UnBooks:D'Amelio Family in Hungarian uprising

Chapter 1

The D’Amelio family was thriving in their own warped sense of reality. From the outside, their sprawling mansion in Los Angeles was a symbol of modern success: manicured lawns, glistening infinity pools, and a driveway packed with luxury cars they rarely drove. Inside, it was a circus of TikToks, poorly conceived fashion experiments, and a steady stream of low-effort social media posts that somehow kept their millions of followers hooked.

Charli, the family’s golden goose, had been particularly active. Between choreographing dances to unlistenable pop tracks and hawking questionable products to her audience, she found time to share her "insightful" commentary on various topics. Today’s target? Europeans.

“They’re just so... weird,” she declared during a live stream, flipping her hair dramatically. “Like, why are they so obsessed with history? And their fashion? Ew, it’s like they’re stuck in the 1800s. They’re aggressive, too. Ever seen a European argue? It’s scary.”

The comments section lit up immediately. Many fans laughed along, but the backlash came swiftly.

Charli’s offhand remarks sparked outrage across social media. Videos denouncing her popped up overnight, some from Europeans in elegant cafes, others from people in tiny apartments with peeling wallpaper.

“She has no idea what she’s talking about,” one influencer ranted. “Europeans aggressive? Let’s talk about American football hooligans.”

Memes spread like wildfire, mocking her ignorance. Some featured her face Photoshopped onto famous European landmarks with captions like, ‘Charli rebuilds Notre Dame in her image.’ Others were far less playful.

Hate mail began flooding in. Some messages were scathing but harmless: “You’re a disgrace.” Others were more ominous: “You wouldn’t last a second in Budapest, little girl.”

Then the bricks came.

Late one evening, while the family lounged in their palatial living room, the unmistakable sound of breaking glass shattered the calm. Dixie screamed as a brick landed inches from her head, a crude note taped to it: "Learn respect or leave the planet!

But the real turning point came days later, when a package arrived addressed to Charli. The family gathered around as Heidi carefully opened it, her maternal instincts on high alert. Inside was a single envelope, its edges crisp and precise.

Marc unfolded the letter and frowned. “It’s... Hungarian?” he muttered, struggling to decipher the text.

“Read it out loud,” Charli demanded, her arms crossed.

He did his best, stumbling over the words. The letter described a man’s childhood in Budapest, growing up under oppression, witnessing atrocities, and learning to value hard work. The tone shifted sharply halfway through, turning venomous.

"Kedves D’Amelio család,

Nem hiszem, hogy megértik, milyen világban élnek. Miközben Önök a villájukban bohóckodnak, és értelmetlen videókat töltenek fel, amelyeken egyetlen épeszű gondolat sem hangzik el, mi itt Európában megtanultuk, hogy az élet sokkal keményebb, mint amit a fényes, szűrt világuk mutat.

Az Önök gyerekei semmibe veszik azt a múltat, amelyet mi vérrel és verejtékkel építettünk fel. Európaiak "agresszívek"? Önöknek fogalmuk sincs, mit jelentett Európában felnőni. Míg Önök a legújabb telefonokat mutogatják, mi a romokból próbáltuk összerakni az életünket.

Az Önök vagyonának nincs alapja. Önök csak a semmiből lettek gazdagok, anélkül, hogy egyetlen becsületes napot dolgoztak volna. Ez felháborító. Önök annyira elszakadtak a valóságtól, hogy már szinte undorító, és a legszomorúbb az, hogy erre a világ még tapsol is.

A fiatalok, akik a példaképüknek tartják Önöket, szintén elvesznek. Mit tanítanak nekik? Hogy a siker semmi más, mint egy gyors táncmozdulat vagy egy rosszul öltözött fotó? Én máshogy tanultam: az életet nem adják ingyen.

Ennek emlékére küldök egy apró ajándékot: egy töltényt. 7,65 mm Browning. Ezt nem azért küldöm, hogy fenyegetésként vegyék – nem, ez egy emlékeztető. Egy figyelmeztetés, hogy az élet egyszer elhozhatja azt a pillanatot, amikor már nem lesznek biztonságban a világukban.

Gondolkodjanak el rajta."

Nagy

Marc’s hand trembled as he pulled out the final item in the package—a single .32 ACP bullet, gleaming in the soft light of the living room.

Heidi clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh my God. Who would... who could do this?”

The family sat in stunned silence until Dixie pointed out the signature: Nagy.

“Who’s Nagy?” Charli asked, her voice uncharacteristically small.

“Could be anyone,” Marc said, pacing. “It’s a common name in Hungary. It means ‘great.’”

“Great?” Charli repeated, her disbelief palpable. “Like, great at being psycho?”

Marc shot her a glare. “Not the time, Charli.”

Dixie picked up the bullet, examining it with morbid curiosity. “Is this even real?”

“Of course, it’s real!” Heidi snapped, snatching it from her. “What kind of sick person sends something like this?”

The atmosphere in the house shifted that night. The D’Amelios, so used to their insulated, carefree lives, were now confronted with a grim reality they couldn’t filter or swipe away. Security cameras were installed, guards were hired, and the family began looking over their shoulders.

But for Charli, the unease was accompanied by anger. “They’re just jealous,” she insisted during a family meeting. “That’s why they’re targeting us. They can’t handle how successful we are.”

“Charli, someone sent us a bullet,” Marc said, his voice strained. “This isn’t jealousy. This is dangerous.”

“I didn’t ask to be popular,” Charli shot back. “People are just obsessed with me. I can’t help that.”

Heidi shook her head, burying her face in her hands. Marc muttered something about sending the bullet to the police, but deep down, they all knew that wouldn’t be the end of it.

Far away, in a dimly lit apartment in Budapest, the sender of the package lit a cigarette, their eyes fixed on a map of Los Angeles pinned to the wall.

The next step would come soon enough.

Chapter 2

The D’Amelio family was still reeling from the ominous letter when another shocking event shattered their morning calm. A loud crash echoed through the house as a strange metal object flew through the living room window, scattering shards of glass across the expensive hardwood floor.

Marc rushed to the scene, followed closely by a visibly shaken Heidi. On the floor, amidst the broken glass, lay an unfamiliar handgun—compact and unassuming, yet undeniably menacing. Heidi gasped.

“What the hell is that?” she whispered, her voice trembling.

Marc bent down cautiously, squinting at the inscription on the side: FÉG 37M. The weapon was strangely old, yet well-maintained. His fingers hesitated above it.

Before he could reach for it, Heidi's gaze shifted to the front lawn. Her face turned pale. “Marc,” she stammered, “look!”

Standing on the perfectly manicured grass was an elderly man, his thin frame draped in a modest, slightly tattered suit that looked decades out of style. A well-worn fedora sat atop his head, shading his sharp, sunken eyes. He stared back at them with a mix of disdain and determination, his posture rigid and purposeful.

Marc opened the door cautiously, stepping outside to confront the intruder. “Who are you?” he called out.

The man tilted his head slightly, as though surprised by the question. Then, in heavily accented, broken English, he responded:

“You… not read my letter? I make effort… write polite. And yet, you ignore. Typical.”

Marc’s confusion only deepened. “Wait, you’re the guy who sent that—?”

“Yes,” the man interrupted. “My name… Nagy. Béla Nagy.” He paused, his voice sharpening. “And you… deserve to know suffering.”

“What suffering?” Marc demanded, trying to maintain his composure.

Béla ignored the question and reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a small, strange-looking device. It gleamed dully in the sunlight, with an array of levers and dials that looked like something out of a science fiction film.

Inside, Heidi watched from the shattered window, frozen with fear. The man’s movements were deliberate, almost theatrical. Suddenly, she felt a sharp impact against her temple—a brick had struck her from an unknown source, sending her crumpling to the floor.

Marc turned in panic. “Heidi!”

Béla seized the opportunity, grabbing Marc in a surprisingly strong hold and locking his arm around Marc’s neck. With his free hand, Béla picked up the FÉG 37M and cocked it, pressing the barrel against Marc’s temple.

“You think this… game?” Béla hissed. “You think your life, your money, your fame… means anything?”

“Wait!” Marc choked out, his eyes wide. “What do you want?”

“I want you,” Béla growled, “to feel. To understand.”

Heidi stirred, groaning as she regained consciousness. Seeing Marc held hostage, her panic only grew. “Please! Let him go!” she cried.

“Where are your daughters?” Béla demanded, his tone cold and unwavering.

“No!” Heidi screamed, trying to stall. “Please, just leave them out of this!”

But Béla tightened his grip on Marc, forcing him to gasp for air. The pistol’s muzzle pressed harder against his temple.

“I won’t ask again,” Béla said grimly.

Broken, Heidi finally relented. “They’re… at their residences. Please, don’t hurt them.”

Béla nodded, his face unreadable. “Good. You will join them.”

Dragging Marc with him, Béla forced Heidi to follow as he commandeered a car and drove them to Dixie’s and Charli’s separate homes. At each stop, he took the girls as additional hostages, ignoring their screams and protests.

By the time the entire family was under his control, Béla stood before them with the strange device in hand. “You live… empty, shallow lives,” he muttered. “But now… you see truth.”

Before anyone could react, Béla activated the device. A bright, blinding light engulfed them, accompanied by an ear-splitting hum.

When the light subsided, the family found themselves lying on rough, uneven ground. The air was thick with the acrid smell of gunpowder and smoke. Distant explosions rumbled across the horizon.

As their vision adjusted, they saw a group of soldiers running past them, shouting in a language none of them understood. The ground shook as a massive ISU-152 assault gun rolled by, its gun barrel pointed menacingly toward the chaos ahead.

Marc blinked, dazed. “Where… where are we?”

Béla’s voice echoed behind them, low and ominous. “Welcome… to Hungary. June 1956.”

Before anyone could process his words, a deafening boom rocked the ground, and the world descended into chaos.

Chapter 3

The heat of the June sun bore down on the military training ground, but Charli shivered as Béla’s cold gaze locked on her. He stood a few steps away, his hands clasped behind his back in a posture that radiated disdain.

“You,” he barked, his accented English harsh and guttural. “You are why I am here.” His gnarled finger jabbed toward her, trembling slightly with the weight of his rage. “Your arrogance, your ignorance. You insult a continent, a people, because you cannot see past your glitter and your toys!”

Dixie shifted nervously beside Charli, but her sister was too stunned to respond.

Béla took a step closer, his boots crunching on the gravel. “Do you know what life was?” he demanded, his voice rising. “Not your TikToks, not your stupid dances. This was life!” He gestured broadly to the sprawling training ground where Hungarian recruits drilled in the distance, their shouts and the sharp crack of commands punctuating the air. “Service. Sacrifice. Every man had to serve. Unless you were lucky enough to escape to university—and even then, the army found you.”

