Content warnings: isolation, dehumanization, implied child abuse, implied sexual abuse of a young adult, alcoholism, racism.

I

The liquid in the glass bottles was as green as the streets of Düsseldorf. 

Tenma looked through his pant pockets for some small change. Mr. Açıkel—hefty, friendly-eyed, with yellowing bruises from Tenma’s last healing session after a rabid dog bite—scanned him like an X-ray. “Remember to eat normal food as well, son. This crap alone will make you sick. I know a—”

Tenma dismissed him with a broad smile. “I’d love to have a chat, Mr. Açıkel, but I have to go now.”

The smile and the dismissal came easier than usual. Maybe because Tenma was practically flying after the last session. 

A session that left him dizzy, but the nod he earned snapped him upright, the euphoria reviving his blood flow almost as power-restoring as the liquid.

Tenma bit his lip as he left the store, the bottles rattling in his backpack. 
He took a deeper breath—the first in a while that didn’t taste like smog—and looked at the panorama of Düsseldorf. Leafy streets scattered with deserted places. A patrol wagon rumbled past; Tenma tightened his fingers on his backpack straps and straightened up. When he slouched, the cops were more likely to take notice. 

Königsallee: In the old photos a fashion scene with trees growing along the canal, in the current landscape a bleak scene with potholed asphalt and former shops marked with signs forbidding entry.

We’ll need much more money and time to rebuild this street. You might help.

The old Düsseldorf, a faraway land, remembered by a few. Tenma was lucky enough to study under one of them.

He once told Tenma about a doctor who could cure the world of all its aches. 

Tenma wasn’t naive enough to think he could cure all the aches, not with his power still draining him so easily. But something deep, deep, deep inside screamed that he could cure at least some.

II

The tea tasted so much better in the porcelain cups that remembered the city long gone—Bonaparta’s beloved Prague. The sadness was a crucial part of this superior experience. 

Cups with gilded edges, small flowers, and a small crack on the bottom. He observed the crack closely—he couldn’t let one of the few items that connected him with the old world perish.

This is why he also observed his jewel so closely. A cracked jewel? Reeked of sacrilege.

Tea—especially excellent tea—was a rarity in the new world. Luckily, so was his precious jewel—the precious jewel that brought help and hope to the less fortunate. Desperation and thankfulness—two forces so powerful they made people shower the killers of one and the bringers of the other with gifts and adoration.

The healer’s hand was a mutation’s strange endowment, so strange that people who weren’t either cursed or blessed with the knowledge of the new world would dismiss it as a science-fiction story, or at best, nature’s queerness. 

But this wonder was real—he had proof in the form of a brain scan, the most beautiful brain scan he had ever seen. Bonaparta’s only complaint was that he couldn’t open Tenma’s skull with a scalpel to have a more intimate look at the anomaly located between his frontal and parietal lobe. The anomaly he wanted to feel under his fingertips. The anomaly that turned Tenma into a reincarnation of Asclepius.

This godly trait had an ungodly name: MA-131. Of course, they didn’t use Latin anymore and didn’t bother with using their imagination to come up with a name that would perfectly match the eeriness of this trait.

Luckily, he could still use Latin in his private notes: the name Manus Asclepii, a galaxy he single-handedly discovered.

After finishing the tea—green jasmine tea—he went to the kitchen to prepare svíčková with whole-grain bread, a unique meal in this decaying environment, where quality ingredients were as scarce as refinement.

But Franz Bonaparta’s jewel deserved nothing less than the finest.

III

The new world was dangerous. Mr. Bonaparta echoed these words so often that they quietly grew over Tenma’s brain. 

This was why he received a map that separated the safe—relatively safe—spaces from the dangerous ones and why he attended gun trainings. Mr. Bonaparta didn’t take this decision lightly; firearms belonged to the category that wasn’t discussed beyond necessities.

The training included bows and knives: Ammunition was scarce. 

His instructor lived in the danger zone, which meant that Mr. Bonaparta accompanied him during every training. The distance justified using the car—an expensive possession Mr. Bonaparta preferred to keep an eye on.

