in sight. The mattress dipped slightly where he must’ve been sitting earlier, and a folded blanket rested by my side like he'd left it there on purpose. I glanced toward the door. Still closed. No sounds from outside. Just the quiet hum of the city outside, muffled by walls thick with paint and time.

I could’ve waited. Should’ve, maybe. But something pulled at me. Curiosity, mostly. The kind that comes after you nearly bleed outside a stranger’s studio and wake up in their bed.

I stood, bracing myself on the wall. My legs felt like rusted metal, stiff and slow, but they held. The studio was... warm. Messy. Lived-in. The kind of place someone called home even if they never said it out loud.

Canvases leaned against the walls, some half-finished, some just blank white promises. One stood tall on a paint-streaked stand, the brushstrokes still fresh. Thick swirls of blue and black bled into each other, like a storm caught mid-scream. It made my skin crawl and settle at the same time.

There was a long table pushed against the wall near the mattress, cluttered with things, tiny wooden carvings, each one smoothed by hand; some kind of photo frame facedown; a few scattered pencils and graphite sticks; a notebook, closed and worn at the edges.

I didn’t touch the journal. Whatever secrets he kept in there, they weren’t mine to read.

There were photographs too. Simple ones, nature shots, mostly. Mountains, rivers, abandoned buildings kissed by sunset. But then I saw it. A picture frame standing upright, half-tucked behind a row of carving tools.

It was a woman. Her smile was soft, eyes sharp in the way that said she noticed everything. She looked... like him. Almost identical, down to the jawline and the dark curls falling over her forehead.

His mother?

I didn’t mean to stare, but something about her gaze felt magnetic. Gentle. Knowing. Like she’d seen worse things and still chose to smile for the camera.

I stepped back, letting out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

This space, this whole studio, it felt sacred. Quietly screaming with everything he couldn’t say out loud.

And for some reason, I felt like I wasn’t supposed to be here. Not yet.

I stared at her a moment longer.

There was something tragic about the photograph—not in the picture itself, but in the way it was hidden. Like it had once belonged on a wall but now sat tucked behind clutter, close enough to reach but never quite looked at.

"That's my mum."

The voice nearly stopped my heart.

I spun around instinctively, reaching for nothing, senses flaring like I'd been caught breaking into something sacred—which, I suppose, I had. Matthew stood a few feet behind me, a roll of gauze in one hand, calm as ever.

I hadn’t heard the door. Hadn’t heard anything at all.

His expression didn’t shift. No anger. No guilt. Just quiet observation.

"I wasn’t trying to snoop," I said, sharper than I meant.

"I know," he said simply, walking past me toward the mattress. "You didn’t open anything. I would’ve heard it."

He knelt down, placing the gauze on the floor beside a small tin box filled with other medical supplies. I watched him in silence for a moment as he fiddled with the lid.

"I wasn’t outside," he added after a beat, glancing up. "I’ve got a storage room through there—"

He nodded toward a thin door near the back, painted the same color as the wall. I hadn’t even noticed it.

"Thought I had more bandages in there, and I did. Lucky for you."

I didn’t respond. He was too casual about it all, too at ease with a stranger bleeding on his floor and poking around his belongings.

"I made you coffee," he said, motioning toward the table near the easel. A chipped mug sat there, steam curling lazily from the top. "Figured you’d be the type who likes it bitter."

I raised an eyebrow but made no move toward it.

He sat cross-legged near the mattress, arms resting on his knees. “You know,” he started, brushing a bit of lint from his sleeve, “I never did get your name.”

I kept my gaze on him.

“Would you care enough to tell me,” he continued, “or should I just keep calling you stranger?”

There was a glint in his eyes—playful, but not mocking. Testing me.

I hesitated, just for a second. “Andrei.”

“Just Andrei?”

“For now.”

He nodded like that was a fair deal. “Alright then, Just Andrei.”

I let out a quiet breath. The air between us felt... different now. Still cautious, but lighter.

“How old are you?” I asked, more to keep the conversation than out of genuine curiosity. That was a lie, of course.

“Nineteen,” he said. “Technically twenty in a couple months. You?”

“Twenty-five.”

He gave a short whistle. “You look older.”