Heidi hesitantly stepped forward, her voice soft and uncertain. “But… why force people? Why make them fight?”

“Why?” Béla’s laugh was a bark, sharp and bitter. “Because life was not safe, little girl. War came for everyone. If you were weak, you died. If you were untrained, you died faster. Discipline and strength—that was survival. But you Americans?” He spat on the ground, the gesture brimming with contempt. “You are fat. Lazy. Blind to the world. You think freedom means stuffing your faces and sitting on your fat asses while others fight for you.”

Marc raised a placating hand, trying to soothe the rising tension. “Look, we’re not trying to offend you. We’re just—”

“Enough!” Béla snapped. His eyes burned with fury as he rounded on Marc. “You do not get to speak about things you cannot comprehend.”

He waved his hand dismissively toward their bright, modern clothes. “And change. You look ridiculous.”

“What’s wrong with what we’re wearing?” Charli muttered under her breath, folding her arms defensively.

Béla rounded on her, his face a mask of disbelief. “What is wrong? You look like peacocks! You’d be a beacon for the ÁVH!”

“What’s the ÁVH?” Dixie asked hesitantly.

Béla didn’t answer, his scowl deepening as he gestured for them to follow.

In a cramped, smoky tavern, Béla ordered four mugs of beer and dropped them unceremoniously on the battered wooden table. The D’Amelios sat awkwardly, now dressed in mismatched, ill-fitting clothes Béla had forced them to change into. The rough fabric itched against their skin, a stark contrast to the luxurious brands they had left behind.

“Drink,” Béla commanded, taking a long swig of his own.

Charli wrinkled her nose. “I don’t drink beer,” she said flatly.

“You do now,” Béla replied, his tone brooking no argument.

Dixie lifted her mug hesitantly, the bitter taste making her wince. “Why are we here?” she asked, her voice laced with frustration.

Béla leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing. “To teach you. To show you that the world does not revolve around you. That life is not fame, not money, not shiny toys. It is survival. Community.”

He gestured broadly to the room, where locals sat at weathered tables, talking, laughing, sharing plates of bread and cheese. A man in a tattered jacket played a cheerful tune on a violin, and a few patrons clapped along.

“These people,” Béla said, his voice softer now, “have little. No phones, no televisions. They laugh, they sing, they connect. While you…” His gaze hardened again. “You stare at glowing screens, blind to the world, even to each other.”

Marc frowned. “But they don’t have freedom. Isn’t that what America stands for?”

“Freedom?” Béla’s eyes darkened. “You think you are free? Your so-called freedom is gluttony. It is excess. These people…” He paused, his voice thick with emotion. “They dreamed of freedom. We fought for it. But we failed.”

The D’Amelios exchanged uneasy glances, their discomfort growing as Béla’s words sank in.

The streets of the nearby village were a far cry from the pristine neighborhoods the D’Amelios called home. The air smelled of wood smoke and sweat, the narrow roads lined with modest, crumbling houses.

Children played barefoot near a chicken coop, their laughter echoing as one of them scrambled inside to snatch an egg. A woman with a kerchief tied tightly around her head scolded them from a doorway, shaking a wooden spoon in their direction.

“That’s stealing!” Charli exclaimed, watching as the children darted away, their prize clutched tightly in their hands.

“They are hungry,” Béla said simply, his voice devoid of judgment.

Nearby, a group of men unloaded sacks of grain from a cart, their movements slow and labored. Despite the sweat on their brows and the weariness etched into their faces, they paused to greet each other warmly, exchanging jokes and laughter.

“They don’t have phones,” Dixie observed, her tone tinged with disbelief.

“They don’t need them,” Béla replied sharply. “They have each other. They live, even with fear looming over them. While you…” His voice trailed off, his expression unreadable.

As they walked, the D’Amelios began to notice the stark contrasts around them. The poverty was undeniable—children with patched clothes, women carrying water from communal wells—but so was the sense of resilience. People smiled. They laughed. They found joy in the smallest things.

For the first time, the D’Amelios felt truly out of place, their world of curated perfection crumbling in the face of a life so raw, so unvarnished.

At the edge of the village, Béla stopped and turned to face them. His expression was somber, his voice heavy.

“You will see soon enough,” he said. “What was lost. What we fought for. And what you have forgotten.”

In the distance, the faint strains of music drifted through the air—a hauntingly beautiful melody played on an accordion. Béla’s shoulders stiffened as he recognized the tune. It was a prelude to something far greater, a storm that had yet to come.

Chapter 4

Béla halted at a gravel patch along the road. Heidi, confused, asked why they were stopping. To her astonishment, Béla explained that this was a bus stop. Moments later, an Ikarus 55 bus pulled up, its cream and red paint glinting under the summer sun, bound for Budapest. Without hesitation, Béla paid for everyone’s fare, and they boarded the bus.

The journey took about an hour. As the sprawling city came into view, Béla began pointing out landmarks and curiosities, his voice laced with pride. For the D’Amelios, Budapest was mesmerizing. It was nothing like Los Angeles; no towering skyscrapers, no sprawling suburban monotony. Instead, there were ornate historical buildings, grand statues, and artifacts steeped in a rich and turbulent history.

Overhead, the occasional Ilyushin or Dakota aircraft passed by, operated by Malév, Hungary's national airline. The roar of the engines mixed with the bustle of trams and street vendors shouting their wares. The D’Amelios marveled at the vibrant cityscape, though Béla’s pace and stern demeanor reminded them to keep their naivety in check.

As they wandered, Béla’s expression darkened. He abruptly motioned for them to stop. Across the street, a black GAZ-M20 Pobeda rolled to a halt. Three men in heavy coats stepped out, their movements deliberate and practiced. Without a word, they entered an apartment building. Moments later, they emerged, dragging an elderly man between them. His face was bloodied, his legs barely able to carry him. The men shoved him into the Pobeda’s back seat and slammed the door.

The D’Amelios froze, stunned by the casual brutality. Charli, wide-eyed, whispered, “What... what was that?”

Béla exhaled sharply, his voice cold and deliberate. “That was the ÁVH,” he said, spitting the acronym as if it burned his tongue. “The State Protection Authority. Their job is to make sure no one says or does anything they don’t like.” He glanced at the now-empty street. “That old man? Probably caught listening to Radio Free Europe. It’s enough to ruin your life—or end it.”

The family was too shocked to reply. They continued walking, the vibrant city now tinged with an oppressive undercurrent of fear. Béla guided them through narrow streets and across grand boulevards, stopping occasionally to admire the Danube glittering under the afternoon sun.

Suddenly, Béla stopped mid-stride, his gaze fixated on two young figures a few steps ahead. A boy and a girl, no older than nineteen, walked hand in hand. They carried a small bundle of posters, their faces lit with determination.

“Who are they?” Dixie asked, sensing Béla’s unusual silence.

For a moment, Béla hesitated. Then, with a wistful smile, he replied, “That’s me. And her… she was my first love.”

The family stared at him in disbelief. The boy had the unmistakable sharp features of a younger Béla, while the girl bore a striking resemblance to Dixie, enough to make everyone’s hair stand on end. The pair continued on, oblivious, disappearing around the corner with their stack of anti-communist posters.

As they pressed on, the signs of unrest became more evident. Tension lingered in the air, palpable even to the clueless D’Amelios. ÁVH agents and Rendőrseg officers were everywhere, their stern faces and sharp uniforms an ominous reminder of the regime’s reach. Posters and slogans scrawled on walls hinted at the growing dissent, the whispers of rebellion that Béla knew all too well.

Yet, amidst the looming darkness, Budapest remained beautiful. Its historic charm clashed with the creeping unease of its people. For the D’Amelios, this was a city unlike any they’d ever known—a city teetering on the edge of something monumental, though they had no idea just how close that edge truly was.

Chapter 5

The café was tucked between two ornate buildings along one of Budapest’s bustling boulevards. Its terrace was shaded by a large striped awning, offering respite from the warm June sun. Béla led the D’Amelios to a table in the corner, where they had a good view of the street without drawing too much attention to themselves. The wrought-iron chairs were a bit uncomfortable, but the setting was charming enough to distract from that.

A young waitress approached, her steps quick but practiced, balancing a tray of small porcelain cups and tall glasses of water. Her scarf—a vivid red with white embroidery—caught Heidi’s eye. The girl smiled politely but avoided direct eye contact as she placed the drinks on the table.

“Thank you,” Heidi said, testing the waters with her English.

The waitress looked startled for a moment, then responded in halting but understandable English, “You are welcome,” before hurrying away to the next table.

Béla sipped his coffee, his sharp eyes scanning the street. “See? I told you. The young people here—they understand enough English to get by. Radio, books, the occasional tourist—it’s not a closed-off world, even if the government wants it to be.”

Charli leaned forward, her elbows on the table, eager to ask questions. “So, what’s it like living here? Is it really as bad as people say?”

Béla smiled faintly, stirring a sugar cube into his coffee. “Bad? Depends on what you mean by bad. It’s not America, that’s for sure. But people survive. They find ways to laugh, to live, to hope.” He took a sip and set the cup down. “And as long as you don’t ask the wrong questions or trust the wrong people, you’ll probably be fine.”

The response didn’t seem to satisfy her. Dixie, more cautious, chose her words carefully. “You mentioned earlier that you fought for freedom but… failed. What did you mean by that?”

Béla’s face grew serious, and he leaned back in his chair. For a moment, he seemed lost in thought, staring at the street but not seeing it. Then he spoke, his voice quiet but firm. “It’s not a story for today,” he said. “History has a way of revealing itself when the time is right. For now, just know that this city has seen things you wouldn’t believe. And it will see more before the story ends.”

Dixie frowned, frustrated by his evasiveness. “But—”

Béla cut her off with a raised hand, his smile returning. “Enough heavy talk. You’re in Budapest! Enjoy the coffee, the pastries, the sunshine. Tonight, I’ll make sure you sleep in the best hotel this city has to offer. Trust me, you’ll thank me in the morning."

The hotel Béla chose was magnificent—a relic of Budapest’s glory days before the war and the Soviet occupation. Its grand lobby was filled with polished marble, glittering chandeliers, and echoes of footsteps on tiled floors. The reception staff, clad in crisp uniforms, greeted them with a blend of formality and suspicion, but Béla handled the check-in with a confidence that seemed to put them at ease.

Their rooms were on the top floor, with views overlooking the Danube. Charli and Dixie squealed with delight at the sight of the river, its surface reflecting the golden lights of the city. Heidi, on the other hand, was more subdued. She couldn’t shake the memory of the black Pobeda and the bloodied man from earlier that day.