“I wouldn’t leave a stray cat with a man like him, let alone you, my dear.”

My dear. A word combination so rare that Tenma’s cheeks burned hotter than the midday sun—embarrassing, embarrassing, embarrassing—and he didn’t dare to raise his gaze from his worn-out sneakers. 

A word combination that felt like home. Whatever home was—his skin color different enough to put up an invisible shield between him and others, yet not enough to tether him to the land of his origins.

Was there truly a land of origin? 

It wasn’t just his skin. It was in the way he accented certain words, the hesitations in his mannerisms, the way he never quite knew whether to bow or shake hands—how Japanese was becoming, more and more, a foreign language.

And yet, here he was.

He followed Mr. Bonaparta to the backyard, where the instructor was waiting for them. Tenma never met someone more hardened but also weirdly soft—never a raised voice or a face betraying impatience with Tenma’s indecisiveness (gun or knife attack?).

The workouts put Tenma through the troops—sometimes literally—and sore muscles weren’t an alien concept to him. He gritted his teeth nevertheless—following rules led to results, and results brought him Mr. Bonaparta’s quiet approval.

Or at least something that looked like quiet approval.

Tenma aimed and shot, finally hitting the bullseye. His hands shook as he lowered the barrel. He discreetly wiped the sweat from his chin with his shirt and glanced furtively at Mr. Bonaparta.

A shadowy smile.

(The subtle aroma of jasmine.)

*

The man lived with a little girl who wore shorts covered in patches and seemed to spend every free moment jumping on a rope.

Tenma never saw her smile. When he tried to talk to her, she remained silent, her face still.

He watched as she landed on the balls of her feet, the jump rope slapping against the ground. 

“The girl—Is she his granddaughter?”

Mr. Bonaparta didn’t answer immediately. “She was kidnapped.”

“Kidnapped?!”

“Technically kidnapped.” Mr. Bonaparta looked at him with an indecipherable expression. “Her mother was killed, Herr Bernhardt a gentleman enough to take the poor yellow girl.” His soft voice soaked with sarcasm. “It’s better than being a homeless orphan, wouldn’t you say?” 

“Still kidnapped.” Tenma crossed his arms, his previous judgment of Mr. Bernhardt now not fitting enough. “We—we should take her. You could offer her better conditions to live.”

“Do you want to kidnap her again?”

“No! I—”

“Listen, Tenma.” Mr. Bonaparta put an arm around him. “Some things? You just can’t understand, so leave them be.” 

“What? I can’t just lea—”

“Kenzō.” Every syllable melted in his mouth like a sugar cube. “You see, the war was the most merciless event I ever experienced. Oh I hope you will never be forced to use what you learn here, it’s—it’s too easy to—”

Mr. Bonaparta lowered his hand, his touch still lingering.

*

Mr. Bonaparta locked himself in his office. 

The alone time suspended Tenma in a decision vacuum. Should he read a book to practice reading in the old language (maybe something about the war he wasn’t meant to understand)? English, French, or German? Do some medical drawings? Take the old walkman Mr. Açıkel restored for him and listen to music that came from the far-away-land?

Mr. Bonaparta thought that a comprehensive education was crucial for a healer.

Tenma could either relax in his room or learn another thing that would get him closer to Mr. Bonaparta breaking his rule—his rule that said that excessive praise could spoil a disciple, especially a gifted disciple, maybe even end his life.

Relaxing was the harder option.

IV

Bonaparta’s office—his small palace of solitude. Because Tenma was an obedient boy, he only entered it when Bonaparta invited him for a lesson. 

Tenma was special, so he learned about topics unrelated to medicine eagerly, his mind truly versatile.

Oh how naive Bonaparta once was, believing that people could become anything. He learned his lesson, the hard way, always the hard way, there was no greater teacher than the hard way, and now he knew what should’ve been obvious from the start: only a few in this world had the privilege to choose any path.

The rest would burn in hell. Some of them were aware enough of the flames around them, but the majority enjoyed the cloudy comfort of lies much more, even if reality came with a loaded gun—one of the worst inventions of mankind—at them. 

