The Beast You Become: Chapter I

Animals

I’m at my best when the scene falls apart.

The color drains from Vid’s face as he grabs his chest and stares at us across the table. Matt and Dean stop talking. For a second I think it’s a heart attack. No one moves. Then he starts checking his pockets. A few minutes ago he was smirking, explaining how microdosing gives him superpowers. The CIA would have to waterboard me before I said something like that to a coworker. We’re having a nice lunch on the company dime and he’s had one beer.

“My phone was here,” Vid says finally, pointing to the empty space beside his plate. 

He cleaned his plate. The salad bowl is empty. The beer snifter is empty too. No phone. Maybe he ate it by accident. Vid, Matt, Dean, and I are sitting on the terrace of a well-known restaurant in downtown Belgrade. We all work in R&D for the same multinational as innovation managers.

Vid empties his pockets onto the table. A small vial of beige powder beneath his keys. His erratic behavior draws a few looks from nearby patrons. The restaurant is packed, as always. I nod at one of the onlookers, unable to hide an awkward smile.

“Mhhh, no, no, no,” he says to Matt and Dean. His face shifts from pale to bright red. “That little bi—”

“Who?” I ask, leaning closer to Vid.

“Some girl came by our table while you were inside,” Matt replies.

“She was asking for donations. Shoved papers and photos in our faces,” Dean says, “I bet it was a distraction.”

Yes. The old switcheroo, courtesy of a con-greet committee. Matt and Dean are visiting from the UK, so they don’t know the routine, and the way they look and talk makes them stick out. Perfect marks. But Vid is local. He should’ve known better. Doesn’t matter now.

“I need my fucking phone man,” Vid says with a shaky voice. “Everything’s there. Emails, 2FAs, my banking app. I’ll have to file an incident report, explain to the admins what happened, and they’re always antagonizing me. I have an important meeting tomorrow. What the fuck?” He puts his elbows on the table, one elbow planted on the greasy plate, and buries his face in his palms.

“Call it,” Matt says to Dean. “Maybe it’s still here.”

Dean already has his phone out. “It’s ringing,” he whispers, but nothing reaches us.

I can fix this. I just don’t want to. 

The waiter slips past our table with a tray stacked too high for one hand. Beer snifters and smoothie glasses. He moves like he’s made peace with the work. No complaints or hurry, even though he’s the only one serving the terrace. What feels like chaos to us is just another afternoon to him. My Beast stirs. It’s been quiet for weeks.

I look up at the sky. Yesterday it rained. Today, a few airplanes trace fuzzy white threads overhead. The people high above are oblivious to the case of the missing phone. Vid’s talking with the others. I can’t hear them. I have a new prototype to test next week. It took three layers of approval to get there. Every now and then I try to make sense of innovation management and whether innovation can be managed at all. My gut tells me no. My paycheck tells me to shut up and stop cosplaying a philosopher.

Who am I to solve other men’s problems? Ever since I came back to Belgrade I’ve kept my head down. Made peace with the work. Nine to five, family. I know that's not how you leave a mark, but I don’t want attention. I don’t want these kinds of situations. I have a daughter now. I’m not the one to correct this crooked age.

I can fix this.

I’ve been back at the table for about two minutes. To the north is Knez Mihailova Street, the main pedestrian street. And to the south, the farmers’ market, then the migrant camp, the park in front of the Faculty of Economics where prostitutes wait for clients, and further along the central bus station. Whoever took Vid’s phone is heading that way. I know I would.

“How did she look and where did she go?” I ask.

“Niklas,” Vid mumbles. “It’s fine.”

“Short hair. White T-shirt. Jeans. Twelve, thirteen,” Matt says. “She went that way.” He points toward the alley leading to Knez Mihailova Street.

She might’ve escaped north, but she’ll head south, past the central bus station and toward the patchwork of plywood shacks by the river. Dean’s still on the phone, waiting for this to be neatly resolved.

“Go to the police station near the National Assembly,” I say. “It’s a ten-minute walk from here. See if they can track the phone. I’ll try to catch up with her.” I’ll probably regret this.