Dinner was an elaborate affair in the hotel’s restaurant, where Béla insisted on ordering for everyone. Plates of pörkölt, gulyásleves, and töltött káposzta arrived, filling the air with rich, savory aromas. The D’Amelios tried everything, washing it down with glasses of Egri Bikavér, Hungary’s famous “Bull’s Blood” wine.

By the time dessert arrived—a platter of delicate rétes —the wine had loosened everyone’s inhibitions. Charli laughed as she attempted to mimic Béla’s Hungarian accent, while Dixie asked endless questions about the dishes.

“You Americans,” Béla said with a chuckle, raising his glass. “So curious about everything. It’s a good trait. Just remember, not all answers are as sweet as this strudel.”

Heidi woke to the sound of voices outside. They were faint at first, but as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes and walked to the window, they grew louder. She pulled back the heavy curtains and peered down at the street below.

A small crowd had gathered, their movements purposeful and urgent. Men and women, some young and some older, were holding signs and banners. She squinted, trying to make out the writing. The slogans were painted in bold strokes, their meanings lost on her, but their intent was clear.

Then she noticed the flags. Hungarian flags waved proudly in the air, but something was off. Each flag had a hole cut out of its center, leaving a strange, empty space where an emblem might have been.

Her heart quickened. She didn’t fully understand what she was seeing, but it felt significant, almost historic.

She hurried to Béla’s room and knocked urgently. When he opened the door, still groggy, she pointed out the window. “What’s going on down there?”

Béla stepped to the window and looked out. His expression darkened, but a flicker of something like pride lit his eyes. “It’s nothing for you to worry about,” he said, his voice steady.

“But the flags,” she insisted. “Why are they cut like that?”

Béla turned to her, his face unreadable. “That’s a conversation for another time,” he said. “Trust me, Heidi. You’ll understand when the time comes.”

Heidi wanted to press further, but something in his tone stopped her. As they prepared to explore more of the city, the echoes of the gathering below stayed with her, a quiet reminder that Budapest was a city with secrets—and she was only beginning to uncover them.

Chapter 6

The next few days in Budapest settled into a rhythm. Béla led the D’Amelios through the city’s markets, parks, and historic sites, each day filled with rich food and vibrant sights. However, beneath the surface of the bustling city was an uneasy stillness, like the air before a summer storm.

For Charli, though, the novelty of Budapest was wearing thin. One afternoon, as they sat in yet another café, she crossed her arms and frowned. “You lied to us, Béla,” she blurted out, her voice sharp enough to make the others glance at her in surprise.

Béla raised an eyebrow, his hand pausing over his coffee cup. “Excuse me?”

“You keep hinting at this big, dramatic thing you fought for,” Charli continued. “But all we’ve seen are old buildings and quiet streets. Where’s the danger? Where’s the revolution you keep dancing around?”

For a moment, Béla didn’t reply. Then, slowly, he leaned forward, his dark eyes locking onto hers. “You think I lied?” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “Fine. Let me show you the truth.”

Without another word, he stood and pulled a strange device from his coat. It looked like a battered suitcase, but when he flipped it open, it revealed a tangle of wires, glowing dials, and switches.

“What the hell is that?” Dixie asked, her eyes wide.

Béla didn’t answer. He began adjusting the knobs and pressing buttons with practiced precision. A low hum filled the air, and the device began to glow faintly.

“I call it a time machine,” he said finally. “And if you think I’m lying, let’s take a little trip.”

He twisted one last dial, and with a blinding flash of light, everything changed.

It's October 23, 1956

When the light faded, the D’Amelios found themselves standing on the same street, but it was no longer peaceful. The air was thick with smoke and the acrid smell of burning rubber. The cobblestones beneath their feet were stained with oil and blood.

All around them, chaos reigned. Massive crowds surged through the streets, their faces alight with determination and rage. Some carried banners and Hungarian flags, their centers cut out in defiance of the Soviet emblem. Others were armed—some with bats and pipes, others with rifles, machine guns, and even ancient weapons from the First World War.

The roar of voices was deafening. Men and women shouted slogans, their cries of freedom echoing off the buildings. Trams lay overturned, their sides scorched black. Flames licked at the remains of barricades hastily constructed from debris.

Charli gasped as a man sprinted past, cradling a battered DP-28 machine gun. A teenager followed him, clutching a Mosin-Nagant rifle almost as tall as he was.

“This,” Béla said, gesturing to the pandemonium around them, “is what I fought for.”

He turned, and his breath caught. Across the street, a younger version of himself stood, barely nineteen. His face was grim and focused, his dark hair slicked back and a rifle slung over his shoulder. Beside him was a girl, no older than seventeen, her wide eyes betraying her fear even as she gripped a PPSh-41 submachine gun.

“That’s me,” Béla said softly. “And that’s Anna.”

“Anna?” Charli asked, her voice trembling.

“My first love,” Béla replied, his voice heavy with emotion. “She was seventeen that day. Just a girl, but braver than anyone I’ve ever known.”

The resemblance to Dixie was uncanny. The D’Amelios stared at the young couple in stunned silence, unable to reconcile the chaotic scene with the calm Béla they knew.

The younger Béla and Anna didn’t notice them. They were too busy preparing. Anna adjusted the sling on her weapon while Béla scanned the street, his sharp eyes taking in every detail.

Suddenly, the ground began to tremble. A distant rumble grew louder, accompanied by the clattering of steel tracks on stone. A T-34/85 tank rolled into view, its massive turret swiveling to survey the crowd. It bore Hungarian markings, but Béla’s expression darkened.

“Loyalists,” he spat. “Communist collaborators.”

The crowd surged forward, surrounding the tank. Shouts turned to screams as the turret began to lower. For a moment, it seemed as though the vehicle would open fire, but then a young man scrambled onto its hull.

The D’Amelios watched in horror as the man pried open the commander’s hatch. A struggle ensued, the young man shouting for help as the commander resisted. Within seconds, others joined him, pulling the commander out of the tank.

The crowd descended on the man, their fists and boots raining down in a brutal frenzy. Blood spattered the cobblestones as the man’s screams were drowned out by the roar of the crowd.

Charli turned away, her face pale. Dixie clung to Heidi, her eyes wide with terror.

The younger Béla and Anna didn’t flinch. They moved with the crowd, their weapons raised, their faces set with grim determination.

“Why aren’t they stopping it?” Charli asked, her voice shaking.

“Because this is war,” the older Béla said simply. “And in war, there’s no time for mercy.”

Before anyone could respond, a deafening crack split the air. The turret of the T-34 swung violently, its barrel slamming against a nearby building. Someone in the crowd had managed to disable it.

The chaos intensified. Shots rang out as loyalist soldiers emerged from alleyways, their rifles barking. The revolutionaries returned fire, their mismatched weapons creating a cacophony of noise.

The D’Amelios ducked behind a pile of rubble as bullets whizzed overhead. Dixie screamed as a shard of brick exploded near her head.

“Stay down!” Béla barked, dragging them into cover.

The younger Béla and Anna pressed forward, their movements synchronized. Anna sprayed suppressive fire with her submachine gun while Béla took careful aim with his rifle.

“That’s what we fought for,” the older Béla said, his voice tinged with both pride and sorrow. “Freedom. For our country, for ourselves. But freedom always comes at a cost.”

As the chaos raged on, the D’Amelios realized they were witnessing history—not the sanitized version found in textbooks, but the raw, brutal truth of a revolution.

Chapter 7

The streets of Budapest had transformed into a battleground, chaos tearing through the city like a raging inferno. Béla, with the energy of a man half his age, led the D’Amelios through the shattered remnants of the capital. The sounds of distant explosions and the staccato rhythm of gunfire echoed in their ears. Blood pooled in the gutters, mingling with shards of glass and debris.

As they turned a corner, Béla’s eyes locked onto something on the ground—a relic of a bygone war. A battered Pickelhaube, its spike dented, lay beside a Mosin-Nagant M44 rifle. Without a moment’s hesitation, he bent down, snatched them up, and placed the helmet on his head. The rifle was worn but functional, the bolt sliding into place with a satisfying click.

“Still a fine piece of craftsmanship,” Béla muttered. With a sharp movement, he raised the rifle to his shoulder and fired. The shot cracked through the chaos, and a Soviet soldier collapsed in the distance, clutching his chest. Béla chuckled darkly. “Eighty-five years old, and still a marksman. Not bad.”

Charli gagged, her hand flying to her mouth. “Oh my God, you just shot someone!”

Béla turned to her, his eyes blazing with fury and determination. “Do you think this is a game? This is war, child. Either you fight, or you die.”

The ground beneath them began to vibrate, a deep, ominous rumble that grew louder with each passing second. A Soviet tank column emerged from the smoke, the lead vehicle a menacing T-34/85, its turret swiveling like a predator searching for prey.

Béla spat on the ground. “Damn Soviet bastards.” His eyes fell on a discarded Panzerfaust lying amid the rubble. He grabbed it and shoved it into Marc’s hands.

“Are you insane?” Marc stammered, holding the weapon as though it might explode in his arms.

“No, but you will be if you don’t use this,” Béla snapped. He positioned Marc behind a pile of rubble, forcing him to kneel. “Point it at the lead tank. Aim for the turret ring, that’s the sweet spot.”

Marc’s hands trembled as he hoisted the Panzerfaust onto his shoulder. “I’ve never done this before!”

“There’s a first time for everything,” Béla said, his voice dripping with impatience. “Pull the damn trigger!”

Marc hesitated, his breath quick and shallow. Then, with a surge of adrenaline, he squeezed the trigger. The Panzerfaust roared, the projectile streaking toward the T-34. It struck with a deafening explosion, the tank erupting in a fiery blaze. The turret blew clean off, landing several meters away.

Béla roared with laughter, clapping Marc on the back. “Not bad for a rookie! Maybe you’ve got some Hungarian blood in you after all.”

Meanwhile, Heidi stood frozen, her face pale as death. Béla noticed her paralyzed state and barked, “You! Heidi! Pick that up!” He pointed to a PPSh-41 lying nearby.

Heidi shook her head violently. “I can’t… I can’t do this!”

“You don’t have a choice,” Béla snarled. “You want to stay alive? Then fight!”

Heidi reluctantly bent down, her trembling hands closing around the cold metal of the submachine gun. She fumbled with it, her heart pounding so loudly she thought it might burst.

Dixie wasn’t so lucky. A group of Hungarian fighters grabbed her, dragging her toward a Schwarzlose M07/12 machine gun mounted on a makeshift barricade. The gun’s barrel was already glowing red from sustained fire.

