Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

«My son, keep thy father’s commandment…»
«A fool despiseth his father’s instruction: but he that regardeth reproof is prudent.»
«He that spareth his rod hateth his son…»
«Honour thy father and thy mother: that thy days may be long upon the land which the Lord thy
God giveth thee.»

...

In an instant, everything changed. Approaching the door, Homeowner had expected anything - whether it's a visage of another person in need, wretched in fear, a pleased grimace of a pale maniac, or the soulless mask of a FEMA agent. But, catching a glimpse of a familiar face, swollen and reddened from tears, he found himself startled. Every thought suddenly vanished; first rays of the scarlet dawn painted the sky, and he grabbed the girl's hand, dragging her into the house. Homeowner couldn't make out much of her gurgling sobs, just his own name and the word «dad», shouted with such animal desperation as he had never heard before. He tried to calm her down, but to no avail: she had a death grip on him as she choked on her own tears.
Entering the kitchen, he found a startled Blinded Man, to whom he had to quickly explain the whole situation. Like this, awkwardly hugging a heartbroken child, in a tear-soaked sweater, Homeowner spent more than an hour. Blinded Man retreated to the office, so the kitchen was occupied by only the girl and the house owner, both confused and scared. He couldn't even imagine what to do next; he could barely think coherently – his mind, gutted by lack of sleep, was focusing on sounds and sensations, all painfully dreary and too exhausting. He gave her time and opportunity to pour out all the emotions by just being close; that was all he was good for anyway. Fragments of phrases, interrupted by screams and sobs, helped him to piece together an incomplete and inaccurate picture, the one that made even Homeowner's eyes water. Only after a couple of hours her cries were replaced with a quiet detachment. He sat her down at the table and brought potatoes and a jar of pickles from the cellar.

When Homeowner placed a dish in front of her, she only looked it over sadly. Her yellow dress was stained with something, black hair was disheveled and unkempt, hands were dirty. She looked at him the same way she had when they first met, as if she didn’t know him. She wasn't a frequent guest at his house – the neighbour always left her with her mother during his short visits. He was a brilliant father, husband and friend; it was hard to imagine anyone better. He had an amazing relationship with his daughter, far from the one Homeowner was used to; he wasn’t envious, of course, it would be foolish and childish, but the memories were always there, with him, persistent and haunting, never letting him bury them as deep as he could. However, the image of a happy family made him feel something dreary but warm. Something like that stirred in the heart during thise rare moments when the hermit left his house, feeling that it had become one with him, like a parasite filling his stomach, demanding food continuously, unceasingly. He felt that sorrow when he was breathing railway station air, standing on the platform, filled not with just bodies - with lives. That's how he looked at those he served with, listenening stealthily, from afar; one had his mother waiting for him, another - a girlfriend, a future wife; the only thing waiting for him was empty walls, in which he was doomed to be burried alive. The neighbour had it completely differently. His daughter was always happy to see him, always hugged him so tightly, like for the last time. The neighbour called her by her full name - Sofia - although no one else called her that. They had a very strong bond. Homeowner always addressed her in a friendly manner, «Sonya», because he didn't want to look like a harsh superior in her eyes – the way his father had been for him.

Now, she didn’t look like her usual self - a restless and talkative girl, who was always trying to involve him, the unsociable and quiet hermit, in her childish interests. He looked at her sorrowfully. Sonya was picking at her plate with a fork, clearly not delighted by the fried potatoes with a pickled cucumber. Homeowner thought about ordering cereals; when he was a child, he always ate porridge in the morning - one he hated with his whole heart - but knew better than to refuse, so he swallowed a viscous unsweetened mass, even when he felt nauseous. Now he didn’t eat much, preferring to gulp down a can of beer and smoke a cigarette for breakfast; but with another person in the house, he had to think about food and, sadly, not only about that. He needed to order semolina or rolled oats, canned meat, because it could stay for years without getting expired, buckwheat, even though he didn’t eat it (and the reason for this, as he thought, was his experience with picking it out of his knees)... maybe sugar. He decided to deal with it today, after the regular checking. The thought of an unpleasant routine made him shift his gaze to the girl. With a heavy heart, he thought that she might be a Visitor. Everything inside him was shrinking, since the possibility could be real. His self-loathing was tearing him
apart just because he let himself think about it; he shook his head, closing his tired eyes. He was sure of one thing: he couldn’t raise his gun, let alone shoot; her life depended on him, and the last thing he could do was to protect it. Shackled by a hotly made promise and by the remains of his conscience, he had to stifle his fear and do at least something human. And, even if she were a reason for his death, it would be more than fair.
Sonya looked at him with pleading, dull eyes. Homeowner sighed heavily, patting the pocket of his jeans. He took out a pack with the only remaining cigarette; he would need to order more.

