# Escape from Pompeii

The Mercedes rolled through the narrow streets of Pompeii.

The city lay still under the night. The streetlights cast an orange glow on the cobblestone streets. Here and there, tourists lingered in a bar, or a couple walked home hand in hand. Everything seemed normal.

But nothing was normal.

Martina sat in the back seat, her mother's hand in hers. The doppelganger had disappeared – he'd gotten out before the car started moving, saying, "I'll be right there. Go on ahead." She hadn't seen where he went.

Now a stranger was behind the wheel. A young man, dark hair, sunglasses – in the middle of the night. He didn't say a word. He drove fast, but not too fast. Controlled.

"Who is he?" Julia whispered for the third time.

“I don’t know,” Martina said for the third time.

But she knew something. She knew he had saved her life—or at least tried to. And she knew he looked like her father. Only younger. Much younger.

The driver made a sharp right turn.

"Hold on," he said. His voice was calm, but his hands on the steering wheel were white.

Martina looked back. A black SUV had appeared – out of nowhere, like a predator leaping from the darkness. Its headlights were blinding. It was coming closer. Fast.

"Who is that?" asked Julia.

“InSim,” the driver said. “Or those who work for them. It doesn’t matter. Hold on tight.”

He stepped on the gas.

The Mercedes accelerated, the streets widened, the houses blurred. Martina felt the G-forces pressing her into her seat. Julia gasped.

The SUV was close behind them. Martina could make out the driver's outline – a dark silhouette, motionless. Like a hunter who was certain his prey wouldn't escape.

"He's catching up," said Martina.

"I see him."

The driver jerked the steering wheel. The Mercedes swerved, the tires squealed, then went straight ahead into a narrow alleyway barely wider than the car itself. Mirrors folded in automatically, as if the car knew what was being asked of it.

The SUV followed. But it was wider. Its mirrors caught on the walls of the houses – a scraping, a splintering, then it had fallen back.

"That won't stop him," said the driver. "Only for a few seconds."

He was right.

The SUV reappeared – without mirrors, with scratched paint, but relentless. It was closer than before.

"Up ahead," said the driver, pointing towards an intersection.

Martina saw a traffic light – red. But the driver didn't brake. He drove through it as if the color had no meaning.

Another car crossed their lane. The driver jerked the steering wheel, the Mercedes danced across the road, then went straight again. The other car honked, but the sound faded behind them.

"That was close," said Julia. Her voice was trembling.

"This won't be the last time," said the driver.

The SUV was still there. But it had slowed down – not by much, but noticeably. Perhaps the driver was afraid of another risky intersection. Perhaps he had a spark of common sense.

The driver of the Mercedes used the distance to his advantage. He turned left, then right, then left again – a labyrinth of alleys Martina didn't know. The city was a different place at night. More sinister. More unpredictable.

Then – silence.

The SUV had disappeared.

"Not for long," said the driver. "But maybe long enough."

They reached a small, almost deserted airport on the outskirts of the city.

A private plane was parked on the tarmac, its stairs lowered, its engines humming softly. Mount Vesuvius rose darkly on the horizon – a black wall against the starry sky.

The driver stopped in front of the stairs. "Get out," he said. "Quickly."

Martina helped her mother out of the car. Julia was pale, but she stood firm. Her hand was trembling, but she didn't let go of Martina's.

"Who is he?" she asked again.

Martina looked around. The doppelganger was standing at the foot of the stairs. He had been expecting her. His face was calm, but his eyes—his eyes were alert.

“That’s the question,” Martina said quietly. “I think—I think he is my father. But not the one we know. A different one. From another world.”

Julia stared at her. "That's crazy."

“Yes,” said Martina. “But it’s true.”

The doppelganger approached.

“No time for explanations,” he said. “The plane is waiting. It will take you to Germany. To a monastery. You will be safe there – for now.”

"And you?", asked Martina.

"I'm staying here. I have something to take care of." He smiled—a fleeting, sad smile. "We'll see each other again. I promise."

He helped Julia up the stairs. Martina followed. The plane was warm, the seats were soft, the windows small. It smelled of leather and kerosene.

The doppelganger remained standing below. He looked up at them.

"Take care of her," he said to Martina. "Your mother. And yourself."

Then he turned around and left.

The door closed. The turbines roared to life. The plane began to roll.

Martina looked through the window. The doppelganger shrank – a figure in the darkness that didn't look back. Then it was gone.

"Who was that really?" whispered Julia.

Martina shook her head. "Maybe we'll never know. Maybe that's not the question."

"What is the question then?"

"Whether we can trust him. And whether that's enough."

The plane took off. Pompeii lay below them – a thousand lights flickering in the night. Vesuvius was a shadow, larger than the city.

Martina thought about the doppelganger. About his words. About his face.

In another reality, I am your father.

She didn't know if it was true. But she knew she trusted him. Perhaps because she had no choice. Perhaps because she felt it—deep inside, where knowledge ended and faith began.

Julia took her hand.

“We can do it,” she said.

Martina nodded. She said nothing. She looked out the window until the lights of Pompeii had disappeared and only darkness remained.