“Help us!” one of the men shouted, shoving Dixie toward the weapon.

“I don’t know how!” Dixie cried, her voice breaking.

“Learn fast!” the man snapped. “The Soviets aren’t waiting!”

A younger Béla, barely nineteen, appeared beside Dixie. His face was streaked with soot, his eyes wild with defiance. In his hands was a Manlicher 43M rifle. Beside him was Anna, his girlfriend, gripping a PPSh-41 with white-knuckled hands. Her face was eerily familiar—she looked like Dixie, but with a hardened determination that sent chills down Dixie’s spine.

“Do it!” young Béla shouted, his voice cracking.

Dixie hesitated, but a sharp slap from one of the fighters jolted her into action. She gripped the machine gun’s handles and began firing wildly. Bullets tore through the air, some striking Soviet soldiers, others punching holes in walls and vehicles. The recoil bruised her shoulders, and the acrid smell of gunpowder stung her nostrils.

Charli, meanwhile, stood in the middle of the chaos, paralyzed with fear. From a crackling radio nearby, the haunting strains of the Hungarian national anthem filled the air, accompanied by a defiant voice calling for resistance.

“What is that… that noise?” Charli asked, her voice trembling.

Anna turned to her, fury blazing in her eyes. She stormed over, grabbed Charli by the collar, and shook her. “That ‘noise’ is our anthem! The song of freedom!”

Anna shoved a Tokarev pistol into Charli’s hands. “If you want to live, use this.” She pointed toward a group of Soviet soldiers advancing down the street.

Charli stared at the pistol, her hands shaking so badly she thought she might drop it. The soldiers were getting closer, their faces cold and unyielding. With a scream of terror, Charli raised the weapon and fired. The recoil nearly knocked her off her feet, but one of the soldiers fell, clutching his stomach.

The D’Amelios were no longer mere observers. They were now part of the blood-soaked tapestry of history, thrown into a world where survival demanded brutality and courage. Béla, with the fervor of a man reliving his youth, fought beside them, his laughter and shouts blending with the chaos.

This was no lesson, no story. This was war. And it was merciless.

Chapter 8

The city was a blazing hellscape. Buildings crumbled like sandcastles, flames licked the sky, and the deafening roar of artillery turned every corner into a death trap. Béla moved with a vigor that belied his age, his movements sharp and deliberate, while the D’Amelios scrambled after him, their faces pale with terror.

Just as they rounded a corner, a massive explosion shattered the street behind them. Dust and debris rained down, choking the air. Heidi screamed and stumbled, clutching at Marc for support. Charli’s hands were pressed over her ears, her eyes darting wildly, while Dixie tripped over a chunk of concrete and collapsed onto her knees.

Ahead, Soviet tanks rolled into view—T-54s and a monstrous ISU-152 assault gun, their iron hulls glinting malevolently through the smoke. Soldiers swarmed around them, faceless in their steel helmets, their rifles aimed and ready. The street was a battlefield, the ground slick with blood and littered with body parts.

“Move!” Béla barked, his voice cutting through the cacophony like a whip.

The remnants of a captured T-34 suddenly exploded ahead of them. The force of the blast threw Charli to the ground, and the turret was launched skyward, flipping end over end before slamming down mere feet from her. Shrapnel tore through the air, narrowly missing her as she screamed. Béla grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet.

“Get it together, girl! There’s no time for crying!” he snapped.

The tank’s flaming carcass was quickly repurposed as a barricade by desperate Hungarian fighters. Machine gun fire erupted from behind it, spitting death into the advancing Soviet forces. An 85mm cannon fired sporadically, each shot taking down soldiers and vehicles alike. But the Soviets pressed on, their numbers overwhelming.

Heidi, stumbling after the group, tripped over something soft. Her eyes flicked down, and a strangled cry escaped her lips. A severed head lay in the rubble, its vacant eyes staring into nothingness. The flesh was charred, and the mouth hung open in a grotesque scream.

Her body convulsed violently, and she vomited onto the pavement. She staggered backward, her knees buckling, and then she collapsed entirely. Her head struck the ground with a sickening thud as she lost consciousness.

“Goddammit, Heidi!” Marc yelled, dropping to his knees beside her.

“Leave her!” Béla snarled, reloading his rifle with steady hands. “She’s dead weight if she can’t stand.”

“She’s my WIFE!” Marc shouted, his voice breaking.

“Then carry her or leave her for the Soviets!” Béla retorted, firing another shot that dropped a soldier in the distance.

Marc’s eyes burned with fury, but he knew Béla was right. He hoisted Heidi over his shoulder, her limp form heavy and unresponsive. Blood trickled from a shallow gash on her temple where she’d hit the ground.

Dixie was trembling uncontrollably, her hands numb and useless. She stared at a Hungarian fighter who’d just been gunned down, his body riddled with bullets. His blood pooled at her feet, soaking into her shoes. A man screamed nearby as he clutched his severed arm, the stump spurting crimson jets with every heartbeat.

“Help us!” a fighter yelled at Dixie, shoving her toward the wreckage of a DP-28. “Get on it! Now!”

“I can’t—I don’t—” she stammered, tears streaming down her face.

“Then die!” the man roared, slapping her hard across the face.

The slap jolted her into action. Dixie took the machine gun’s trigger, her vision blurred by tears, and began firing blindly. Bullets ripped through the air, some hitting Soviet soldiers, others sparking off metal and stone. The recoil slammed into her shoulders, bruising her as she screamed in terror.

On the balcony of a nearby building, Béla took up position. His rifle cracked methodically, each shot bringing down another Soviet. He was laughing—a dark, unhinged sound that sent chills down Marc’s spine.

Marc himself was trembling violently as he fumbled to reload the FÉG 37M pistol he’d found. He raised it, aiming at a soldier who was charging toward them. His first shot went wide, the second hit the man in the leg, and the third finally found its mark, piercing the soldier’s throat. Blood sprayed in an arc as the man collapsed, gurgling.

Marc gasped for air, his vision tunneling as adrenaline coursed through him.

“This isn’t happening,” Charli whispered, her voice barely audible over the chaos. Her face was pale, her eyes glassy. “This isn’t real…”

“It’s as real as the blood on your hands,” Béla growled, gesturing toward her with the smoking barrel of his rifle. “Pick up a gun and fight, or you’ll be the next corpse on this street!”

Heidi groaned faintly as she stirred, her eyelids fluttering. Marc set her down behind cover, his hands shaking too badly to hold the pistol steady.

Suddenly, the ISU-152’s massive cannon roared. The explosion obliterated the barricade ahead of them, sending charred bodies flying in every direction. The heat and pressure slammed into them, knocking everyone off their feet. Béla spat blood onto the pavement as he rose, dragging himself to his feet with sheer force of will.

“We have to fall back!” a Hungarian fighter screamed, his face smeared with soot and blood.

Béla nodded grimly. “Inside! Go!”

They staggered into the nearest building, stumbling over rubble and bodies. The walls were pocked with bullet holes, and the air reeked of cordite and death.

On the balcony, Béla set up his rifle once more. His hands were steady, his breathing calm. He aimed down at the street, where Soviet soldiers swarmed like ants.

“For every Hungarian who’s fallen, I’ll take ten of you bastards with me,” he muttered, pulling the trigger.

Each shot rang out like a death knell. Below, the D’Amelios huddled together, their faces pale and streaked with grime and tears. They were trapped in a nightmare of blood and fire, and there was no waking up.

Chapter 9

The streets of Budapest were a roiling hell, a cacophony of screams, gunfire, and the unrelenting clatter of tank treads. Bodies lay sprawled where they had fallen, some in grotesquely contorted poses, others half-buried beneath rubble. Blood soaked into the cobblestones, mixing with oil and ash to form a sickening slurry. The air was thick with acrid smoke and the unholy stench of burning flesh, a scent that clawed at the back of the throat.

Béla’s face was a mask of grim resolve as he thrust the battered Mosin-Nagant rifle into Charli’s hands. The weapon was splintered and scarred from countless battles, its weight a cruel mockery of her trembling arms.

“Ты стреляешь,” he growled, deliberately adopting the language of their enemy. “Or they kill us. Every one of us.”

Charli stared at him, tears streaming down her soot-streaked face. “I… I can’t…”

“Then you’ll die,” Béla snapped, his voice cutting through the chaos like a whip. “But quietly. I won’t have your screams give us away.”

He turned and vanished into the smoke, leaving the D’Amelios huddled together in the remains of a shattered building.

Béla moved like a phantom through the carnage, his shoes crunching over shattered glass and the spent brass of bullet casings. The city he had once called home was a desolation of burning vehicles, toppled buildings, and the cries of the dying. Every step brought him closer to another Soviet patrol.

Ahead, crouched by a broken radio, was a young Soviet soldier. He couldn’t have been more than seventeen, his uniform hanging loosely on his gangly frame. His fingers trembled as he fumbled with the dials, his face smeared with soot.

Béla’s jaw tightened. He moved silently, his knife glinting in the dim light. In a single, fluid motion, he clamped a hand over the soldier’s mouth and drove the blade up under his jaw.

The soldier’s eyes bulged in shock, his body convulsing as blood gurgled around the knife. Béla held him there, staring into the boy’s eyes as the life drained away, then let him collapse into a heap.

At the building, Charli’s breath came in shallow gasps. Her knuckles whitened as she clutched the rifle, its wood biting into her palms. Through the smoke, movement caught her eye—a cluster of Soviet soldiers advancing cautiously, their rifles raised.

Her heart thundered as Béla’s words echoed in her mind: Shoot, or die.

She squeezed the trigger. The rifle roared, kicking against her shoulder. One of the soldiers jerked violently, blood spraying from his throat as he crumpled to the ground.

“Christ, Charli!” Marc whispered, pulling her back. “What did you—”

But Charli was deaf to his voice. Her wide, terrified eyes locked onto a rumbling T-54 tank approaching their position. The commander’s hatch was open, a burly officer shouting orders in Russian.

“Быстрее! Продвиньтесь вперёд! Стереть их с лица земли!”

Her hands steadied. She fired again, the shot catching the commander in the chest. He slumped forward, his blood splattering the turret. The tank lurched to a halt, its turret swiveling wildly as chaos erupted among the crew.

Across the street, young Béla watched as Anna’s PPSh-41 barked, mowing down a group of advancing Soviets. Her face, streaked with dirt and resolve, was a portrait of defiance.

“Бей её! Она ведь всего девчонка!” shouted one of the Russians, a hulking brute with a cigarette dangling from his lips.