“Sorry, Sonya.” he mumbled, flicking his lighter. “Don’t have anything else.”

“I ate porridge usually...”, the girl answered quietly, looking at her plate again. Homeowner took a drag, nodding slowly.

“I can’t cook you porridge now. Today we have this, okay?”

She fell silent, picking up a fork again. Homeowner knew that the only reason she didn’t leave the table was her efforts to be respectful, as her father had taught her. The hermit sighed, wanting to say something else, but the kitchen door opened. In the doorway, slouching, Tall Man stood. His irritated expression turned to confusion, and then to a barely noticeable worry. He looked at the girl, and then, arching an eyebrow, at Homeowner, who could only look down. Sonya was looking at the newcomer, who probably looked strange to her, considering his bewildering height. She turned towards Homeowner and whispered:

“Uncle Sasha, who’s that?”

...He felt his stomach drop; the gaze of those blue eyes almost burned a hole in him. Names were too personal, because at the very sound of them, the mind created a picture full of familiar features, voice tone, habits... Hearing this name, he didn’t think of himself; the multicolored spots always formed into a single image with harsh green eyes staring back at him, eyes painfully similar to his own... Knowing the name was the first stage in forming an attachment; and if that was terrifying, then it was even worse to hear “you can call me Lesha” spoken in a flat, low voice.

...

Tall Man didn’t bother with such a thing as names. He had lost his own along with his passport, which was left in the apartment he lived in before. No one asked the names of the thousands burnt bodies lying in ditches, of deceased in quarantine zones or their own houses, so revealing his own was pointless – no one would put up a monument to him where people would bring flowers and Moskvichka candies, which no one ate because of their terrible taste. No one would hang up his photo, no one would remember him. Moreover, he wouldn’t even be buried; he’d be wrapped in a bag, taped shut, like Coat guy, whose name no one will ever know.
It was the same with Homeowner: he never asked anyone for something personal and never shared such things himself, preferring to keep his silence. Tall Man didn’t mind it and didn’t impose himself, preferring melancholy that evoked memories of the past and brought back lines close to his heart; he focused on the moment, because the next one might not come. The sound of other’s name, spoken by a naive, innocent child, caught him off guard. Alexander. A picture formed right away, as if there was no other way to call him. His face, contorted with irrational fear, almost made Tall Man smile. It was too stupid and absurd, abrupt and incomprehensible, not at the right time. But, was it a tearful girl with big, wondering eyes, or Homeowner, fettered and nervously smoking (despite the girl in the room), Tall Man didn’t even think before saying his own name. After all, this knowledge didn’t change anything on a global scale.

But he had questions, and he also had the intention of having a heart-to-heart conversation with Homeowner - Sasha. Their argument from the previous day was still fresh in his mind, and the unpleasant taste lingered. Tall Man gave the owner of the house a meaningful look, but the man studiously ignored him. Neither of them was ready to talk: Sasha was too tired - evidenced by his almost white face, marred by deep blue hollows under his eyes, cloudy as those of a blind man, and Alexei was too sober to listen to the delusions of a man who talked to his gun more often than he did to anyone else.

“Why don’t you go to sleep.” Tall Man said, opening the refrigerator. Homeowner brought the cigarette to his lips, staring blankly at his feet; he inhaled slowly, his free hand gripping the leather strap of his rifle.

“Can’t.”

“Physically?” Tall Man opened a can of beer, taking a sip. “That would explain why you don’t sleep at all.”

Homeowner just waved him off, not even offering him the simple curses that were usually used almost as interjections in their conversations.