Matt stares at me. “Think you can find her?”

“I don’t know.”

I leave Matt, Dean, and Vid at the table and move quickly toward the Zeleni Venac farmers’ market. The light’s red on Brankova Street. I stop at the curb with an old couple and several schoolkids. Traffic builds a wall of hot exhaust in front of me. Makes me sick. For a moment I consider heading back, telling Vid and the others I tried, and letting the phone become a police report, a ticket number, an IT inconvenience that resolves itself.

If she’s twelve, thirteen, she’s probably not alone. Someone had to groom her and put her up to this. I tap my pockets without meaning to. No weapons or sharp objects. Just my body, a bit soft from office chairs and home cooking, dressed like a man who solves problems by scheduling meetings. A light-blue shirt and a gray blazer, dark jeans, designer sneakers, all chosen to look expensive without looking loud. The numbers above the crossing tick down. 14, 13, 12. I could still turn around.

The light turns green. I cross. The stairs from Brankova down to Zeleni Venac leak heat and diesel. By the time I reach the bottom, the city’s already wearing a different mask. God came back to earth and said he didn’t remember creating this place. I cut straight through the market instead of skirting it toward the bus station. If she’s here, she’ll surface.

At the market entrance a man squats behind socks, phone chargers, lighters, and used toys arranged like evidence on a blanket. Inside, people push past, an old woman weighs tomatoes, more stands blur into groceries and trifles. A black cat sleeps in a shallow crate on one of the stands. No time to pet it. Well. Maybe just a few scratches. Pat pat. Hands everywhere. Testing fruit, filling plastic bags. Someone shouts nonsense. Someone else laughs. The salad I ate ten minutes ago was probably bought here for the price of a used lighter. But then it was presumably washed, arranged, rebranded, and sold back with a linen napkin and imported olive oil. Everything passes through hands like these before it becomes respectable.

My stomach tightens. Probably the food and walking too fast. Or my body knows what my head still needs to figure out.

“Seen a girl?” I say. “Short hair. White T-shirt.”

The woman behind the stand shrugs. She’s small, dressed in black. “Ay, don’t,” she says, but I’m already moving.

I get out on the opposite side of the market. To my left is the calm of the park, green grass and a few alley cats stretched in the shade. To my right, Kamenička, a pedestrian street that slopes down into migrants, prostitutes, and more chaos. I head down.

A white T-shirt turns the corner ahead of me. Short hair, jeans. She’s holding a roll of papers. Walking beside her is a chubby guy, shorter than me, in a gray T-shirt and black sweatpants. She looks misplaced next to him. My stomach tightens again and this time there’s no doubt why. I stay a few steps behind. When I catch up, I hear him talking to her in a language I don’t understand. I pick up the pace until I’m shoulder to shoulder with him. He’s still talking, his head turned toward her. I hope I’m not wrong about this.

“Hey, friend,” I say. “I’ll need my colleague’s phone back.”

He flinches, then looks at me with a sour smile and raised eyebrows. His brown hair is messy, and his neatly trimmed mustache stands out on his chubby face. The girl grabs his hand and slips behind him as we keep walking down Kamenička.

“It’s fine. No worries,” I say, more to her than him. “I respect the hustle. But the phone’s locked. You won’t get much for it, and it’ll be a huge pain in the ass for my colleague to recover everything.”

“Sir, you are mistaken,” he says in a strange accent, picking up the pace.

“It’s fine. Stop for a second. Lemme show you something.” We stop in the middle of the street. I take my phone out of my left pocket and open the maps app. “Look. I know you have it. I’ve been tracking it. See? That’s us.” The pin shows our location, so that part is true, but I don’t know if he understands the bluff, or if I’ve picked the wrong person.

“I don’t want trouble, sir,” he says, raising his hands. The girl stays hidden behind him.

