Chapter 2: Naked Confession at the Family Table
The taxi dropped him at the corner of Lindenstraße and Alte Jakobstraße because Gerard wanted to walk the last block. His childhood neighborhood hadn't changed much. Same bakeries. Same graffiti. Same old men playing chess in the park across from the church where he'd been baptized and confirmed and, once, at seventeen, arrested for punching a cop during a protest he hadn't understood.
The apartment building stood wedged between a kebab shop and a dry cleaner. Five floors. No elevator. The stairwell smelled like cabbage and laundry detergent and, faintly, like the ghost of every cigarette his father had smoked before the stroke.
Gerard climbed slowly. He'd dressed carefully for this—dark jeans, clean shirt, shoes without scuffs. His mother would notice if he looked sloppy. She'd ask questions. She always asked questions.
The door to 4B was painted a familiar shade of green that had faded to gray sometime in the late nineties. He knocked twice, then let himself in because that's what you did in this family. Doors were for strangers and Jehovah's Witnesses.
"Gerard!" His mother's voice came from the kitchen, warm and surprised. "You're early. I just put the kettle on."
He followed the sound. Brunhilde stood at the stove, her gray hair twisted into its usual bun, her apron dusted with flour. She was making something—bread, probably, or Apfelkuchen. Something that required love and patience and a level of domestic competence Gerard had never managed to inherit.
"Ma."
She turned, and her face did what it always did—softened at the edges, lit up from within. She crossed the kitchen and pulled him into a hug that smelled like vanilla and yeast.
"You're thin," she said, pulling back to study him. "Are you eating?"
"I am eating."
"Vegetables?"
"I am eating vegetables."
"You look tired."
"I am not tired."
She made a sound that meant she didn't believe him and returned to the stove. "Your father's in the living room. Anke should be here soon. She said she was bringing—"
"I know. She texted."
Brunhilde paused, spoon hovering over a pot of simmering stew. "You said you had news. What news?"
"Wait for everyone."
"That's ominous."
"It is not ominous. It is just news."
She looked at him for a long moment, her eyes sharp despite the softness of her face. His mother had spent forty years married to a man who never said anything directly, and she'd learned to read between lines that didn't exist.
"All right," she said. "Go say hello to your father."
Gerard walked into the living room.
The floral wallpaper was peeling at the corners, curling like dead leaves. His father had talked about repainting it every year for the last decade, but the cans of paint sat unopened in the basement, gathering dust. The mahogany coffee table gleamed under the dim light—polished weekly, spared daily. On it sat a single letter, yellowed tape sealing the envelope, unopened. Gerard had mailed it six months ago. Something stupid. Something about how he was doing fine.
Klaus sat in his armchair, the one with the worn leather and the dent perfectly shaped to his body. He was watching a documentary about the Rhine, his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. He looked up when Gerard entered.
"Gerard."
"Papa."
They didn't hug. They never hugged. Klaus extended a hand, and Gerard shook it. That was their ritual. That was their love.
"You're early."
"I am."
"Your mother will worry."
"She is already worrying."
Klaus grunted. That was his version of agreement. He turned back to the television, and Gerard sat on the couch—the one that creaked and groaned and had held his weight since childhood. He'd lost his virginity on this couch. He'd cried on this couch. He'd eaten a thousand meals in front of this couch, his mother's cooking filling the air, his sister's laughter echoing from the other room.
Now he was about to humiliate himself in front of it.
The doorbell rang.
Anke burst in like a weather event—all red hair and bright lipstick and a phone already in her hand. She was the younger of the two, twenty-four, and she'd been documenting her life since birth. Her Instagram had more followers than some small countries. She hugged Gerard without ceremony, then stepped back and looked him up and down.
"You look weird," she said.
"Thank you."
"I mean weird like you're about to do something stupid weird."
"I am not about to do anything."
"You're lying. I can tell because you're doing that face."
"What face?"
"The face where you're not saying something."
Brunhilde appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron. "Is everyone here? Should we eat first, or—"
"Now," Gerard said. "I need to say this now."