Only the absolute minority could enjoy what the world had to offer, yes, even this rotten-to-the-bone new world. His Tenma was a star among the stars with the anomaly changing his brain, or maybe his brain changing the anomaly into something otherwordly.

Bonaparta created a hypothesis: MA-131 not only gave Tenma his healing abilities, it also turned him into the perfect learner. The evidence was scarce for now, though. He still allowed himself to indulge in this little anecdata. 

This anecdata—a milky way of endless inspiration. Sadly, the drawings that this galaxy fruited with brought nothing but the bitter taste of disappointment. Well, almost every drawing.

There was one sketch that turned the black hole devouring the matter back into a sun.

In this sketch, Tenma had longer hair—long enough to cover his eyes and nose—a serious expression, and a spark of determination on his face. Bonaparta darkened the shadow under his chin with soft graphite, yes, it looked better and better, but what would he do with himself once the picture was finished? 

He could, perhaps, create more pictures with this particular model in his head, the model he met for the very first time long before the war. 

He dismissed him as an inane hero from a series by an author who created for children, but oh how wrong he was, how pleasing the drawings were, pleasing enough to alter his brain chemistry to the point where he couldn’t—and didn’t want to—erase the image from his memory.

He couldn’t forget the mysterious man who traded a lowlife for an innocent life. 

Tenma was like a long-lost version of this man, with a small but significant difference: Tenma had the purity his fictional counterpart lacked. 

Pure genius carried a more exquisite taste than the genius gone astray. He left the initials K. P. next to his darling.

V

The awakening hit like a nightmare.

Tenma sucked in a breath, gulped it like water, not enough, not enough, his skin as heavy as armour. 

Why was he here? Why Mr. Bonaparta’s office?

He needed a second to regain control over his very own limbs. Slowly—too slowly—he tried to sit up, but the blanket pulled him back, wrapping him like the ivy covering the city’s walls. He looked down. A T-shirt. Underwear. Skin was wrong—blueish.

The memory puzzle elements were coming back. It happened again. 

The patient, the blood, the dressings. He’d been fine—he’d been fine. He put on a mask and gloves. He could do this. He always could—

—until the ground cracked beneath him. The blood, too much, too–

And then—darkness.

The door opened with a quiet squeak. Mr. Bonaparta. Steamy cup in hand. “Oh, you’re awake, thank god.”

Was he—has he been waiting the whole time?

“I haven’t been so worried in a while. You need a vacation.”

A vacation? No, he couldn’t. Not with all these people, not with his duty, not when he still had so many people to save.

“I-I can’t take a vacation, I—”

“You won’t help anyone if you kill yourself.”

The words landed harder than the punches during the last training session, the gentleness of his voice sharpening it with the contrast. His hand too warm against his face. 

Too tired to react. Mr. Bonaparta sat next to him. A book, one they’d discussed for weeks now, appeared in his hands.

“You can always count on a healer to defy death. Until the gods strike back. Do you understand what this means?”

Tenma frowned. Mr. Bonaparta liked Greek mythology a bit too much, didn’t he?

VI

Bonaparta needed to plan every—every, every, every—step. Every step, every breath, every thought. A ritual of precision. It was the only way to save the world from turning into dust.

He wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

Yes, spontaneity carried the sweet taste of reward—too sweet, like ice cream in coffee in the old world—but indulgence was a dead-end street. He had learned this lesson. Not in the most pleasant way. The thought still leaving bitter bile in his throat.

Order. He needed order to survive. The stories helped—when order wore fiction garments, it became so much easier to follow.

Some lived only in his mind, others gained additional layers through the power of ink and colors. One of his favorites—no, the favorite—was about a mother leaving her little boy in a facility for gifted children. She told herself they would give him the life she never could.

They shared the mutation, but in her case, it wasn’t a gift. It was a death sentence.

The boy spent only a few months in the facility.

Why?

Because the gifted among the gifted deserved a personal tutor. Someone who would guide them, shape them, show them the path away from the monster.

And was there ever a better tutor than someone who had once walked the monster’s path himself?