“No trouble. I’ll buy it back from you. Save everyone the hassle.” I put the phone into my left pocket and take out my wallet from the right. One fifty-euro bill. Damn. I’d planned on giving him ten, maybe twenty, enough to make it reasonable, not charitable. Still, I take the bill out. I’ve taken bigger hits. “I’ll buy it back,” I say again.

He looks at the money and gives me that sour smile again. “Sir, I have a family,” he replies finally. “Hundred?”

“The little one’s cute.” I smile back. “But I only have fifty,” I say, holding the bill out. He shrugs and makes a face. I keep smiling, but my jaw locks. His mouth opens like he’s about to speak. “Take the fucking money and give me the phone. Now.” The girl tugs his arm. People passing us on the street glance over. I don’t care. He pulls the phone from his pocket. I snatch it from his hand and press the bill into his chest. “Fuck outta here,” I say. They hurry down toward the Faculty of Economics without looking back.

The street clamor returns. This feels familiar. It’s been a while. I stand there with what I hope is Vid’s phone in my hand. It’s warm. I didn’t ask for another adventure, but something wouldn’t let me turn away. I try not to picture the girl tomorrow. Or the day after. Forced onto the same street, doing the same routine. Will the next person who catches her be as forgiving as me? Will the fat bastard be there to protect her as readily as he pushed her into this? My Beast grins.

Skinny little puppy. Big brown eyes. You felt it. She’s innocent. She didn’t start out like this. That’s the story you like. But if she’s not to blame, why is he different? Is he innocent too? Just harder to look at.

I know that guy wasn’t born either good or bad, and he doesn’t deserve my judgment, but I just can’t make myself see him that way. He’s a man. He made choices. If everything is the system, then nobody is responsible. Not him. Not Vid. 

Me?

I need to get back. But what do I tell my coworkers? How do I explain this in a coworker-friendly way? I’ll say I kept calling the phone, some guy picked up, and we met at the market. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’d believe me. I call Vid’s phone, answer it myself, let the line stay open for a while, then hang up and put Vid’s phone in my back pocket.

They’re probably at the police station. I call Dean. “Hey, I’m heading back. Where are you guys?”

“Niklas, we’re at the restaurant,” he replies.

At the restaurant? Are these people stupid, or am I? “You didn’t go to the police station?”

“We were about to. Any luck on your side?”

“Yeah. I got the phone. Wait for me there.”

“You got—” he starts yelling, voices rising around him.

I hang up. I’m not mad. I just thought this was important.

My legs take me back the way I came. Through the market again, past the tomatoes and the shouting, the muted colors and the white noise. The black cat. Tap tap. People move out of my way, their faces blur at the edges. Up the stairs, into the heat, into the smell of traffic. I wait at the red light on Brankova, watching the numbers count down. Then across, then uphill, toward Topličin Square, toward the restaurant, toward the place where this is supposed to fit into a sentence or two.

At the restaurant, Vid, Matt, and Dean are still at the same table. It’s been cleared. Only beers in front of them now. For a moment I try to remember how long I’ve known them. Dean spots me, stands, points, then starts a slow clap. People turn. Everyone smiles. I pretend to smile.

I hand the phone to Vid. “Be careful next time,” I say. It comes out flat.

He unlocks it, checks the screen, and nods once. I tell myself he’d do the same for me. Matt drags a chair over with his foot.

“How the hell did you pull this off?” Dean says.

I shrug and sit down. The chair legs scrape against pavement. I lace my fingers together and crack my knuckles, then immediately regret it. Most people can survive a hectic day. The hard part is living with the version of yourself that survives it. They’re all looking at me. Examining the specimen.

“Have a beer?” Dean says, already waving at the waiter. The waiter doesn’t look our way. He keeps moving, tray tilted, eyes fixed on the next table.

I don’t feel like drinking, but I’m not in the mood to explain myself. “Yeah, sure.”

Vid is still staring at the screen, scrolling and tapping. I get paid the same as this guy. I’m not jealous. He’s like that chubby bastard down in Kamenička. Found a way to survive. So did I.

Matt leans in, studying me. “Christ, mate. Who are you?”