“You’re going to kill yourself at this rate, my good man.”

He turned an unreadable gaze on Alexei. The other’s pupils were narrowed to dots, and his eyes looked almost wild. Alexander looked like a beaten dog, of which there were too many now. He took another drag, turning away.

“How can I leave her now?”

The question was rhetorical. Tall Man almost rolled his eyes, but decided not to show his annoyance this clearly. He had been feeling unwell since morning; his head was throbbing, the night had been difficult, and sleep hadn't helped alleviate his fatigue by an ounce. Alexei had to stay in the office, since he had no intention of returning to the living room. Reluctantly, he had to share space with a weird man who was talking nonsense about immortality - something Tall Man didn't care about. Moreover, he considered immortality to be a meaningless concept; it was more
of a curse than a blessing. All the conversations with Homeowner had been strained too, and now they were accompanied by an unpleasant tension that was impossible to escape.

“I'll stay with her.” Tall Man sighed. He pulled out a chair and sat down across from the girl, who was staring at her still-full plate. “When you're like this, you’re about as useful as… Fuck all.”

“Don't swear.” Sasha mumbled, nodding towards the girl. Tall Man thought it was ridiculous to put such restrictions during an apocalypse, but he didn't argue. Homeowner extinguished his cigarette and threw the butt into the trash can, which, like in any other house, was located under the sink. He glanced at Alexei, then at the child, remaining silent for a while, deep in thought. Sasha crossed his arms over his chest, examining the toes of his own home slippers. Then, he took a breath, straightening up.

“Listen to… Lesha. Don't talk to anyone else, okay?” The girl nodded. Tall Man propped his chin on his hand, eyes bored into the Homeowner's face. Before he left, he muttered a stiff “thank you”. Alexei just waved him off: the hermit's voice devoid of any sincerity.

...

Tall Man knew that there was nothing a kid could do to entertain themselves, and he had no intention to rummage through Alexander's things. She looked deeply saddened and clearly felt awkward. The only thing he could do was to entertain her with some sort of conversation. He didn't think he would succeed: even adults didn't often find him ppleasantto talk to, and things were even more complicated with a child. He never bothered to choose his words and always spoke directly, but it would be wrong to do so with a little girl.

Tall Man decided to start with something simple: «how old are you», «what's your name», «have you gone to school yet?» «do you want to?»… She answered with little interest, mostly just out of respect, but still, the dialogue was developing… which eventually led to her father, at the memory of which the girl first sobbed, and then burst into loud tears, wiping them with her hands. At first Alexei was taken aback. He never had children, neither did he have little brothers nor sisters. Then he tried to remember what his mother had done when he cried; now he preferred to drink, and in such a way that the first sip would erase the memory of what had caused it. It wasn't suitable for the girl, obviously, so he sighed, came closer and put his awkward hand on her shoulder, unsure of what to do. Sonya continued to cry, not even looking at him. He felt uncomfortable and tried to get her attention.

“Your dad will come, all right?” He said, immediately cursing himself in his heart. “He's very busy right now.”

The girl looked up at him with a broken, exhausted gaze. These were the eyes of people who had lost their loved ones in the war, who had been abandoned and left without hope of help or salvation. They were left with nothing, sometimes even the bodies were not returned to them, and she, a little seven-year-old girl, looked at him the way a widow would look at a military recruitment officer who had once again ignored her desperate pleas. It shouldn't be this way. It was cruel and wrong, but children died, became orphans, and saw things that made adults' heads turn gray, kept them awake at night, made them tremble, and always remained with them, burned into the backs of their closed eyes, carved and bleeding, never healing. He knew that such things didn't go away without a trace, and that made it even harder for him to lie.

“Really? You're not lying?” she asked, her voice low and timid, hoarse from sobbing. Tall Man felt helpless, bordering on anger, anger at himself and at the world that had decided to destroy something fragile that was left for someone. He nodded, but he couldn't even muster a half-smile.

“Really.”

