Dave gazes at that part of the city—its streets are familiar, yet eerily alien. The signs, the façades, even the air… everything looks right, but something is undeniably wrong.
"Where the hell am I?" he mutters, frowning, jaw clenched. "How did I end up in this place?"
A few feet away stands Heinz. His smile is faint, but his eyes gleam with that damn enigmatic calm that always manages to get under Dave's skin.
"I've got a few theories," Heinz replies in his low, drawling voice. "If you're interested, of course."
Dave snorts.
"If I wasn't, I'd have left you talking to yourself by now."
"Fair enough. Then follow me."
Without another word, Heinz turns and starts walking down the street. Dave follows, hands shoved into his pockets, distrust clenching in his chest. Every corner is disorientingly familiar: a traffic light in the wrong place, a shop he's never seen before, a mural that should look different.
They cross a couple of streets and stop at a metal door with no sign, covered in graffiti that resembles warped eyes. Heinz pushes it open and heads down a narrow, dimly lit staircase. Dave follows without hesitation. At the bottom, the muffled sounds of laughter, clinking glasses, and an out-of-tune guitar greet them.
The bar is small and dark, reeking of stale booze and old tobacco. Yellowing newspaper clippings and photos of strangers line the walls, all seemingly watching from their prison of paper. A few patrons sit here and there, as out of place in space as they are in time.
Heinz chooses a secluded table beside a lamp with a red shade that stains his pale skin an unsettling crimson. Dave slumps into the seat across from him and raises an eyebrow.
"This your grand theory lab?"
"The beer's cheap and the discretion absolute," Heinz answers.
A gaunt waiter approaches. Without looking at a menu, Heinz orders two beers. Dave watches in silence, unsure of what disturbs him more: the familiarity of the gesture or the feeling that the world around them is made of mismatched parts.
When the beers arrive, Dave takes a long swig, letting the bitter cold burn its way down. Heinz barely touches his. His eyes, however, remain locked on Dave—observing, assessing.
"All right," Dave says, setting the glass down. "Let's hear your theory, poet. Where am I?"
Heinz interlaces his fingers and leans in with that damn look—like someone who knows something you're not going to like.
"It's not about *where*, Dave," he whispers. "It's about when… and in which reality."
"You wanna tell me what the hell happened exactly?" Dave snaps. "Because yesterday I was in my world, and today… I'm here. Wherever here is."
Heinz doesn't answer right away. He slides a finger along the rim of his glass, as though searching for the precise words. Then he looks up.
"You were pulled into an interdimensional rift," he says calmly, like he's explaining the weather. "A tear in the barrier that separates your dimension from this one."
Dave stares in silence, blinking twice.
"You're kidding… A rift? Like… an *interdimensional* rift?"
"Yes."
"Tell me this is a joke."
"It's not. It is what it is."
"So does this happen often, or did I win some kind of cosmic lottery?"
Heinz places both hands on the table and exhales softly.
"It's rare. But not impossible. Dimensions are… unstable in certain places. Sometimes, when enough energy builds up, a rift forms. Yours did. It pulled you in and dumped you here."
Dave leans his head back and shuts his eyes.
"Great. So I'm a damn cosmic accident."
"We all are, in essence," Heinz murmurs with a faint smile. "But your case is… particular."
"Why?"
"Because the odds of someone crossing over like that are incredibly low. So low you could live a thousand lifetimes and never experience it. But you did."
Dave frowns, staring down at his hands.
"So… does that mean it could happen again?"
"Yes," Heinz admits. "Though it's unlikely. The rift that brought you here is already closed. But there are other ways to travel between dimensions."
Dave leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
"Other ways?" His eyes spark with interest. "You mean portals? Spells? Magic artifacts?"
Heinz holds his gaze a moment longer, then turns back toward the fog swirling under the streetlights outside the window.
"Yes. But those methods aren't for everyone. And they're not… safe."
"Fantastic," Dave mutters, voice dripping with sarcasm.
"We'll talk about this… later," Heinz says, thoughtful now.
Silence settles between them like a third guest at the table. Dave drums his fingers against his glass, but his eyes betray him—drifting, almost involuntarily, to Heinz's lips as he takes a slow sip of beer.
"So…" Heinz finally says, neutral tone, casual as a breeze, "Any idea where you're spending the night?"
The abrupt shift throws Dave off. He blinks, caught off guard. The question is harmless, but there's something in Heinz's gaze that feels different. Like he's being watched in a new way. Dave scowls and lets out a dry laugh.
"Do I look like I keep hotel reservations in my jacket?" he gestures at his worn coat. "I barely know where the fuck I am."
Heinz tilts his head, thoughtful. The reddish lamp light cuts his profile into sharp shadows, and Dave can't help but notice the angular lines of his face, the way the darkness shapes his cheekbones. It's a strange face… and yet, somehow too familiar.
"You could stay at my place," Heinz offers bluntly. "It's safe. And comfortable."
Dave lets out a humorless laugh and props an elbow on the table.
"Right. Go sleep at the house of the guy who looks at me like he wants to crack open my skull and see what's inside. Tempting, but I'll pass. I'll take a cheap hostel, thanks."
Heinz's lips curl into a subtle smile, unbothered.
"Understandable. There's one nearby—three blocks. I can take you."
"I don't need a babysitter."
"It's not about babysitting, Dave," he replies, voice soft, almost amused. "It's about the receptionist. If he sees you walk in alone, he'll think you're skipping on the bill. And I don't intend to leave you sleeping on the street… not yet."
Dave exhales, stands, and downs the rest of his beer.
"All right, tour guide. Show me your damn hostel."
Heinz pays the tab without haste and follows Dave to the door. Outside, the night air has cooled, and mist coils in the corners like breathing shadows. They walk in silence through wet, empty streets, their footsteps echoing between the buildings.
They reach a gray façade with a flickering neon sign: Hostal Lunar. Dave stops on the sidewalk, eyeing the torn curtains in the windows and the sickly lobby light.
"Looks like the perfect place to get robbed in my sleep," he mutters.
"And yet, you chose it," Heinz replies, stepping inside.
The lobby reeks of damp and cheap disinfectant. An older man in a wrinkled shirt and reading glasses watches them from behind the desk. Heinz approaches and places a folded bill on the counter.
"One room. Indefinitely," he says.
"Indefinitely?" the man repeats, suspicious.
"Until he decides to leave," Heinz clarifies, nodding toward Dave.
The man shrugs, scribbles in a dusty notebook, and hands over a tarnished key. Dave takes it, uneasy.
"Thanks, I guess."
Heinz turns to him.
"Room 306. Third floor, all the way at the back."
"Got it."
Dave climbs the stairs without saying goodbye. Reaching the third floor, he unlocks the door and steps inside. The room is small, walls cracked with age, and the bed sags in the middle. He drops onto it, sighing deeply.
He closes his eyes, but before sleep can claim him, a troubling thought creeps in:
Heinz paid for the room without hesitation.
As if he knew Dave would be staying here for a long time.