The soldier raised his rifle. Béla screamed a warning, but it was too late. The shot cracked through the air, hitting Anna square in the forehead.

Her body jerked violently before collapsing into the rubble. Blood gushed from the wound, pooling beneath her shattered skull.

Béla froze, his mind numb with shock.

The Russian turned, a twisted grin splitting his face. “Смотри, маленький партизан. Ваша подруга мертва. Кто следующий?”

Béla’s vision went red. He charged, screaming like a man possessed, his knife flashing in his hand.

“Дурак! Сдавайся, или ты следующий!” the Russian sneered, leveling his rifle.

But Béla was too fast. He drove the blade upward into the soldier’s chin, the steel punching through bone and into his brain. The Russian’s sneer turned into a gurgle, his body convulsing as blood poured down his uniform. Béla twisted the knife savagely and yanked it free, the man’s lifeless body collapsing at his feet.

He dropped to his knees beside Anna. His trembling hands closed her lifeless eyes, his face contorted in grief.

“Anna…” he whispered. “God forgive me…”

The distant roar of engines pulled him back to the present. A column of Hungarian T-34/85s rumbled down the street, their turrets blazing. For a fleeting moment, hope flickered in Béla’s chest.

But it was short-lived. Around the corner came a Soviet IS-2 heavy tank, its massive gun belching fire. The lead Hungarian T-34 exploded in a ball of flame, its turret flying into the air.

The IS-2 plowed forward, its tracks crushing the remains of an IFA F9 sedan filled with civilians. Their screams were abruptly silenced, replaced by the groaning of metal and the wet crunch of bodies.

Béla stumbled back to the barricade, his face smeared with blood—his own and that of others. The D’Amelios stared at him, paralyzed by fear.

“This is war,” Béla snarled, gesturing to the carnage. “No filters. No likes. Just death.”

Heidi choked back a sob. “I saw her,” she whispered. “Anna. She was with you. She… she was shot.”

Béla’s expression hardened. He turned to the shattered window, his gaze locking onto Anna’s lifeless body.

“Yes,” he said, his voice hollow. “That was her.”

In the distance, artillery thundered, and the screams of Budapest carried on the wind.

Chapter 10

The next morning dawned with a deathly stillness, broken only by the occasional crack of gunfire and the low rumble of tank treads echoing through the ruined streets. The air stank of cordite, smoke, and decay. Béla sat by the window, fiddling with a dented, crackling radio, his face unreadable. The D’Amelios huddled nearby, pale and silent, their eyes haunted by the memories of the day before.

Static hissed from the radio, then faded, replaced by a desperate voice speaking in Hungarian.

“What’s he saying?” Charli asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Béla didn’t turn around. “He’s begging,” he said flatly. “Asking the West to send help. He knows they won’t.” He let out a bitter laugh. “He’s just talking to ghosts.”

The voice continued, trembling with emotion, and the strains of the Hungarian national anthem began to play faintly in the background.

“They’re broadcasting from that building,” Béla added, nodding toward a crumbling structure across the street. The D’Amelios followed his gaze. Charli gasped as she saw the familiar Soviet tanks—the T-34s, the hulking ISU-152s, and the massive IS-3s—encircling the radio station like vultures.

“They’re just going to… destroy it?” Heidi whispered, clutching her stomach.

“Of course,” Béla said, his tone cold. “That’s how they silence hope.”

The tanks began their assault. Shells slammed into the building, ripping through stone and glass with deafening explosions. Smoke poured from the structure as debris rained down onto the street. A figure appeared in a shattered window, waving desperately, before vanishing in a plume of fire.

Charli’s stomach churned. “Oh my God, they’re still in there! Can’t someone—”

“No one’s coming,” Béla snapped, cutting her off. “This isn’t some Hollywood movie. The West doesn’t care. They never did.”

Before Charli could respond, a resistance fighter darted out from behind a wrecked car, hoisting an RPG-2. He took aim at one of the IS-3s. The rocket struck true, blasting the tank apart in a fiery explosion. Its turret flew into the air, landing with a crash that shook the ground.

“Yes!” Charli exclaimed, hope flickering in her eyes.

“Don’t celebrate,” Béla growled. “He won’t live long enough to reload.”

Sure enough, Soviet soldiers swarmed the fighter. A single shot rang out, and the man crumpled to the ground.

Near the wreckage, a boy no older than ten stumbled into view, struggling to hold a submachine gun. The weapon’s recoil made him stagger, but he kept firing, his face twisted in determination.

“What is he doing?” Heidi gasped.

“Fighting,” Béla said simply. “Like everyone else who doesn’t want to die on their knees.”

A Soviet soldier reached the boy. Without hesitation, he swung his rifle like a club, smashing it into the child’s head. The boy fell, but the soldier kept striking, the dull thuds blending with the chaos.

Heidi turned away, retching violently, while Charli clapped a hand over her mouth, tears streaming down her face.

The radio crackled again, the broadcaster now speaking in halting English. “To the free world… please… help us. Budapest is burning. We are dying. We…”

His voice cut off mid-sentence, replaced by silence. The anthem faded, leaving only the distant rumble of tanks and the crackle of flames.

“They’re gone,” Béla said softly, his voice devoid of emotion. He set the radio down and stood. “We’re moving. Now.”

The D’Amelios followed him into the streets, their steps hesitant. The chaos outside was worse than anything they had imagined. Soviet soldiers looted homes, dragging screaming women and children into the open. Civilians ran in every direction, some falling as bullets found them.

Ahead, a BTR-152 plowed into a crowd of people, crushing them beneath its wheels. The vehicle didn’t stop, its driver indifferent to the screams.

“Oh God,” Marc muttered, his legs trembling. “Oh God, this can’t be real.”

“This is real,” Béla said sharply. “And it’s only going to get worse.”

They passed through a park, stepping over bodies both whole and dismembered. A T-34 tank rumbled across the grass, its turret swiveling lazily. It ran over a fleeing civilian without slowing, the crunch of bones loud enough to make Charli flinch.

A resistance fighter leapt from behind a tree, firing his rifle at the tank. The turret rotated toward him, and with a deafening blast, the 85mm cannon fired. The man’s body disintegrated, leaving a spray of red mist.

Even Béla seemed shaken. “They’re using cannon fire on single men now,” he muttered. “Barbarians.”

Charli’s voice was shaky. “How can they—how can they do this?”

“Because they can,” Béla replied. “And because no one’s stopping them.” He glanced at her, his expression hard. “This is the real world, Charli. Your TikToks and your likes won’t save you here. Neither will your tears.”

Charli opened her mouth to argue, but before she could speak, another explosion rocked the park. A Hungarian ISU-152 emerged from the smoke, its tricolor flag fluttering defiantly. It fired, and the Soviet T-34 erupted in flames, its turret spinning into the sky before crashing back down.

The D’Amelios hit the ground, covering their heads as debris rained down around them. Béla stood, brushing dust from his coat, and surveyed the scene with a grim smile.

“That’s what I like to see,” he said. “A little fight left in us.”

He turned to the others, his tone sharp. “Let’s go. We’ve got a long way to survive.”

Chapter 11

By November 4, 1956, the thunder of gunfire had started to fade. The tanks, which had crushed Hungary’s streets under their relentless treads, were retreating. Soviet infantry, once omnipresent, melted away into the distance. But their shadow remained—a darker and far more sinister force. The secret police, ÁVH, and the Rendörség now took to the streets, bringing with them a wave of terror.

Béla leaned against a shattered window frame, his weathered face pale in the dim light. “It’s over,” he muttered, his voice heavy with defeat. “Our dream of freedom… gone, just like that.” He gestured to the smoke-stained ruins outside. “And now comes the reckoning.”

The D’Amelios watched from their corner of the battered room, their faces drained of color. They’d survived the horrors of war, but this new wave of dread gripped them differently.

“What do you mean?” Charli asked hesitantly.

Béla turned to her, his eyes bloodshot and unyielding. “The Soviets don’t leave loose ends. Everyone who fought, everyone who spoke out—they will be hunted. Arrested. Executed. It’s what they do.”

He gestured towards the streets, where lines of black vehicles began to crawl through the city. Soldiers knocked on doors with heavy fists, dragging people—men, women, even children—into the waiting cars. The cries of the accused filled the air, accompanied by the muffled sobs of their families.

Marc stepped closer to the window, his jaw clenched. “This… this is worse than the battles,” he said, his voice trembling.

“It always is,” Béla replied grimly. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a bullet—the same one he’d sent to the D’Amelios back in their time. He rolled it between his fingers before holding it up. “Do you understand now why I brought you here? Why I wanted you to see this?”

Marc and Charli exchanged a look, their earlier annoyance with Béla replaced by a creeping understanding. Heidi, still pale from the horrors she’d witnessed, murmured, “This… this is real trauma, isn’t it?”

Béla’s expression softened slightly. “Yes. This was my world. It’s not just a story or a footnote in history. This broke us. It broke me.”

The room fell silent as Béla activated the time machine again. A shimmering vortex enveloped them, and when the light faded, they found themselves standing in a grim courtroom in early 1957. Rows of civilians sat silently as a judge pronounced sentence after sentence. Death. Death. Death.

“This is how it went,” Béla said quietly. “Show trials. The Soviets orchestrated them, but they used our own people to hand down the sentences.”

A young woman was led into the courtroom in chains. Her eyes were defiant, but her face betrayed her youth. “That’s Ilona Tóth,” Béla said. “She was twenty-four. They accused her of distributing anti-communist leaflets.”

“What… what happened to her?” Charli asked, already dreading the answer.

“They hanged her,” Béla said bluntly. “Like 230 others.” His voice cracked, but he didn’t look away as the guards dragged Ilona from the room. “Most of them were Communist Party members who dared to speak out against the Soviets. The revolution ate its own.”

Heidi buried her face in her hands, unable to watch. Marc clenched his fists, his knuckles white. “This is barbaric,” he muttered.

Béla laughed bitterly. “Barbaric? This was politics under Stalin’s shadow. They wanted us to know that resistance was futile.”

The scene shifted again. The air was warmer, heavier, and the architecture around them was distinctly different. “Where are we now?” Marc asked.

“1973. Romania,” Béla replied curtly. “I wanted you to see what happens to those who manage to survive but can never escape.”

Ahead of them, they saw a ragged group of Hungarians working under the watchful eyes of Romanian guards. Béla pointed to an older man among them. His back was bent, his face weathered with age and pain.

“That’s Ferenc,” Béla said. “He was one of our bravest fighters in ’56. Now? A prisoner, breaking stones for a foreign regime.”

Charli stared, her stomach turning. “Why are you showing us this?”