The room went quiet. Klaus looked up from his documentary. Anke put her phone down, then immediately picked it up again. Brunhilde's face flickered with something—concern, maybe, or foreboding.
"Gerard?" she said. "What is it?"
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small device. A webcam, specifically, one he'd bought on the way over from a twenty-four-hour electronics shop. He walked to the coffee table, moved the unopened letter aside, and set the camera down so it faced the couch.
"What are you doing?" Anke asked.
"Video call."
"With who?"
"You will see."
He pulled out his phone, opened the link Adrien had sent him an hour ago, and pressed call. The laptop on the coffee table—his father's ancient Dell, the one he used to check stock prices and weather reports—blinked to life.
Adrien Helvier's face appeared on the screen.
He was seated in what appeared to be a study, dark wood paneling behind him, a globe on a shelf. He wore a suit, as always, and his silver hair caught the light from a lamp somewhere off-screen. His pale eyes glittered with something Gerard had learned to recognize over the past twenty-four hours. Satisfaction.
"Gerard," Adrien said. "Are your family members present?"
"They are."
"Good. Introduce us."
Gerard turned to his family. They were staring at the laptop with varying degrees of confusion. Klaus had set down his reading glasses. Anke was already recording—her phone angled at the screen, at Gerard, at the room.
"This is my mother, Brunhilde. My father, Klaus. My sister, Anke."
"You know why I'm here," Adrien said, and it wasn't a question.
Gerard clenched his jaw. His heart pounded. His palms were slick with sweat. But his voice, when it came, was steady.
"Ja."
"Then proceed."
The room was silent. The clock on the mantel ticked. Somewhere outside, a car alarm wailed and faded.
Gerard reached for the hem of his shirt.
"Gerard?" Brunhilde's voice was thin. "What are you doing?"
"I am sorry, Mama."
He pulled the shirt over his head.
Brunhilde's teacup slipped from her fingers and shattered against the floor. Porcelain shards scattered across the linoleum, dark tea pooling and spreading like a stain. She didn't move. She didn't breathe. She just stared at her son, her face frozen in an expression of absolute horror.
Klaus made a sound. It started low, in his chest, and climbed. His face went red, then crimson, then a shade of purple that Gerard had never seen outside of a medical textbook. The veins in his forehead bulged. His hands gripped the armrests of his chair with a grip that turned his knuckles white.
"What," Klaus said. "Are you. Doing."
Gerard unfastened his belt. The clink of the buckle was obscenely loud in the quiet room.
"I lost a bet," he said. "I am now this man's slave."
He stepped out of his jeans.
Anke had gone completely still. Her phone was still raised, still recording, but her face had shifted from curiosity to something else—something unreadable. Later, Gerard would realize it was the expression she wore when she didn't know whether to laugh or scream.
The laptop screen flickered. Adrien's image leaned forward slightly, his pale eyes fixed on Gerard with an intensity that made the room feel smaller.
"Louder," Adrien said. "I want them to hear every word."
Gerard stood in his parents' living room, stripped to nothing. His body was a monument—heavy muscle, dark hair, the beard he'd spent three years cultivating. His nipples, still bruised from Dan's teeth the night before, stood out against his chest like two purple accusations.
His voice didn't waver.
"I lost a bet last night. Nude wrestling. The loser becomes the winner's slave. I lost. Adrien Helvier is my Boss now."
Brunhilde made a sound like a wounded animal. She sank into the nearest chair, her hands covering her mouth.
Klaus rose from his armchair. His movements were slow, deliberate, the way a man moved when he was trying very hard not to break something.
"You," he said. "Are telling me. That you. Sold yourself. Into slavery. Because of a bet."
"Ja."
"Over a wrestling match."
"Nude wrestling."
"I don't care if it was gladiatorial combat! You are a Kain! Kains do not become slaves!"
"Kains also do not break their word."
Klaus's face went from purple to white. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"Your word," he said. "Your word is worthless if it makes you a slave."
"My word is what I have. I gave it. I will keep it."
"You will not."
"I will."
"You—"
"I am moving into a flat tomorrow. Rent-free. Adrien is providing it."
