The world froze, and Perun found himself back outside of the scene, watching a screen in his mind. Then, the film recommenced, the reel of his memory speeding up, moving faster and faster, skipping and jumping over hours at a time like uncomfortable bumps in a country road.

He felt drained, as if all of his emotions had been wrung out of him and he was nothing more than a cloth pegged out to dry, flapping loose in the breeze. He'd already seen more than he wanted to, and yet the most pressing questions had yet to be answered. The film of his life raced on towards an event he had no idea how he would react to when forced to relive it. Would it knock him flat, like a fast right hook to the jaw, or would he be able to keep a grip on his emotions and accept the information he was being given?

If he had the choice, he'd jump the whole thing and find the next time Old Veleček appeared. That's what he wanted to see. Not how much of a fool he'd been.

Because he had been a fool, an embarrassing fool who had allowed himself to be caught up in the problems of someone who clearly didn't have their problems under control. He'd been the proverbial fly in the spider's web, struggling to free himself before the spider ate him. And then ate herself. He couldn't believe it. He'd made himself vulnerable and that in turn had made him volatile, a combination that would -- could – only lead to him into a potentially very dangerous situation for them all.

On fast forward, he saw himself questioning the box office boy, who seemed to only be able to point him somewhere else. Then he took a horse cab back to Small Side, climbed the stairs to the apartment, and braced himself before going in. He saw himself arguing with Libuše when she awoke: the tears, the screaming, the thrown pillows, the kisses, the love and the loathing, and the eventual tender lovemaking in her huge oak bed before he left for the night.

Luckily, he couldn't hear what was being said, but that wasn't necessary. The actions, the drama of the confrontation, was enough to know how it had turned out. He'd demanded to know her source; she'd refused to tell him. He'd raged; she'd screamed. They both had threatened; they both had pleaded and cried.

Perun shook his head. He was starting to understand Veleček's worry, and perhaps even his involvement. If any relative of his had got themselves into this type of situation, he would have stepped in, too. And Veleček had stepped in, somewhere, somehow. That was a certainty. Thus far, however, he'd not seen him anywhere. It was as if he was suspiciously absent from these events. Like an important side character waiting in the wings to make their appearance in the third act.

The only thread he had to go on was the vision of the manor in the forest. And that was nothing more than a memory of home. For a few moments, Perun wondered where it was, his home. It was somewhere in Bohemia, that was evident from the architecture, but a place like that could be anywhere and in any direction out from Prague. He had no feel for it. It was simply a place he remembered.

The reel zoomed on, days and nights running together until everything was a singular blur. Then small explosions, like sparks of burning magnesium, appeared, and the reel began to slow and finally locked onto one, unmoving frame.

Night time.

The inside of a factory.

Hulking machines twice his height stood in a shadowy line, the cogs and wheels connected by belts of steel, and even a few with thick cloth sheets covering parts that made them appear lumpy and misshapen. Fat chains with gigantic hooks on the ends dangled freely from the ceiling at intervals and everything was illuminated by bluish moonlight falling through a long bank of windows made up of hundreds of small panes.

Perun took a deep breath, steeling himself for whatever he was about to experience, and stepped into the image.

A chill bit at him, clawing at his face and the thin, exposed strips of skin between his gloves and the cuffs of his coat. Drafts of wind gusted up from somewhere, rustling and creaking the machinery, tools, paper, who knew what. Distantly, he felt himself shiver involuntarily. In the time machine it was anything but cold, but the physical memory he was reliving had taken over and made what was inside the film more real than what was outside.

He took a cautious step forward, avoiding the rectangles of light. Although he couldn't see it, Perun could tell from the weight and the shape that he was holding a gun, mostly likely a revolver, down and away from his body. His eyes scanned the windy darkness in search of any shadow, any blackness denser than the rest, that vaguely resembled a human form.

Oh, not here, Perun thought. Not in a factory, you idiot. Want to do yourself a serious injury? A gun fight near industrial machinery is a genius way to go about that, or is the concept of being shot new to you?

No, it couldn't be, that became clear after a minute or two. His former self was too calm about the weapon in his hand, too at ease with the weight. What he wasn't calm about was what he would do when he met up with the man he was looking for.

The nervous anticipation had formed a thin layer of sweat on his hands and forehead under his hat. He wanted to reach up and wipe at his face with the sleeve of his coat, but didn't dare move that much for fear of being seen first.

A man was supposed to be here. He'd been told that by. . . Jaromir, or the ticket boy? There was a man he was supposed to meet in this sleeping, ghostly factory who had information for him about the drugs. Or, no, who knew about the source of the drugs. Or was the source of the drugs. The information Perun could access out of the mind of his former self was hazy at best, and that put him more on alert than the darkness and the machinery. Something was going to happen here in the next few minutes, and it wasn't going to be pleasant. It wasn't just the nerves his former self was feeling, it was something else.

