As the whole family went on vacation, Roman remained behind.
Of course, they didn't ask. They told.
His father had looked him dead in the eye and said,
"You have an important responsibility — take care of the house while we're gone."
Responsibility? That was just a nice word for abandonment.
But Roman didn't argue. He just smiled faintly and nodded. Because this house... this would become his first stronghold.
And he planned to collect rent.
---
Roman started his plan
He went to the portrait of his step-grandmother that hung solemnly in the hallway. A plain, dusty frame no one ever touched — except for his stepmother late at night.
He flipped it open gently and slid his fingers along the back. A faint click. A hidden compartment.
Inside was a small metal box.
He opened it.
Stacks of neatly bundled cash stared back at him. Fat wads of currency — savings hoarded secretly by the woman who never lifted a finger in the house.
Roman took several stacks, not all — just enough to go unnoticed.
He closed the box, sealed the compartment, and returned the portrait to its place. Not a trace left behind.
Next stop — his stepbrother's room.
Roman moved with precision. He went straight to the desk, pulled open the second drawer, and pressed on the back panel. It gave way slightly.
A false bottom.
He lifted it and found more cash. Not as much as the stepmother's stash, but enough to count.
Another silent withdrawal.
By the time Roman returned to his own room, he had a decent haul.
But it wasn't enough.
Not for what he planned.
He glanced at the wall clock. Two weeks until the U.S. presidential elections.
He knew what was coming — a sudden, brief explosion in cryptocurrency. A digital gold rush that would last mere minutes... but could make him untouchable.
He would wait. He would prepare.
And when the time came, he would strike.
---
With so much time to kill, Roman wandered the house.
Each room whispered memories.
Some painful. Some hollow.
He drifted to the window and froze.
A cat.
Perched on the windowsill, looking right at him.
It was the same stray he used to feed milk to as a child.
A flicker of emotion tugged at him — nostalgia? Pity? He wasn't sure.
He went to the kitchen, poured some milk into a small bowl, and returned.
The cat was still there, meowing gently.
He placed the bowl down and watched.
But the cat didn't drink.
Roman frowned. Was it full?
Then he looked into its eyes. Hunger. Desperation.
"You're starving," he muttered.
Still, the cat meowed. Louder now.
It circled him, rubbing against his leg.
"Hey," Roman snapped. "This is all I have. Take it or leave it."
But the cat didn't stop.
It kept meowing.
Something inside him snapped.
He glared.
His pupils dilated.
Something surged in his chest.
A sharp pulse.
And then — a beam of purple light burst from his eyes.
The cat froze mid-step.
And vanished.
Roman stumbled back, breath catching in his throat.
"What the hell... where'd it go?"
A sharp pain exploded in his skull.
He dropped to his knees, screaming.
It felt like needles stabbing his brain, memories being overwritten, neurons catching fire.
Minutes passed before the agony began to fade.
He gasped for breath.
Sweat clung to his skin.
Then, he closed his eyes.
And saw it.
The cat.
Floating in space.
Still. Lifeless.
Trapped in a void of nothing.
Roman focused, and in an instant, the image shifted.
The cat was back — right outside the window — frozen in place.
Roman stood, walked to the cat, and pinched it gently.
Nothing.
It was dead.
But Roman wasn't thinking about the death. He didn't feel sorrow. Just curiosity.
"What the hell was that…?" he whispered.
He looked back at the house.
If he had a space — a separate, mental dimension — he could store anything. Hide anything. Live like a god in the coming chaos.
Excitement lit up his face.
He dashed inside, already planning experiments.
For the next hour, Roman tested everything he could. Items vanished from his room and reappeared in his mind. He could feel their presence, their weight, their texture. The space was infinite, boundless. It bent to his will.
A perfect tool for survival.
But then he remembered the cat.
He walked back to the window.
Its limp body lay there — still and pale.
He scooped it up and walked to the window.
Below, a pack of stray dogs lurked.
Hunger glowed in their eyes.
Roman held up the cat.
"Dinner time."
He dropped it.
The dogs surged forward.
Flesh tore. Bones cracked. Blood sprayed.
The alley became a feeding ground. The dogs snarled and fought, jaws snapping. Bits of fur and muscle flew into the air. One dog sank its teeth into the cat's head, shaking it violently as the skull shattered with a sickening crunch.
Roman watched it all.
Unblinking.
Unfeeling.
To him, it was nature. Survival.
And soon, the whole world would be like this.
He turned away, leaving the bloodbath behind.
Back in his room, he sat down.
"This is only the beginning."
His eyes glowed faintly — the same purple hue.
The same hunger.
Roman was no longer just a survivor.
He was a predator.
And the world would soon learn to fear him.
======================
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—Author