VII

There had to be a way to give the little girl at least one-quarter of a reason to smile.

She haunted him. Especially when his hands were still and his mind was restless, his body burning through the familiar motions of morning training. He collapsed on the floor after the thirtieth-or-so pushup.

Maybe he could buy her something? A gift, even the smallest. He had some savings from the healing sessions, but— 

(How much did Mr. Bonaparta charge, anyway?)

It didn’t matter. He couldn’t buy something as pointless as an impractical gift here without spending all his money. 

But maybe—his mind clearing up—maybe he could find something in the red areas on the map?

*

Mr. Bonaparta was out for business. Tenma was supposed to be learning. Instead, he grabbed his backpack, slipped a kitchen knife into a pocket, and left.

Mr. Bonaparta didn’t have to know everything.

*

Tenma felt out of place in his too-tight shirt and hole-free pants. Another wish—Mr. Bonaparta’s wish: an outfit that pleased the eye, a rule he followed as well. Sometimes, he stared at himself in the mirror for a very long moment, a time he would surely mock anyone else for wasting.

This place—the people—were so different from the stories Mr. Bonaparta told.

Sure, some details aligned, but here, it was more—

More three-dimensional. With a richer texture. The streets pulsated with energy like the power in Tenma’s blood. The sharp scent of ripe fruit clashed with the harsh aroma of grilled meat—the latter too cruel to his digestive system, too cruel to the environment, Mr. Bonaparta had said.

Tenma slid his hands into his pockets. Did all stories told by Mr. Bonaparta lack crucial detail?

*

He made it back minutes before Mr. Bonaparta’s return. So close to a reveal. 

Mr. Bonaparta’s mood had soured; something had gone wrong during his meeting.

“Old fool thinks he can outplay me.”

Tenma tugged at the button on his shirt. He knew this tone: one glass of wine too much. Rare moments, which only made them chillingly unpredictable.

Mr. Bonaparta stood before him, casting a shadow over Tenma’s hands and feet. “How was studying today?” 

“Uhm—fine.” He tried to muster a smile that eased the lines around Mr. Bonaparta’s eyes. “I went over yesterday’s lesson about the circulatory system to understand it better.”

Mr. Bonaparta didn’t seem convinced.

*

Tenma had told the girl that the fake ruby bracelet he got her was their secret. It was after he saw her smiling for the very first time. The bracelet lit up when she touched it, the light pulsing familiarly.

Something similar happened when Tenma found an interestingly shaped rock in the garden of the facility, the facility he barely remembered. 

Mr. Bonaparta witnessed it.

Tenma pursed his lips. He remembered what he wanted to do—take her to live with them, so foolish, so naive.

Now he knew that it was better to leave her where she was, even if he wanted something different.

(But maybe—maybe he wouldn’t hurt a girl—)

VIII

Tenma stood on the roof. The sky was the color of a ripe mango—a fruit he’d only seen in Mr. Bonaparta’s old encyclopedia.

Everything intensified: the damp spots on his t-shirt, the dense air, the street sounds. He watched the distant world beyond Düsseldorf’s gates. Mr. Bonaparta called it an ocean of nothingness.

He took a sip from the bottle when Mr. Bonaparta appeared silently beside him, his steps like a feline’s.

“We have a new patient.”

A hand landed on his shoulder. Heavy. Tenma’s last gulp stretched. He was shaking. 

Shaking. It had been months since the last frost.

Last evening: too sharp an image in his mind. The nurse who usually performed the monthly massage couldn’t make it. Mr. Bonaparta had offered to do it himself this time.

Nothing had happened. Nothing unpleasant. Nothing that he didn’t sometimes think about before sleep (though he hadn’t been able to look Mr. Bonaparta in the eye the next morning). It was all so mild. A touch. A hug. A mellow kiss.

Nothing that he could say a loud, certain no to.

(The strong aroma of jasmine.)

*

He was suffocating. Every day was worse than the previous.

The gun wasn’t where he thought it would be. But the knife was. He threw it into his backpack along with some snacks, his savings, and the most important items in his first-aid kit.

He had to see this ocean of nothingness. All alone.