In the few hours he had spent with her, he had only drunk one can of beer, although it was difficult to stay sober. There were too many thoughts, feelings of guilt, and a sudden sense of responsibility. Alexei was irritated, in large part because of Homeowner, who he was willing to bet would be checking the child for signs that Tall Man himself had seen were largely accurate. He wouldn't have allowed him to do even that, let alone commit another murder; Alexei wouldn't have forgiven himself. The world was dying, and they were all one step away from the grave, but he wouldn't have allowed a child to die at the hands of a madman driven by his own fear. It would have been the least he could do. His head was splitting from all the thoughts. He tried to speak to Sonya again; she was no longer crying, but still looked sad and gray. He was surprised by her ability to stay still. Usually, it was difficult to keep children in one place, especially when there was nothing to do, but she sat quietly, as if she were chained. In the end, he took the plate from her, saying that she didn't have to eat, and added that they wouldn't tell «uncle Sasha» about it. After a short while, she seemed to relax a bit. Not completely, of course, as she didn't know him well, but she was able to ask him why he was so tall. Alexei was taken aback at first, but then he said it was his “family curse.” It wasn’t too far from the truth. Sonya asked him a few more questions, and he answered something; everything was quiet until they heard someone's steps outside the door.
...

After the sound had died away at the end of the corridor, there was mumbling, hoarse and unintelligible. A couple of minutes later, Homeowner entered the room. It had been about three and a half hours, if not more. The man looked as tired and exhausted as always, but Tall Man, out of a sense of futility of the action itself and a little bit of resentment, did not say a word. Sasha opened the fridge and took out a can of beer, looking at both of them. It was nearing the middle of the day, and the sun was still high in the sky, with no plans to set for at least a few more hours.

“I wanted to talk to you,” Tall Man began, but his words were immediately dismissed.

“Later. I still have things to do.” Alexander slowly closed his eyes, but his drowsiness persisted. Alexei grimaced, understanding what he meant by that.

“Thought you get enough yesterday.”

“Then it wasn’t enough. Don’t fuck with my head.”

The man’s voice sounded irritated, although Homeowner was visibly tense. He furrowed his dark eyebrows and looked away, his green eyes fixed on the wall. He was not unaware of what had happened, but he still carried his gun, and Tall Man felt as if he was flaunting it. His quiet indifference was incomprehensible and provoked questions and obvious anger, but Alexei swallowed his sarcastic words and said nothing more.

...

The rest of the day passed quietly. There were no gunshots, only the echoes of other people’s conversations, short and meaningless. Tall Man was getting bored, and his own thoughts only brought him sadness, which eventually turned into a deep, cutting despair that he couldn’t escape. Of course, there was always a way out, but in this situation, there was only one, and it would require some effort. Alexei was sure that Homeowner wouldn’t shoot him (although he still felt fear, albeit an irrational), and he couldn’t hang himself - the ceilings were too low. He spent the last few days in a drunken stupor, engaging in random conversations that didn’t even bring him pleasure. Sasha had books that he never seemed to open. They sat on his shelves, abandoned and unused, and this didn’t make Sasha any better in Tall Man’s eyes. Alexei loved to read, and he especially adored poetry, and Homeowner had some valuable collections on his shelf that Alexei would have spent hours with. However, Homeowner never touched them, and Alexei couldn’t help but wonder why. It could be due to ignorance, but Sasha didn’t seem stupid, although his thinking was often irrational. On the other hand, he couldn’t be called a connoisseur of beauty either, as he diligently ignored all forms of beauty. Tall Man realized with frustration that he, too, was like that. However, there were moments when he would open a book and allow himself to be immersed in its pages. Today, as he read the small print on the yellowed paper, trying to understand the author’s message or appreciate the intricacies of their words, he felt only irritation and a lack of focus. All thoughts led to one, the urgent. And when it began to get dark outside, Tall Man stood up and left the office, which he had already come to hate.

...

Sasha stood by the window, nervous and tense, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the wooden frame. When the door creaked, he turned sharply at the sound and, upon seeing the newcomer, exhaled evenly. He did not relax; his gaze returned to the view beyond the window. Alexei didn’t come close to him, and they both remained silent for a moment; it was tense, but had
become so familiar that it was more irritating than confusing or unnerving. Tall Man spoke first.

“Sasha.”