Klaus stared at him. The anger on his face flickered, replaced by something else. Confusion. Then, slowly, dawning comprehension.
"Rent-free," he repeated.
"Ja."
"In Berlin."
"Ja."
"How much do you pay now?"
"Nine hundred euros."
Klaus was silent for a long moment. His eyes drifted to the laptop, where Adrien sat watching with the patience of a man who had all the time in the world. Then they drifted back to Gerard, naked and unashamed, his beard bristling with defiance.
"Nine hundred euros," Klaus muttered. "For a flat in this city. That's not slavery. That's a miracle."
Brunhilde made a strangled sound. "Klaus!"
"What? The boy's naked in our living room and you're upset about the rent?"
"I'm upset about all of it!"
"Nine hundred euros," Klaus said again. "Do you know what I paid for our first flat? Three hundred. And that was in the eighties. Do you know what this place would cost if we rented it now? Two thousand. Maybe more. And he's getting a flat for free. For free, Brunhilde."
"He's naked!"
"I can see that. I'm not blind."
"Gerard." Anke's voice cut through the chaos. She'd lowered her phone, but she was still recording. Her eyes were bright, curious, utterly without judgment. "What happens if you don't do this? What happens if you break the bet?"
Gerard turned to face her. "Then I am a man who does not keep his word."
"And that's worse than being a slave?"
"Ja."
"Because you're German?"
"Because I am me."
Anke nodded slowly. "Okay. That's kind of badass, actually."
"Anke!" Brunhilde's voice cracked. "This is not—you cannot—"
"Mama, he's twenty-six. He's an adult. He made a stupid decision and he's living with the consequences. That's more than most people do."
"He's naked."
"We've established that."
"In my living room."
"Our living room. And it's not the first time. Remember when he streaked through the Christmas party when he was nineteen?"
Brunhilde made a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. "That was different. He was drunk."
"I was also drunk," Gerard offered.
"That's not helping."
Adrien's voice cut through the room like a blade. "Enough."
Everyone went still. Even Klaus, who had been mid-sputter, closed his mouth.
"Gerard," Adrien said. "You've fulfilled the first condition. You informed your family. You're nude. You're moving tomorrow. Are there any questions you'd like to ask before we conclude this call?"
Gerard thought about it. He had questions. Hundreds of them. What would his duties be? Would he have days off? Would there be a contract? Would he be allowed to keep his job at the construction site? Would Adrien expect him to do anything... specific?
But none of that mattered right now. His family was watching. The camera was recording. His mother was crying softly into her hands. His father was staring at the laptop like it had personally insulted his ancestors.
"One question," Gerard said.
"Ask."
"Are you going to be a good Boss?"
Adrien's face didn't change. But something flickered in his pale eyes—amusement, maybe, or respect. "I don't know what you mean by 'good.' But I will be fair. I will be exact. I will expect you to keep your word, just as you've done tonight. And I will not ask anything of you that I wouldn't ask of myself."
"That is not an answer."
"It's the only answer I have."
Gerard nodded. "Then I accept."
"You already accepted. This is just confirmation."
"Ja."
"Good. The car will pick you up at nine tomorrow morning. Bring nothing. Everything you need will be provided."
The screen went black.
The living room was silent. The only sound was Brunhilde's soft crying and the tick of the mantel clock and, from somewhere upstairs, the muffled sound of a neighbor's television.
Gerard reached for his jeans. He pulled them on, then his shirt. He didn't bother with the belt. He felt, suddenly, very tired.
His mother lifted her head from her hands. Her eyes were red, her cheeks wet, but her voice was steady.
"You're really doing this."
"I am."
"For a flat."
"For my word."
She stared at him for a long moment. Then she stood, crossed the room, and pulled him into a hug. Her arms wrapped around him, shaking slightly, and she pressed her face into his shoulder.
"You're an idiot," she whispered. "But you're my idiot."
"I know, Mama."
"I'm going to worry."
"I know."
"Every day."
"I know."
She pulled back, cupped his face in her hands, and looked at him. Her eyes searched his, looking for something—doubt, maybe, or fear. He didn't know what she found. But she kissed his forehead and let him go.