So many people there needed him.

IX

The little fool had sneaked away, thinking no one would notice. But he had been caught. The guards had found him trying to slip through the gates, and the alarm had been raised the moment he reached the outer walls.

Bonaparta avoided indulging in his wine—an expensive blasphemy. But now? Now, he just needed it. One glass. Second glass. Third. Fourth. Stopped counting.

His throat burned, his mind circling back to the boy—the foolish little thing who couldn’t see the goods he was given. 

Ungrateful bastard.

He remembered shaking the boy’s shoulders. He remembered raising his voice. He’d told him he had everything other people in this godforsaken world could only dream of: he had safety, he had sanctuary, he was safe here. It was a miracle they hadn’t sold him. Bonaparta knew what an easy sell the boy was, how many would love to use that precious brain. Study it. Eat it. Yes, the world wanted to devour it.

But— 

He had never witnessed that blend of disgust and fear on Tenma’s face before.

*

The headache next morning was relentless.

He’d gone too far. He knew it. But couldn’t afford to apologize. 

The boy—Tenma—had used his powers. But something was lacking this time. The boy kept his distance, every move slow, and Bonaparta knew— 

It wasn’t as easy anymore.

Bonaparta left that same day. Fine. He would fix this. He’d do something to make up for it. He went to the town and bought Tenma every book he wanted. All of them. Even though they were useless trash, things Bonaparta would never allow him to read. But that didn’t matter.

It was a small thing. Just this once.

Just to please Tenma.

But the ungrateful bastard didn’t appreciate it.

X

Bonaparta gave him less and less time alone. Tenma needed to arm himself with patience.

He would keep pretending. Just long enough to lull Bonaparta into thinking he was still an obedient boy. 

Obedient boy. How long? How long had he been seeing him this way? From the moment he took him with him home? When he first hit puberty? Nausea, nausea, nausea. 

How could he not notice earlier?! He depised Bonaparta, he despised himself, he—

He wanted to hug his mother. Have a clearer picture of her. Hear words she didn’t leave in her very short letter to him.

His cheeks were wet from tears.

*

The day Bonaparta left the house alone arrived quicker than Tenma had expected.

Even more unexpected was that Tenma didn’t need his lockpick to open the office door. Bonaparta still believed he wouldn’t dare.

Tenma pushed the door and stepped in.

It was different. Outside their lessons, this place felt like a giant maze; to think it used to be the one place that felt almost like home.

The desk. It was the center of everything. He eyed it. Drawings—yes, Bonaparta often sketched. He shut his eyes for a moment, his gut twisting. Maybe he’d regret this. But he opened the sketchbook anyway.

Animals. Panoramas.

Relief.

Then his eyes landed on the books next to the desk. Each one signed K. P.

Not a single Franz Bonaparta. Only K. P.

How naive had he been? To believe in someone like Franz Bonaparta?

He picked up a book. Black cover—no color, no decoration. Nothing like the others. He opened it, heart pounding, throat tight.

To  ███ 

my dearest Kenzō

The added words were in Japanese. 

He leafed through the book, reading in fragments. The effort he’d put into mastering that convoluted version of English Bonaparta loved so much was paying off—this was no easy read. But something made the experience smoother: the voice reading in Tenma’s mind belonged to Bonaparta.

He flipped through the pages until he reached the final sentence of part one. The temperature in the room dropped. His legs went numb, his hands trembling more than they had on the roof.

Then, the door opened, soundless.

“My dear boy.” Bonaparta’s lips so close to Tenma’s ear, his hands on Tenma’s shoulders. “Do you still think you could survive outside without me?”

Tenma could only shake his head, not a yes, not a no.

“You’re a great healer, an extraordinary one, but a lousy liar with poor strategy planning.” Bonaparta’s grip tightened. “You went straight into the beast’s trap. You don’t think I would leave my office open? Silly boy.”

He took the book from Tenma’s hands, his fingers brushing against his.

“But don’t worry, love.” Bonaparta’s voice as light as dust. “I’m not a fool like the man in there. I know how easy it is to break a jewel.”