Psychro Killer: Chapter 15 - The Ravine

Niko tried to focus on the path ahead, but his body was staging a rebellion. His shoes—if they could still be called that—flapped pathetically against the rocky terrain like dying birds, offering no protection from the jagged stones that tore at his feet. Each step felt like a cruel reminder of just how far he'd fallen. Once, his greatest concern had been whether the acoustics in the Royal Opera House would carry the crescendo just right. Now, his concern was whether his ankles would snap on the next sharp turn.

Five kilometres, Lysandra had said, pointing vaguely ahead before disappearing like mist. How hard can it be? he'd muttered to himself then, still clinging to some shred of hope that this journey had a destination.

The answer came soon enough: impossibly hard.

The terrain seemed designed to break him. His ankles had twisted more times than he could count, swollen to twice their size beneath the useless shoes. Open sores dotted his legs and feet, and the constant scrape of dirt and stone ensured they never healed. A slow roast, he thought grimly, except no one’s turning the spit.

But it was the thirst that really gnawed at him, digging deeper than hunger. His lips were cracked, his throat dry as sandpaper. He hadn’t sweat in days. His body had given up on that luxury. Each movement was an act of will, like dragging the weight of a life he no longer recognized.

It wasn’t just the physical decay, though—his mind was falling apart too. He’d started seeing things, at first just flickers in the corners of his vision. Shadows that danced where no one was standing. But in the nights, it became more than just flickers.

Spirits came to him in the cold dark. They whispered that he was worthless, that he was just like his father—a man doomed to bring ruin wherever he went. They told him he would fail, that everything he touched would turn to misery. “Just like Vassilis,” they hissed. “You’ll destroy her. You’ll destroy them all.”

But deeper still was the voice of his own conviction, louder than the phantoms. It was a fire that hadn’t died yet, a desperate belief that his father had not been the monster everyone said he was. That he wasn’t the monster everyone believed him to be. That if he could just uncover the truth, everything could be different.

He screamed into the night, into the wind, into the black void. “I will succeed!” His voice echoed back at him, swallowed by the mountains.

But the path stretched on, and as he trudged onward, it became clear that he had gone much farther than Lysandra had said. Ten kilometres, at least. He must have missed something—a trail, a turnoff, anything. Cursing himself, Niko turned around, hoping to find another way back down toward Agios Nikolaos.

He didn’t see the ravine until it was too late.

One wrong step sent him tumbling down the sharp, rocky slope, his body crashing against stones. The fall knocked the wind from him, and when he finally came to rest at the bottom, his leg was twisted unnaturally beneath him. Pain shot through his body like fire, the taste of adrenaline metallic in his mouth. His vision blurred, but he could see enough to know he was stuck. Alone. Dehydrated. Possibly broken.

He called out, but the landscape swallowed his voice. Panic set in. Who would find him here? Who would even care?

He slipped into unconsciousness.

When he awoke, the sun had shifted, and a dog—a large Greek shepherd dog—was licking his face. Niko recoiled at first, fear flaring in his chest at the sight of the wide muzzle. But the dog wasn’t aggressive, just curious, barking as if to signal its owner. Niko tried to sit up, but the pain was unbearable. He cried out again, and this time, someone answered.

A man appeared, healthy and strong, with a bronzed face weathered by the sun. Without saying a word, he climbed down and lifted Niko with ease, as if he weighed nothing. The pain shot through Niko's leg, and he screamed, “FUCK!”

The man stopped, surprised by the foreign curse. “Who are you?” he asked, his Cretan dialect thick, as he hoisted Niko up again.

“It doesn’t matter who I am,” Niko managed through gritted teeth. “Do you know how I can find Hestia?”

“Hestia?” The man paused, surprised. “What do you want with her?”

“She has the answers,” Niko said, cryptic only because he didn’t have the energy to explain. Everything in him was exhausted—his body, his spirit, his very will to keep going. He was only a shell of the man he used to be.

The shepherd’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded. “I can take you to her.”

Without another word, the man carried him through the landscape as if the terrain that had defeated Niko was nothing. Niko’s world blurred in and out as pain and exhaustion threatened to claim him again.

When they arrived at a small, secluded shack, the man called for a woman inside.

“Hestia!” His voice was gentle, yet commanding. “I found someone.”

The woman, Hestia, emerged from the humble dwelling. She was older, her face lined with the years, but there was a strength in her gaze. She congratulated her son, Stamatios, for saving Niko and quickly set to work tending to the injured man. They laid him on a makeshift bed inside the small shack, carefully tending to his wounds.

As they worked, Niko tried to gather his strength, his mind racing. He couldn’t wait any longer. “My father,” he croaked, barely able to speak. “Vassilis. Do you know him?”

Silence enveloped the room. Hestia froze, her hands pausing mid-motion, as if he’d dropped a bomb. He could almost hear the gears turning in her head. The weight of his question hung in the air, suffocating.

Without a word, she stepped outside, a ghostly figure retreating into the shadows. Stamatios followed, his expression a mixture of confusion and concern. They left Niko alone, a solitary figure in a whirlwind of uncertainty. Had he crossed a line? Did he unleash some family curse just by uttering that name?

“Wait!” he shouted, desperation leaking into his voice. “He’s the reason I’m here! I need to know the truth!” But the door closed behind them, sealing off whatever answers they might hold.

Time stretched into a bizarre limbo, the fever twisting his perception. He lay there, grappling with the memories that haunted him—the shadow of his father, the accusations that trailed him like a persistent fog. Had he really been so reckless? He could only wonder if they were still listening, or if they’d vanished into the night, leaving him to fend for himself.

Finally, Hestia returned. Her eyes were red, her face tight with emotion. She said nothing at first, simply standing at the doorway, staring at the broken man before her.

“I will help you get better,” she said, her voice low and steady. “But never mention that name to me again. Or anything about him.”

And with that, the door to the past slammed shut.

Niko lay still in the silence. A part of him wanted to laugh—this was absurd. He had chased down truths, and now here he was, confronted with the unyielding nature of family ties. Great job, Niko, he thought bitterly. Just when you thought you’d found a path forward, you hit a brick wall.

But underneath the sarcasm lay a deeper fear. If he couldn’t mention Vassilis, how could he ever uncover the truth? The weight of unanswered questions pressed down on him, heavier than the pain in his body. He was running out of time, and he couldn’t afford to lose this chance.