“Because this,” Béla said, his voice rising, “is the price of defiance. This is what they don’t teach you in history books. Trauma isn’t just a bad memory—it’s a scar that never heals. And I wanted you to understand that before you go back to your safe, sanitized lives.”

The D’Amelios were silent, their earlier bravado and complaints replaced by the weight of what they had seen. For the first time, they truly understood Béla’s bitterness, his anger, and his unrelenting need for them to bear witness.

Chapter 12

The blinding light of Béla’s device faded, leaving the D’Amelios standing on a cracked and frozen pavement. The air was bitterly cold, carrying the stench of oil and burning garbage. Around them stretched the grim, grey streets of Bucharest, the capital of a country still shaking from decades of Ceaușescu’s brutal regime.

“This is December 22nd, 1989,” Béla said, his voice carrying an edge of foreboding. “You’re about to see what happens when people reach their limit.”

The scene was chaotic. Crowds of emaciated, angry people swarmed the streets, waving homemade flags with the communist insignia ripped out of their centers. Banners with hastily scrawled messages calling for freedom and justice waved above the crowd. Some carried stones; others wielded makeshift weapons—pipes, hammers, even kitchen knives.

Buildings around them bore the scars of years of neglect. Crumbling facades and shattered windows stood as testaments to a regime that had gutted its own country to fuel its leader’s ambitions. The D’Amelios stared in stunned silence as they were jostled by the crowd.

“Why are they so angry?” Dixie asked, her voice trembling.

Béla rounded on her, his eyes blazing. “Because they’ve been starved, beaten, and worked to death! Because their children are dying in hospitals without medicine! Because this man,” he jabbed a finger toward the imposing Communist Party headquarters, “has stolen their lives to build palaces for himself.”

The family flinched as gunshots rang out in the distance. The rhythmic sound of boots marching in unison echoed through the streets, growing louder with each second. Soldiers—young conscripts with fear etched into their faces—emerged, forming a barrier to stop the advancing crowd.

Nicolae Ceaușescu himself stood on the balcony above, flanked by Elena and a handful of party officials. His voice boomed over the square, amplified by loudspeakers. He began his speech, his words a mix of denial and hollow promises.

“This is the man they hate?” Marc asked nervously.

Béla nodded grimly. “They hate him so much that they’ll die just to see him fall.”

The crowd’s anger began to boil over. The murmur of discontent grew into a roar, drowning out Ceaușescu’s words. People began throwing rocks and bottles at the soldiers. Some screamed curses; others chanted: “Down with Ceaușescu!”

Then, with a sharp crack, a gunshot rang out. A man in the crowd fell, clutching his chest as blood poured from the wound. Charli screamed, stumbling backward into Heidi.

“They shot him!” she shrieked.

“Yes,” Béla said coldly. “They’ll shoot more if they have to. But it won’t stop them.”

The soldiers hesitated as the crowd surged forward. Some conscripts faltered, lowering their rifles or fleeing entirely. Ceaușescu’s voice wavered, and for the first time, fear flickered across his face.

Suddenly, a deafening explosion rocked the square. A homemade bomb, thrown from the crowd, detonated near the soldiers. Shrapnel tore through flesh and bone, leaving a bloody mess where the front line had been.

The D’Amelios ducked instinctively as chunks of concrete and flesh rained down. Dixie clung to Béla, shaking violently.

“What the hell is this?” Marc shouted over the chaos. “This isn’t a protest; it’s a war zone!”

“It’s a revolution,” Béla corrected sharply. “And this is only the beginning.”

Above them, Ceaușescu was visibly panicked. His security detail whisked him and Elena inside the building as the crowd broke through the barricades. A helicopter descended onto the roof moments later. The family watched as the dictator and his wife were bundled into the chopper, which lifted off amidst a hail of rocks and gunfire.

“They’re running away!” Heidi exclaimed.

“For now,” Béla said. “But they won’t get far.”

The world blurred again as Béla activated his device. When they landed, the air was heavier, thick with the smell of gunpowder and death. It was December 25th, 1989, and they were standing at a military base in Târgoviște.

Marc’s face went pale as he looked around. “I know this place…”

“Yes,” Béla said. “This is where justice catches up with tyrants.”

In the distance, a ragged pair was led across the snow-covered ground. Nicolae and Elena Ceaușescu looked nothing like the powerful figures they had been. Their clothes were filthy, their faces gaunt and terrified. They were dragged before a firing squad, their arms tied behind their backs.

A military officer read the charges against them: genocide, abuse of power, and economic sabotage. The trial had lasted mere hours, a formality to justify the execution.

“This can’t be real,” Dixie whispered, her voice shaking.

“Oh, it’s real,” Béla said harshly. “And it’s what they deserved.”

The officer gave the order, and the soldiers raised their rifles. Nicolae shouted something incoherent—defiance or fear, no one could tell. Elena screamed curses, her voice shrill and desperate.

Then the command rang out: “Fire!”

The soldiers unleashed a storm of bullets. Blood sprayed across the snow as the Ceaușescus collapsed, their bodies twitching before falling still.

Charli gagged, tears streaming down her face. “They just… they just killed them…”

“Yes,” Béla said, his voice devoid of sympathy. “And the whole world saw it. This was broadcast live, a warning to every dictator who thought they were untouchable.”

Marc fell to his knees, his head in his hands. “I remember now. I saw this on TV when I was a young. I didn’t let myself watch the whole thing.”

Béla looked at him, his face etched with cold determination. “You had the luxury of turning away. These people didn’t.”

With that, Béla activated the device one final time. In an instant, they were back in Los Angeles, standing outside the pristine D’Amelio mansion.

The family stood in stunned silence, the weight of what they had witnessed pressing down on them like a crushing tide.

Béla turned to face them, his expression one of finality. “Now you’ve seen it. The real world. The pain, the blood, and the cost of freedom. Do not take what you have for granted. Not everyone was so lucky.”

Chapter 13

The D’Amelios, still shaken from the events they had witnessed with Béla, invited him inside for coffee. Béla accepted, settling himself at their pristine kitchen table. He looked around the ultramodern interior of their luxurious villa with a mix of curiosity and faint disdain.

Heidi brought out steaming cups of coffee and a plate of freshly baked cookies. Dixie and Charli, still pale from the intense journey, had changed into their usual casual attire—baggy jeans, cropped tops, and colorful sneakers. Béla eyed their outfits with a mix of bewilderment and disapproval before taking a sip of the coffee.

"You have good coffee here," he said gruffly, placing the cup down. "Better than the mud we drank back in the day."

Dixie and Charli exchanged uncertain glances before Charli cleared her throat. "So, Mr. Nagy... uh, Béla. We just wanted to say thanks, I guess... for not, like, leaving us in one of those terrible places."

Béla chuckled grimly. "Terrible? My dear, those places were life. What you saw, what you felt—" he jabbed a finger at her—"that’s the reality most of the world lived through. And some still do."

Charli bristled at his tone. "Well, excuse me for being born in a time where we don't have to deal with tanks and secret police!"

Béla leaned forward, his gaze sharp. "And yet, here you are, whining about people saying mean things to you on the internet. What a tragedy."

Dixie shifted uncomfortably. "It’s not just that. It’s constant. The hate, the comments, the pressure. People tell us we’re worthless, that we should die—"

"Ah, the cruelties of words," Béla interrupted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "In my day, cruelty came with fists, boots, or bullets. But tell me, what words are these that crush you so?"

Charli opened her phone, pulling up screenshots of hateful comments. "Here," she said, thrusting the phone toward him. "Look at this."

Béla took the device, squinting at the screen. The words seemed alien to him: low-key garbage, cringe fam, get canceled already. He handed the phone back, visibly puzzled.

"I don’t understand half of this nonsense," he admitted. "But I see enough. People have no filter these days, no restraint." He paused, his expression softening slightly. "I’m sorry you face this, truly. But these insults—compared to the blood in the streets, the betrayals, the losses I lived through—these are nothing but air."

Charli’s lip quivered. "It’s easy for you to say. You didn’t grow up with everyone watching your every move, waiting for you to mess up!"

Béla’s eyes flashed. "And you didn’t grow up with Soviet tanks rolling into your city or your friends disappearing overnight. Do not compare your TikTok wars to the battles we fought for survival."

The room fell silent, the air thick with tension. Finally, Béla sighed. "I understand modern problems, even at my age. But you, Charli, Dixie, all of you—if you ever feel tempted to mock Europeans again, remember what I showed you. What I lived through. What countless others endured."

He stood, straightening his worn jacket. "You’ve had a taste of reality beyond your bubble. Learn from it. Grow from it. Or the next time someone sends you a bullet in the mail, you might not be so lucky."

With that, he walked to the door. Before leaving, he turned back. "Oh, and thank you for the coffee. Tell your father he brews a good pot."

The D’Amelios watched as Béla stepped out into the bright Los Angeles sun, his silhouette disappearing down the driveway. A moment later, a message arrived on Charli’s phone.

It was from Béla:

"You’re young. You can still change. Make sure you do."

Chapter 14

The media frenzy was unstoppable. News trucks lined the streets outside the D’Amelio residence, reporters jockeying for space as drones buzzed overhead. Every outlet wanted the scoop. Headlines screamed:

• “D’Amelios Claim Time Travel: Is It Real?”
• “TikTok Royalty’s Dangerous Adventure!”
• “Historical Proof or Elaborate Hoax?”

The family stepped out onto their porch, their usual polished facade cracked by the weight of what they’d experienced. Heidi, looking uncharacteristically serious, held the crowd’s attention as Marc stood behind her with a sleek laptop in hand.

“We know this sounds impossible,” Heidi began, her voice steady but somber. “But we’re not lying. We traveled through time. We’ve been to the past—seen things we could never imagine.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd. One bold reporter shouted, “Where’s the proof?”

Marc stepped forward, opening the laptop. With a click, he projected vivid, high-resolution footage onto an outdoor screen set up for the impromptu press conference. The reporters collectively gasped.