"Eat something before you leave," she said. "You're too thin."
Dan was waiting in the car outside. He'd been waiting the whole time, listening through the speaker on Adrien's phone, and when Gerard slid into the passenger seat, Dan didn't say anything at first. He just looked at him.
Then he burst out laughing.
"Your father," Dan wheezed. "Your father said it was a miracle."
"Shut up."
"Nine hundred euros. He said it like you'd won the lottery."
"I will hit you."
"You're naked in front of your family and your dad is more concerned about rent prices."
Gerard stared straight ahead. The streetlights slid past the windows. His hands were trembling slightly, and he didn't know why. He'd done it. He'd actually done it. He'd stood in his parents' living room, stripped himself bare, and told them he was a slave. And his father had called it a miracle.
"You know what this means, right?" Dan said, still chuckling. "You can never complain about anything ever again. You've lost all credibility."
"I have not lost anything."
"You lost a bet."
"I lost a bet. I did not lose my credibility."
Dan glanced at him. The laughter faded from his face, replaced by something more serious. "You okay?"
Gerard thought about it. The image of his mother's shattered teacup. The purple of his father's face. The way Anke had kept recording, even when their mother started crying. He thought about the flat waiting for him tomorrow, the future stretching out in front of him like an unfamiliar road.
"I am okay," he said. "I kept my word."
"That's not the same thing."
"No. But it is what matters."
Dan pulled up in front of Gerard's building. The car idled, the engine a low rumble in the quiet night. Gerard reached for the door handle, then paused.
"Dan."
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For being there. For laughing. For not telling me I am an idiot."
"You are an idiot."
"Ja. But you did not say it."
Dan grinned. His mustache twitched. "I'll say it tomorrow. When you're moving into your rent-free flat and I'm still paying fifteen hundred a month for a place with a shower that never gets hot."
Gerard laughed. It surprised him—a real laugh, deep and sudden, rising from somewhere he hadn't known was still open. He clapped Dan on the shoulder and climbed out of the car.
"Tomorrow," he said.
"Tomorrow," Dan agreed.
The car pulled away. Gerard stood on the sidewalk, looking up at his building—the worst building, the one with the broken buzzer and the neighbor who played accordion at two in the morning. Tomorrow, he'd leave it behind. Tomorrow, everything would change.
He touched his nipple. It was still tender. Still bruised. A reminder of the bet, the loss, the words he'd spoken and the ones he hadn't.
A bet was a bet.
He went inside, climbed the stairs, and started packing.
He packed the way he did everything else—methodically, without sentiment, without ceremony. Clothes first. Jeans, shirts, the Carhartt jacket he'd bought three winters ago and worn so often the elbows had gone soft as butter. He folded each item with the precision of a man who'd spent two years in the Bundeswehr before deciding he hated taking orders and quit.
Then the boots. Scuffed, steel-toed, the leather cracked across the toes from a decade of construction sites and bar fights and long walks through neighborhoods where nobody asked where he was going. He set them by the door.
Books next. There weren't many. A dog-eared copy of All Quiet on the Western Front that he'd stolen from his father's shelf when he was fifteen. A collection of Rilke poems his mother had given him for his eighteenth birthday, inscribed in her careful handwriting. He packed those two, left the rest.
The apartment was small—one bedroom, one bathroom, a kitchen that doubled as a living room if you squinted. The walls were bare except for a poster of the Berlin Wall that he'd bought at a tourist shop when he first moved in. It was stupid. He knew it was stupid. But he'd left it there for three years because taking it down would have meant admitting he was never going to live anywhere better.
Now he was.
He finished packing with room to spare. One duffel bag. That was his entire life. It felt strange, somehow—like he'd been living a rehearsal and the real thing was about to start. He sat on the edge of his bed, looked at the duffel, and felt nothing.
No fear. No excitement. Just the quiet certainty that he'd done what he'd said he would do.
