The first thing I registered was the insistent, high-pitched bleat of a machine, a sound that vibrated somewhere deep in my bones. Then came the smell: antiseptic, sharp and clinical, far removed from the dust and ozone of the sub-basement. My eyelids felt like lead weights, glued shut with industrial adhesive. I tried to lift them, a monumental effort that yielded only a flickering glimpse of sterile white before darkness reclaimed me. Time, a concept I rarely treated with much reverence, had dissolved. It could have been hours, or days. The next conscious moment brought a soft pressure on my hand, a warmth I recognized without really understanding why. I fought harder this time, forcing my eyes open, the glare of an overhead light making me wince. A muted groan escaped my lips. “Ondria?” The voice sounded rough, gravelly with exhaustion. Jarek Sintis, CEO of the brutalist edifice I’d nearly died in, looked like a man who’d wrestled a bear, lost, and then decided to just live inside the bear’s stomach for a few days. His dark hair jutted out in stiff tufts, stubble grayed his chin, and his tailored jacket was nowhere in sight, swapped for a gray undershirt gone soft with creases. He was slumped in a plush armchair beside the bed, his head tipped back against the wall, eyes closed. “Did I die?” I croaked, my voice a sandpaper whisper. “Because this looks suspiciously like a five-star hotel, which I’m fairly certain isn't the afterlife they promised me. Where are the cloud harps? The eternal buffet?” Jarek blinked hard, some jagged panic crossing his pupils before he pulled his shoulders square. He sat up, pushing a hand through his hair. “You didn’t die, you idiot. You flatlined. For two minutes. I nearly had a goddamn stroke.” He squeezed my hand, a surprisingly firm, grounding grip. The casual profanity, the undercurrent of genuine worry, it was classic Jarek. And, to my surprise, the sharp panic that typically sparked my wisecracks remained quiet. It felt… lighter. I managed a weak grin. “Only two minutes? Amateurs. I aim for at least five for theatrical flair. What, did you not give me a standing ovation?” He actually let out a short, tired laugh, a sound like gravel on stone. “I think I was too busy screaming your name like a banshee and ripping wires out of the wall.” His gaze held mine, serious now. “Vance is in federal custody. The national grid system is secure. Your ex…” He paused, a hint of grim satisfaction in his tone. “His career, what’s left of it after eighty million people watched him get implicated in a massive fraud ring, is officially toast. His sponsors dropped him faster than a hot potato, and his follower count is plummeting into the Marianas Trench.” I blinked. Eighty million. The sheer scale of it was almost too vast to process. My influencer ex, the man who had built an empire on carefully curated narcissism, was now just another cautionary tale. And Vance, the corporate viper who had coiled around my past and nearly suffocated my future, was gone. My collarbones settled, the stale weight sliding right off my ribs. It felt like shedding a skin I hadn’t even realized I was still wearing. The trauma was still there, a ghost in the periphery, but it no longer felt like a suffocating shroud. It was a scar, a memory, something I could finally look at without flinching away. “Good,” I said simply, the word tasting of quiet triumph. I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the silence settle. When I parted them again, Jarek was still watching, his fingers firm around mine. “How long have I been here?” “Four days,” he murmured. “The doctors wanted to observe you. Said you were a medical marvel. I… I didn’t leave.” A mild skip pulsed through my throat, missing the electric dread from before. “You look like you need a shower and a vacation. Preferably in that order.” Just then, the hospital room door burst open with a familiar, enthusiastic bang, making us both jump. Boko, looking impossibly bright and vibrant against the sterile white, stood framed in the doorway, a domed metal platter cover held aloft like a trophy. He wore a crisp white chef’s jacket, stained with what looked suspiciously like chili oil and determination. “Ondria! You are awake! Boko knew you would be! The spirits of Oltava would never take such a good customer!” He strode in, his voice booming, radiating an energy that instantly made the room feel too small. “I have brought you first meal! Fresh from Boko’s Midnight Kitchen! Grand opening was yesterday! Big success!” He set the serving dish down on the bedside table with a rattle, nudging away an empty plastic cup. My jaw probably hit the pillow. “Boko’s Midnight Kitchen?” I repeated, bewildered. “What are you talking about?” Jarek, a faint smile playing on his lips, gestured vaguely. “He launched an eatery. In the lobby of the Monolith. Apparently, my ‘drifter’ persona was more convincing than I thought, and he assumed I was going to fund his venture as a thank you. I tried to explain I run the company, not a charity, but he was… persuasive.” Boko beamed, polishing the cloche with his sleeve. “Mr. Sintis is very kind! He says my skewers are ‘an acquired taste’ but a necessary one for the ‘monolith staff’! He gave me corner unit! Very prime location!” I stared at Jarek, then at Boko. “You opened a stall. In the marble lobby. Of the Sintis Monolith.” “Yes!” Boko declared, whipping off the domed lid. A plume of vapor smelling of roasted shallots, star anise, and scorched chili billowed out into the sterile air. Beneath it sat a small, perfectly arranged platter of glistening, impossibly colorful skewers, unlike anything sold on our side of the border. My stomach, which had been stubbornly indifferent for days, gave a hopeful rumble. “You should probably eat something,” Jarek said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He let go of my hand, but not before giving it one last, gentle squeeze. As Boko started to passionately describe each skewer, digging into his pocket with his free hand, he paused. “Ah! And one more thing, my friend. Last package from ‘Little Barnacle.’ She said, ‘Only give to Ondria when she is ready for real travel. No more running in circles.’ So, here you go.” He produced a final, plain white envelope, identical to the one the Oltavan receptionist had handed me what felt like a lifetime ago. My pulse skipped a half-beat against the mattress. This was it. The very last breadcrumb from my past self. I broke the seal, my fingers stiff against the cardstock. Inside lay a single, crisp, one-way ticket. To Oltava. No return date. Just a departure time, a few weeks from now. I looked up at Jarek, then at Boko, then back at the ticket. The liminal city, where streets rearranged themselves and diners vanished. The maze of damp cobblestones where this absolute circus had started. Jarek reached into the coat hanging off the back of his chair. He pulled out a matching ticket, identical in every detail. He held it up, a faint, almost shy smile on his lips. “So, Ondria Morast,” he said, his voice quiet, steady. “Are you finally ready for a real vacation?” The spicy, vibrant aroma of Boko’s skewers filled the room. The rhythmic beep of the medical monitor continued its gentle cadence. And for the first time since my memories went missing, the pressure in my ribs slackened, leaving behind actual curiosity about whatever road lay ahead. Oltava. With them. Yes. I was ready.

The Itinerary