The footage began rolling in 4K at 60 FPS:

1. Budapest, 1956 The video panned across a war-torn street. Rubble littered the ground as buildings crumbled in the background. Soviet tanks rumbled down the avenue, the camera catching every detail of their rust-streaked hulls. Flames erupted from a destroyed T-34, the heatwaves visibly distorting the air. The camera zoomed in on Heidi, gripping a PPSH-41 with trembling hands, her face smeared with soot. Tears streaked her cheeks as she stood next to a burning barricade, her expression a mix of fear and grim determination. Another shot showed Béla, wearing a battered Pickelhaube, firing his Mosin-Nagant from a balcony. The camera caught every puff of smoke from the rifle’s barrel, the recoil rippling through his aging frame.
2. The Streets of Budapest A clip showed Dixie helping a bloodied child into a cellar. Charli stood frozen as a Molotov cocktail exploded mere feet away, scattering flames across a Soviet transport truck. Marc was seen dragging a young man to safety, his face twisted in disbelief.
3. Romania, 1989 The next clip showed Ceaușescu’s final speech, his face tight with fear as boos and jeers escalated. The video zoomed in on his darting eyes as the angry crowd surged. Helicopter blades roared overhead, kicking up dust as the dictator fled. Another sequence captured the execution. Nicolae and Elena Ceaușescu stood before the firing squad. The footage, uncannily crisp, showed the soldiers raising their weapons, their expressions blank but tense. The camera didn’t flinch as the shots rang out, and the bodies crumpled to the ground in a cloud of blood and dust.
4. Behind the Lines Snapshots followed:
   • Children in Budapest scavenging for food near the wreckage of a tank.
   • A close-up of a shattered window, the fragments reflecting ÁVD dragging an elderly man into a Pobeda.
   • The faces of protesters in Romania, their anger and despair frozen in high definition, like ghosts from another era.

When the footage ended, there was silence. Even the most skeptical reporters seemed shaken.

“Who is Béla?” one finally asked.

“He’s the man who took us there,” Marc said, pulling out a photograph. It showed Béla standing stoically in a Budapest ruin, gripping his Mosin-Nagant. The clarity was so striking that every wrinkle, every smudge of dirt on his face, was visible.

“We don’t know where he is now,” Heidi added, her voice trembling. “But he taught us something we’ll never forget. History isn’t just something you read about. It’s real. It’s brutal. And we take so much for granted.”

Social media went into overdrive:

• #DAmeliosTimeTravel trended worldwide.
• Historical experts debated the authenticity of the footage, unable to deny its haunting realism.
• Fans and skeptics alike scoured the internet for any trace of Béla Nagy.

Conspiracy theories blossomed. Some claimed Béla was a ghost; others believed he was a time traveler himself.

But the D’Amelios didn’t care about the noise. They knew the truth, and for once, it wasn’t about likes or shares. It was about remembering the cost of freedom—and how close they came to losing it.

Chapter 15

The world’s obsession with Béla Nagy showed no signs of fading. News channels ran endless segments dissecting the D’Amelios’ surreal story. Historians, psychologists, and skeptics filled panels, debating the credibility of the footage. Search parties, both official and unofficial, spread out across Los Angeles and beyond.

Yet Béla seemed to have vanished into thin air.

Despite the mounting pressure, the D’Amelios refused to back down. They insisted that Béla was real, that their experiences were not a stunt or hallucination. To prove it, they arranged an exclusive interview with a renowned journalist from 60 Minutes.

The interview was held in the D’Amelio living room, far from its usual glamorous appearance. The family had opted for a muted, almost somber aesthetic. No bright lights or trendy decor—just a simple couch and a coffee table cluttered with papers and photographs from their time-travel ordeal.

Charli and Dixie sat side by side, visibly tense. Charli fidgeted with her phone, though it remained off. Dixie stared at the floor, her expression unreadable.

“Thank you for agreeing to speak with us,” the journalist began, leaning forward. “The world is captivated by your story. Can you tell us more about Béla Nagy? What was he like?”

Charli hesitated before speaking, her voice unusually soft. “He was... blunt. Direct. Kind of terrifying, honestly. But he wasn’t a bad person. He just—he wanted us to understand something we never thought about.”

Dixie nodded, adding, “Yeah. Like, he wasn’t trying to hurt us or anything. He was just... showing us reality. The way he saw it.”

The journalist pressed, “Some might say what he put you through—dragging you into violent, dangerous situations—was traumatic. Would you agree?”

Charli exhaled sharply. “Of course, it was traumatic! I mean, we saw people die. We saw what real fear looks like. But…” She paused, her voice wavering. “But he was right. About a lot of things. People hate us, and yeah, it sucks. But he showed us what real hate, real suffering is. It’s not some stupid comment on TikTok.”

Dixie leaned forward, her face set in determination. “Look, we’ve been to therapy. We’ve had all the help money can buy. And none of it—it just didn’t do what Béla did. He didn’t sugarcoat anything. He made us face it. Face ourselves.”

The journalist raised an eyebrow. “So you’d say Béla helped you?”

“Helped?” Charli scoffed. “He changed us. Therapy made me feel like a victim. Béla? He made me realize how spoiled and clueless we were.” She glanced at her sister. “Still are, probably.”

Despite their insistence, no trace of Béla could be found.

• CCTV footage from the D’Amelio neighborhood showed Béla’s last known movement: walking away from their house and vanishing down a side street.
• Investigators combed the area but found no leads.
• Calls for anyone matching Béla’s description flooded police hotlines, but all turned up dead ends.

Rumors circulated. Some claimed Béla was an actor hired for an elaborate hoax. Others theorized he was a ghost or some supernatural entity sent to teach the D’Amelios a lesson.

Charli and Dixie, however, didn’t care about the theories. They knew Béla was real. And though his methods were extreme, they had to admit—he’d done more for their mental health than any therapist ever could.

Later that evening, after the cameras had left, the family sat together in their living room. For once, their phones were nowhere in sight.

“You know,” Heidi began, breaking the silence, “I still can’t believe he just disappeared. It’s like he came into our lives, turned everything upside down, and then… poof.”

Marc chuckled softly. “He’d probably say we’re lucky he didn’t stick around longer.”

Charli stared out the window, her expression distant. “I just hope… I don’t know. That he knows we get it now. What he was trying to tell us.”

Dixie nodded, her voice quiet. “Yeah. Béla’s not like anyone we’ve ever met. And probably never will again.”

The room fell silent as they reflected on the man who had so profoundly changed their lives, even as he remained an enigma.

Chapter 16

The Good Morning America studio buzzed with anticipation. The D’Amelios’ appearance was the day’s headline, and the hosts knew the audience expected answers. The family arrived dressed to impress, their usual charm tempered by an unusual seriousness.

As the cameras rolled, the lead host smiled warmly, introducing the segment. “Today, we have the D’Amelios with us to talk about their extraordinary claims of time travel, their encounter with the mysterious Béla Nagy, and how it has changed their lives. Welcome, D’Amelios!”

“Thank you for having us,” Marc said, his tone more grounded than his usual easygoing demeanor.

The hosts didn’t waste time. One of them leaned forward, addressing Charli. “Charli, your story has captivated the world. But there are skeptics out there. People want proof. Can you tell us more about this Béla Nagy? Who is he?”

Charli hesitated, then pulled out her phone. “Actually… I just remembered something. Béla texted me after everything happened.”

The studio gasped. The host raised an eyebrow. “You’re saying you still have contact with him?”

Charli nodded, her fingers hovering over her phone. “Yeah. He sent me this cryptic message a while ago, like… ‘If you still don’t get it, call me.’ I thought it was just him being dramatic. But maybe—”

“Do it,” Dixie whispered, nudging her.

The hosts exchanged excited glances. “You’re saying you’re going to call him now? Live on air?”

Charli shrugged nervously. “Why not?”

The phone rang, the tension in the studio thick enough to cut with a knife. After three rings, a gravelly voice answered in Hungarian-accented English.

“Who’s calling me at this hour? Oh, wait... It’s you,” Béla said, clearly unimpressed.

The room froze. Charli’s voice wavered. “Uh, hi, Béla. It’s Charli. We’re, um, on Good Morning America.”

A long pause. Then a dry chuckle. “Of course, you are. Couldn’t keep it to yourself, eh? Fine. What do you want?”

One of the hosts interjected, barely able to contain their excitement. “Mr. Nagy, this is Good Morning America. The world is eager to hear your side of the story. Would you care to explain why you did what you did?”

Béla sighed audibly. “My side of the story? Fine. It all started when this girl—” his voice grew sharper, “—decided to publicly claim that Europeans are ‘backward and aggressive.’ That stung. And I thought, ‘If they think we’re aggressive, let’s show them what real aggression looks like.’”

He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. “So, I sent them a letter. With a .32 ACP bullet. A polite warning, you could say.”

The studio erupted in murmurs. One host stammered, “A... bullet? You sent them a bullet?”

“Yes,” Béla replied matter-of-factly. “Then, I paid them a visit. Confronted them directly. I even threw a brick at their mother—Heidi, yes? She took it well, considering.”

Heidi cringed but nodded reluctantly. “He did. It was... not my best moment.”

“And after that?” the host pressed, visibly fascinated.

“I took them on a journey,” Béla continued, his tone softening slightly. “I showed them Budapest in 1956. I showed them my youth—myself as a 19-year-old, with my love, Anna. She was beautiful, brave... and she died in the revolution. They saw what true hardship looks like. What real loss feels like. It was not about hurting them. It was about teaching them.”

Charli’s voice cracked. “Anna was amazing. And you—you were so young, Béla. I’m sorry for what you went through.”

Béla’s tone grew gruff again. “Don’t pity me, girl. Just learn from it. And never again call Europeans outdated.”

The host leaned forward, seizing the moment. “Mr. Nagy, this is extraordinary. Would you be willing to appear on our show? The world needs to meet you.”

Another long pause. Then, with a hint of amusement, Béla replied, “Fine. I’ll come. But don’t expect me to sugarcoat anything.”

The studio erupted in applause as the call ended.

The D’Amelios exchanged stunned glances, the weight of the moment sinking in. The world was about to meet the man who had changed their lives—and perhaps, their understanding of the world—forever.

Chapter 17

A month had passed since Béla’s voice echoed across the airwaves of Good Morning America. The anticipation surrounding his visit had reached fever pitch. At LAX, a sea of reporters, fans, and curious onlookers gathered as a figure in a dark trench coat and flat cap emerged from the terminal.

It was Béla Nagy.

The D’Amelios waited at the front of the crowd. Heidi, spotting Béla immediately, waved him over. “Béla!” she called, her voice cutting through the noise.

He approached, his expression stoic, though his eyes betrayed a hint of weariness. Cameras flashed as reporters surged forward, thrusting microphones at him.

“Mr. Nagy, why did you agree to come to LA?”

“Do you really have a time machine?”

“What’s your message to the modern world?”

Béla held up a hand. “I’m here to talk, not to babysit. Let’s keep it professional.”

Heidi whispered to him as they walked toward a waiting car, “You’re about to experience the circus that is Hollywood.”

Béla smirked. “I’ve seen real chaos. This is child’s play.”