He slept naked that night because his pajamas were already packed and because there was no point pretending he wasn't going to spend the next however-long without clothes. The sheets were rough against his skin. The radiator clanked. His neighbor played the accordion at 2:17 a.m., a mournful tune that sounded like something from a war Gerard stared at the ceiling and thought about his mother's face. The car arrived at exactly nine. Not eight fifty-nine. Not nine-oh-one. Nine. Gerard was standing on the sidewalk with his duffel, wearing jeans and a gray t-shirt, his beard combed, his head freshly shaved. He'd done it in the bathroom mirror that morning with a razor that was probably too dull and a steady hand that didn't shake.
The car was black. The driver was a man Gerard didn't recognize—mid-fifties, bald, wearing a suit that cost more than Gerard's monthly rent. He didn't get out. He just popped the trunk.
Gerard loaded his own bag and climbed into the back seat.
The driver didn't speak. The city slid past the windows—first the familiar streets of his neighborhood, then the newer districts, then the green edges where Berlin bled into Brandenburg. They drove for forty minutes. Gerard watched the buildings shrink and the trees grow and felt the knot in his chest tighten with every kilometer.
The flat was in a building that looked like every other building in Berlin—unremarkable, gray, forgettable. Third floor, balcony. No elevator. The driver handed him a key, then drove away without a word.
Gerard climbed the stairs.
The door opened onto a space that was clean, sparse, almost clinical. White walls. Wood floors. A bed with gray sheets. A kitchenette with a kettle and a French press. A window that looked out onto a courtyard full of bicycles and a single stubborn oak tree.
No television. No couch. No decorations of any kind.
The bathroom had a shower, a sink, and a mirror. The mirror showed him a man he recognized. Shaved head. Thick beard. Eyes that gave nothing away. Body that had been built by years of hard labor and harder fighting, muscle layered over muscle, dark hair curling across his chest and down his belly.
He unpacked his duffel. The Rilke went on the nightstand. The Carhartt went in the closet. The boots went by the door. The rest stayed in the bag because there was nowhere else to put it.
Then he sat on the bed and waited.
The call came at noon.
Gerard was still sitting on the bed, still dressed, still staring at the wall. His phone buzzed. The screen said "BOSS." He'd programmed it in last night, after Dan dropped him off, because Adrien had texted him the number and told him to save it under that name.
He answered.
Adrien's face filled the screen. He was in the same study as before—dark wood, globe, that same quality of light that made him look like a portrait from another century. He was wearing a different suit. Gray, this time. His silver hair was swept back from his forehead.
"You're in the flat."
"Ja."
"Take off your clothes."
Gerard didn't hesitate. He set the phone on the nightstand, propped against the Rilke, and stripped. Jeans. T-shirt. Underwear. He folded them with the same precision as before and set them on the floor.
He stood naked in the center of the room, facing the phone.
Adrien's eyes moved over him—not with desire, not with anything Gerard could name. It was more like assessment. A man checking the structural integrity of a bridge.
"Good," Adrien said. "Leave your clothes off. You won't need them."
"For how long?"
"Until I say otherwise."
Gerard nodded. The knot in his chest tightened, then loosened. He had known this was coming. He had chosen this. There was a strange comfort in that—in the certainty of his own word, in the knowledge that whatever happened next, he had brought it on himself.
"Your training begins today," Adrien said. "There's a forest at the edge of the city. I'm sending you coordinates. You'll walk there."
"Walk?"
"It's seven kilometers. You'll be there within an hour."
Gerard glanced at the window. Seven kilometers was nothing—he walked farther than that on a slow day at work.
"What kind of training?"
"The kind that requires you to be exactly what you are. No more, no less."
"That is not an answer."
"It's the only answer you're getting."
Adrien's voice was flat, almost bored. But his pale eyes were sharp, fixed on Gerard with an intensity that made the room feel smaller.
"One more thing," Adrien said. "You're not going to wear clothes."
Gerard blinked. "At all?"
"You'll wear cargo pants and boots. Nothing else. No shirt. No underwear. You'll carry nothing with you. No phone. No wallet. No keys. You'll arrive empty."
"Then how do I—"
"You'll find your way back. That's part of it."