It slowly dawned on Perun that he had no intention of letting whoever it was leave the factory alive. His plan, as nebulous and shot through with rage as it was, was to blow the man's brains out after he'd got the information he wanted. That's what was making his former self's nerves jangle and send messages of danger to his over-stressed body. He was about to witness himself committing his first murder.

He'd never understood killers who preferred the factories, railway bridges or anywhere loud and crowed. The ricochet potential, the heights, the stink of stale grease and dirt, the grit crunching under your shoes, the echoing of your own breath and heartbeat. Everything was a potential threat -- to yourself. These places were bad for business. No matter how good you were, you could be spotted and shot at any moment.

And that was the problem. He could spot at least five, maybe six, potential places a man hiding in the shadows could ambush him, killing him before he even knew what was happening, just from the place where he stood.

And maybe that was it. That was the kick.

They wanted to feel just as exposed as their victims. Just as easy to kill. Maybe they were hunting. Just in a forest of metal and man-made obstacles, and not in nature, as he was sure he was used to. He'd hunted animals at that manor in the country, but never people. That was about to change.

Perun, from inside the time machine, wished as hard as he could for rain. Gentle, soft rain to calm his nerves and shape everything to be like it should be. But he had the distinct impression that wasn't going to happen and this was going to turn out very, very messy.

A light tapping attracted Perun's attention. He stopped and listened intently into the dark, attempting to orient the sound.

Footsteps. But from what direction?

He moved back, away from the moonlight and into the walk space between two silent machines, dissolving into the darkness. Craning his neck out just slightly, he made sure he had a clear view of both ends of the factory floor. He had no way of knowing which direction the man would come from. He had no idea how many entrances there were to this place. He was on unknown terrain without the slightest clue how to rescue himself.

Perun began to worry. Seriously worry.

Presently, a silhouette approached through the squares of moonlight from the far end of the factory floor. A lone man in cap and jacket. Hands thrust into his pockets. His head was turned, scanning the long row of machines as he passed by them. He slowed and then sped up, slowed and sped up.

He's looking for something he's not sure where it is, thought Perun. He doesn't know this place very well either. At the same moment, he knew that's not what his former self was thinking. He was thinking he'd just spotted his victim docilely making his way towards him like a oblivious deer strolling through a forest on a summer's day.

He waited until the man had moved past, not seeing him in the shadows, then darted out from his hiding place. As the cold gun muzzle was thrust into the side of his neck, the man stopped, slowly pulling his hands out of his pockets and raising them into the air.

"I was told you were unarmed," he said. "I left my gun outside."

"Surprise," Perun answered.

The man said nothing, but Perun could tell he was more annoyed than scared. He'd had the same attitude in very similar situations. Although, never with a gun literally to his head.

"Why her?" Perun asked. His throat was dry and the words came out cracked and icy. "Why target her? Why not somebody else? What's so special about that one?"

"She's a reliable customer. With money. I'm sick of customers who can't pay. And she came to me, so targeting? No, there can't be any talk of targeting. I normally don't work that part of town."

Libuše had gone to him? No, that wasn't right. She was being fed the stuff and was too weak to refuse it. How did she even find this dirty gutter-dweller?

"How did she find out about you? And where did she find you?"

The man laughed, a hoarse bark that echoed through the empty hall, bouncing off the bricks and glass before tumbling into oblivion. "I'm supposed to spill my business secrets to you? Why don't you just tell me how much you want and of what, and where to deliver, yes? And I'll tell you how much it will cost and then we can both leave. It's fucking cold in here."

Perun pressed the gun even harder into the man's neck. "Forgot who has the weapon?"

"No," said the man, in a tone of voice that made Perun, from his point of observation, reflexively feel for his own assassination pistol. The one that was now resting at the bottom of Vltava.

Wrap your arm around his neck, or get him over to the wall, he urged himself. He's not cornered enough. Pin him in more or we're going to be sorry.

"How did she find you?"

"Why don't you ask her? Or does she keep you out of the interesting business?" A note of mirth swung along with the words, as if he idea of Libuše sneaking out to meet with unknown men amused him. Perun's jaw tightened along with his grip on the gun.

"When and h-"

Without warning, the man swung around, knocking the gun away from his neck and punching Perun in the side. The gun went off, sending a stray bullet into a window that exploded, raining glass shards down from high above them. Perun felt his left leg being kicked out from underneath him. Losing his balance, he went tumbling onto the hard, grit-and-glass dusted floor with a grunt and a curse.

The man raced for the shadows, and was swallowed up before Perun could roll onto his back and aim the gun at his retreating back.

Brace yourself, said Dima's voice. You don't need to see all of this in detail. And try not to vomit, will you?