Later that week, Béla appeared on a prime-time celebrity talk show, seated on a plush couch under glaring studio lights. The charismatic host leaned in, addressing the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen, tonight we have the man of the moment. The legend himself—Béla Nagy!”

The crowd erupted in applause as Béla adjusted his tie and nodded curtly. Beside him sat two other guests: Kai Cenat, the popular streamer, and Livvy Dunne, the gymnast and social media star. Both seemed slightly out of their element next to the grizzled Hungarian.

The host began with an easy question. “Béla, the world is fascinated by your story. What’s the one thing you want people to understand about life under socialism?”

Béla leaned forward, his voice sharp and deliberate. “Life under socialism was not a utopia. It was gray. It was fear. You were hungry—not just for food but for freedom. Neighbors spied on neighbors. The ÁVH could take you in the middle of the night for a joke you told at dinner.”

He reached into his bag, pulling out a Prussian pickelhaube helmet. Placing it on his head, he deadpanned, “This is what we wore for laughs when the Soviets weren’t looking.”

The studio burst into laughter, with even Kai and Livvy chuckling. Béla scowled.

“You think this is funny?” he snapped, his voice cutting through the levity. “You sit here, comfortable in your ignorance, laughing at the symbols of survival.”

The room fell silent. Béla stood, pulling a device from his coat pocket—a small, intricate contraption glowing faintly.

“This,” he announced, “is a time machine. You think you understand my story? Let me show you.”

Before the host could respond, Béla activated the device. A vortex of light engulfed the studio, and in an instant, they were no longer in LA.

The air was thick with smoke and fear as the studio guests found themselves in the streets of Budapest during the Hungarian Revolution. Buildings smoldered. Gunfire echoed in the distance.

Kai screamed as a T-34 tank rumbled past, its turret swiveling ominously. Livvy ducked as bullets zipped overhead. The host cowered behind Béla, who calmly picked up a discarded Mosin-Nagant rifle.

“This,” Béla said, gesturing to the chaos, “is what I lived through.”

A group of Hungarian freedom fighters ran by, shouting for help. Béla joined them without hesitation, firing at Soviet soldiers advancing down the street. His accuracy was chilling.

The studio guests huddled together, their terror palpable. “Béla, get us out of here!” the host screamed.

After what felt like hours—but was only minutes—Béla reactivated the time machine. The vortex reopened, pulling them back into the safety of the studio.

The audience, still watching live, sat in stunned silence as the group reappeared on screen. Smoke clung to their clothes, and their faces bore the grime of battle.

Béla placed the rifle on the coffee table, leaned into the camera, and spoke directly to the audience. “This is history. It is not a joke. It is not a story. It is real. And you would do well to remember it.”

The studio erupted in applause, though many clapped more out of shock than admiration.

The episode became one of the most talked-about broadcasts in television history. Béla’s demonstration of his time machine and the raw glimpse into 1956 Budapest left an indelible mark on everyone who witnessed it.

The show resumed, with the host visibly shaken after their harrowing return from the chaos of 1956. Turning to Béla, who looked as composed as ever, he stammered, “Mr. Nagy… That was the most unbelievable experience of my life. But please, I have to ask—how did you even build something like that?”

Béla adjusted his jacket, casually removed the pickelhaube from his head, and shrugged as if asked for a recipe for goulash. “I got bored at home,” he said plainly. “So, I took an old watch, an artificial horizon from a retired aircraft, a dismantled telephone, and a Rubin television set. I decided to experiment. And it worked—a time machine.”

The audience gasped collectively, and the host sat back in his chair, utterly flabbergasted. “You mean to tell me you built a time machine at home with scraps?”

“Yes,” Béla replied with a smirk. “It was either that or fixing my leaky roof. Time travel seemed more interesting. Once I had it working, I used it to revisit memories from my youth, sometimes for nostalgia, sometimes to honor the people I lost. And sometimes,” he paused, looking directly into the camera, “to give modern fools a taste of reality.”

The host leaned forward, intrigued. “And after witnessing the horrors of your past firsthand—what did you do? How did you move on?”

Béla’s expression softened. “I lived my life,” he began. “After 1956, I earned a doctorate. Then, I was drafted into the air force. For ten years, until 1973, I flew jet fighters. After that, I spent twenty years flying an Ilyushin Il-18 for Malév. Later, I captained a Boeing 767 for another six years. When I retired from aviation, I drove buses in Budapest for a while. It was a good life, despite everything.”

The studio fell silent, hanging on every word. Even Kai Cenat, known for his comedic interruptions, seemed deeply moved. “Wait,” Kai said, breaking the quiet, “you flew all those planes? What’s that like?”

Béla’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “Why ask when I can show you?”

Before anyone could respond, Béla activated his time machine again, and in the blink of an eye, the studio audience found themselves transported to 1980 at Budapest’s Ferihegy Airport (now Ferenc Liszt International Airport). The scene was surreal: an Ilyushin Il-18 sat gleaming on the tarmac. Béla led the bewildered group aboard, much to their reluctance.

“Let’s go!” Béla shouted, donning a captain’s hat. He quickly assigned a few men to roles as navigator, flight engineer, and co-pilot. Many passengers, including Kai and Livvy Dunne, wrinkled their noses at the old turboprop airliner. “This thing still works?” Livvy asked skeptically.

Béla chuckled. “It doesn’t just work. It soars.”

Moments later, they were airborne, with the Il-18 rumbling through the skies. Passengers marveled at the vintage interior while Béla expertly piloted the aircraft. Then, without warning, he performed a barrel roll. Screams filled the cabin as the plane flipped gracefully, defying expectations. Béla grinned, gripping the controls tightly. “Yes, the Il-18 can do this,” he said smugly.

Several passengers fainted; others clutched sick bags, visibly regretting their decision to board. Back in the cabin, Livvy and Kai held onto their seats for dear life, exchanging panicked glances. “This man is insane!” Kai yelled, though there was a hint of admiration in his voice.

After a series of daring maneuvers, Béla activated the time machine again, transporting the plane above Los Angeles. Planespotters at LAX gasped in astonishment, rushing to capture footage of the vintage Hungarian Il-18 descending gracefully onto the runway.

The landing was smooth, as if Béla had been flying the aircraft daily. As the passengers disembarked, visibly shaken but unharmed, Béla tipped his hat. “Thank you for flying with Captain Nagy,” he quipped before reactivating his time machine and disappearing with the plane.

The morning was serene as Béla stepped out of his small villa in Budapest, the kind of day where the air was crisp, and the faint smell of chimney smoke wafted through the city. He was dressed simply, in an old sweater and worn slacks, his favorite cap perched on his head. As he reached the edge of his modest garden, he stopped in his tracks.

Before him stood something he hadn’t seen since his youth: a pristine T-34/85 tank, painted in olive drab, its Hungarian insignia gleaming in the sunlight. It was as though the ghost of his past had materialized in his backyard.

Béla approached the tank cautiously, his breath visible in the cold morning air. Taped to the turret was a neatly folded envelope. He removed it, inspecting the seal, and opened it carefully. Inside was a letter, the handwriting bold and familiar.

"Dear Béla,

After everything you showed us, we thought you deserved something special. Consider this a small token of gratitude—from one D’Amelio to another time-traveling legend. We figured you’d know what to do with it.

With respect,"

Marc D’Amelio

Béla couldn’t suppress a grin. “A tank,” he muttered, chuckling to himself. “Now this is a proper gift.”

Without hesitation, he climbed up the side of the T-34/85, his movements surprisingly agile for a man of his age. The cold metal felt familiar beneath his hands, like shaking hands with an old comrade. He opened the hatch and slid into the driver’s seat, the smell of grease and diesel oil immediately bringing back memories of the Hungarian uprising.

He checked the controls—everything was in perfect working order. Whoever restored this machine knew their craft. Turning the key, he brought the tank’s V-2-34 engine roaring to life. The sound was deafening, sending birds scattering from nearby trees.

The tank rolled out of Béla’s garden and onto the cobblestone streets of Budapest, the ground trembling with each turn of its steel tracks. At first, pedestrians froze in disbelief. An old man, piloting a World War II-era tank through their quiet neighborhood, was not something anyone expected to see over their morning coffee.

Some whipped out their phones, capturing the surreal sight. Others gawked, pointing and murmuring. Children ran alongside the tank, cheering and waving Hungarian flags that had been tucked away since the last national holiday.

Béla couldn’t resist sticking his head out of the commander’s hatch, his trademark cap firmly in place, as he waved back to the crowds. “Nothing to fear!” he called out in Hungarian. “Just taking her for a test drive!”

The city seemed to come alive as news spread. People lined the streets, snapping photos and filming videos as the tank rumbled past landmarks like St. Stephen’s Basilica and Heroes’ Square.

Within hours, social media platforms were ablaze. Posts tagged #TankManBéla flooded Twitter, Instagram, and TikTok. Headlines popped up across major outlets:

“TIME TRAVELER TAKES TANK THROUGH BUDAPEST!”

“FROM 1956 TO 2024: BÉLA NAGY’S LEGEND GROWS”

“HUNGARIAN HERO OR MODERN MENACE?”

Planespotters who had only days before captured Béla landing a vintage Il-18 at LAX were now sharing footage of him casually driving a T-34/85 down Andrássy Avenue. One viral clip showed Béla stopping in front of a café, chatting with patrons while leaning out of the hatch, the tank idling peacefully behind him.

As Béla neared the Danube River, he noticed a police car following him. For a moment, he wondered if his joyride was about to be cut short. Instead, the officer leaned out of the window, gave a thumbs-up, and activated the siren—not as a warning, but as an unofficial escort.

Soon, more vehicles joined the procession: cars, motorcycles, even bicycles. The impromptu parade made its way across the iconic Chain Bridge, the tank’s weight causing the ancient structure to groan under the strain.

When Béla finally parked the tank at Kossuth Lajos Square, in front of the Hungarian Parliament, he was greeted by a massive crowd. Reporters jostled for position, shouting questions in Hungarian, English, and several other languages. Béla climbed out of the tank, his face lit with a mischievous grin.

When asked by a reporter what he planned to do next, Béla laughed heartily. “Next? Who knows! Maybe I’ll take her to Vienna for a schnitzel!”

The crowd roared with laughter and applause.

As the sun set over Budapest, Béla stood atop the tank, a man of history firmly planted in the present. For a moment, he reflected on how life had taken him from the battle-scarred streets of 1956 to the adoration of a modern audience. He raised his cap to the crowd, and they cheered in return.

Back at home that evening, Béla sat with a cup of tea, his time machine humming softly in the corner. He looked out the window at the tank, now parked peacefully in his garden. “Not bad for an old man,” he mused, a satisfied smile spreading across his face.