Gerard looked at the phone. Looked at Adrien's face. Looked at the window, where the courtyard oak tree was swaying in a breeze he couldn't feel.
"When do I leave?"
"Now."
The call ended.
Gerard stood naked in the center of the room for a full minute. The silence pressed in on him—no traffic, no neighbors, no accordion. Just the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of birds.
Then he moved.
The cargo pants were in his duffel. Dark green, military surplus, pockets everywhere. He pulled them on and didn't bother with underwear because Adrien had said none and because a bet was a bet and because he was already in this deep. The boots went on next. Laced tight. Double-knotted. The way his father had taught him when he was five years old.
He looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. Barefoot, no. Booted. Shirtless. His nipples were hard—not from cold, not from excitement. Just from the pressure of the moment, the knowledge that he was about to walk into something he couldn't see.
He didn't bring his phone. He didn't bring his wallet. He didn't bring the Rilke or the Carhartt or anything else that might have reminded him of who he was before.
He locked the door behind him and left the key on the kitchen counter because Adrien hadn't said to bring it, and Adrien had said to arrive empty.
The stairs were cold under his boots. The courtyard smelled like rain and bicycle grease and the oak tree's slow decay. He walked through the gate and turned toward the coordinates Adrien had texted him, which he had already memorized.
The city fell away behind him.
The first kilometer was pavement—sidewalks, crosswalks, a woman with a stroller who looked at him and then looked away. The second kilometer was a road that ran alongside a canal, where fishermen sat with their lines in the water and didn't bother to glance up. The third kilometer was a path that wound through an industrial park, all concrete and chain-link and silence.
By the fourth kilometer, the trees had started.
Not many. Just a few, scattered along the edge of a field. But enough to signal that he was leaving something behind. Enough to make him feel the wind on his bare chest, the sun on his shoulders, the slow burn of muscles that hadn't walked this far in weeks.
By the fifth kilometer, the trees had thickened.
By the sixth, they had become a forest.
The path narrowed. The light dimmed. The air changed—cooler, damper, heavy with the smell of moss and wet earth and something older than either. Gerard walked steadily. His boots crunched on fallen leaves. His breath came easy. His mind, for the first time in days, went quiet.
He didn't think about the bet. He didn't think about his mother's tears or his father's purple face or the way Anke had kept recording even when the room fell apart. He didn't think about Dan's laugh or Adrien's eyes or the flat waiting for him with its white walls and empty rooms.
He just walked.
The coordinates led him to a clearing. He knew it was the right place before he checked because there was nothing else around—just a circle of trees, a flat expanse of grass, a sky that had turned the color of old copper.
And in the center of the clearing, there was a chair.
It was wooden. Old. The kind of chair you'd find in a grandmother's kitchen, with a high back and armrests worn smooth by decades of use. It sat alone on the grass, facing nothing, waiting.
Gerard stopped at the edge of the trees.
He didn't know what he was supposed to do. Adrien hadn't told him. Adrien had just said to arrive, and here he was, and there was a chair, and the sun was setting, and the forest was getting darker by the minute.
He stood there for a long time.
Then he walked forward, sat down in the chair, and waited.
The sky went from copper to gray to black. The birds stopped singing. The wind picked up, cold against his skin, raising goosebumps on his arms and chest. He didn't move. He didn't shiver. He just sat there, hands on his knees, eyes open, watching the darkness swallow the trees one by one.
An hour passed.
Then two.
Then a sound—footsteps, deliberate, unhurried, coming from somewhere behind him. Gerard didn't turn. He didn't need to. He already knew who it was.
The footsteps stopped directly behind the chair. A hand rested on his shoulder—fingers cool, dry, precise. Adrien's voice, low and close, brushed against his ear.
"You followed the coordinates."
"Ja."
"You walked seven kilometers without a shirt or a phone or a single question."
"Ja."
"You sat in this chair for two hours without moving."
"Ja."
Adrien's hand tightened on his shoulder. "Good. Now your training begins."
Gerard waited. The darkness pressed in. The wind howled through the trees. And somewhere, far behind him, the city glowed like a fading memory.
He didn't look back.