Homeowner’s gaze shifted to him, sharp and penetrating. His lips were pursed, his eyebrows furrowed, and his hand gripped the strap of his rifle until his knuckles turned white.

“Don’t.” He said. His voice was cracked and broken, lacking the firmness and demand that it once possessed, instead bordering on desperation.

“As you say.” Tall Man agreed, after a short pause, “I wanted to talk.”

Alexander nodded. He no longer looked at Alexei, his cold eyes traced the outlines of something outside.

“What you said yesterday... it’s not my business, and it’s not my house, but I can’t just ignore it. You brought a child.”

Homeowner shook his head again. The man from the bar continued, this time more irritated.

“I can’t count on your discretion, because you obviously lack it. Just fucking listen to me. She’s only 7 years old. She’s just a child.”

In the almost completely empty and quiet space, his voice sounded too loud. Sasha didn't respond, just looked at him with a blank expression, and for a moment, Tall Man thought it was pointless to talk to him. He didn't know anything about the man who held his life in his hands, a life that could be extinguished with a single pull of the trigger. If it wasn't frightening, it certainly made his existence even more challenging.

“I know.” Homeowner said at last, leaning against the window frame. “See?”

Tall Man paused, raising an eyebrow; the hermit nodded toward the window, and the man came closer, peering into the gathering dusk. There, beyond the glass, were the charred remains of a house. Embers, black and scorched, the remnants of furniture that had not burned completely, and piles of debris formed a large ashen heap. In a calm voice, Homeowner said:

“My neighbour’s house. A family friend, and... my friend too.” Sasha paused, unnaturally, stiffly, and the Tall Man didn’t dare look at him. “I called him, and there were only beeps... He used to call me, even when he wasn’t asked to. And somehow I did something stupid. After it all started, I promised him that if anything happened, I would, well... protect his daughter.”

Homeowner’s voice trembled again, but in a different way, and he fell silent, turning away. Tall Man gave him a brief glance, but then his eyes returned to the view outside the window. A world in miniature, where those who remained faced a fate worse than death by fire. And she was a child who was waiting for her father to return. And he, Alexei, had lied to her. This thought weighed heavily on his mind.

The house was once again plunged into silence. The only sounds were those of the refrigerator, the old radio, and the wind outside. Despite this, the silence was always deafening. All that could be heard was the sound of someone’s breathing, slowly returning to normal. The silence here did not imply safety, nor did it imply the opposite; it simply embraced the night that brought death, or delayed it for another excruciatingly hot day. Now, it only meant what was considered weakness, though it was, in essence, ordinary humanity.

“I won’t harm her.” Alexander said. Tall Man looked at him inquisitively and with distrust. Homeowner turned away again, his lips pursed.

“Yesterday, you sounded different.”

Sasha sighed, closing his eyes.

“I know.”

It sounded uncertain. Alexei swept his frozen silhouette with a tired gaze. The unspoken, the tension, the weakness, and the impotence had always been a part of his
estrangement, if not its root cause. They were still visible in him, and Tall Man gave in. He didn’t think Homeowner could be trusted; who could be, anyway, with his back glued to a gun,
always ready to fire? And yet he sounded sincere. There was no usual dry acceptance or casual detachment of an accidental witness in his words, the way they all were, in their own ways. Of course, Alexei considered him to be deeply stuck in the quagmire he had created for himself, sometimes narrow-minded and biased, paranoid, and all sorts of other things, but he was still a
flawed human being. This created a certain dissonance in Tall Man’s mind. He saw that Sasha was grieving in his own way, that events were not passing him by like a fast train, leaving nothing but a fleeting memory that would be erased in an instant. And Alexei, more than ever drawn to the human, could not ignore this.

“My condolences.”

And yet, the look from under half-closed eyelids was not pitying, it was understanding and resigned. Homeowner took a breath, moving away from the window.

“People die.”

Frowning, leaving no room for objection, he spat out abruptly, almost immediately disappearing into the darkness of the corridor, and Tall Man had no choice but to watch him go. Exhaling through his nose, realizing that he wasn’t any better off, Alexei turned towards the office door, thinking.

A moment later, he was trudging despondently towards the kitchen, deciding to delay the inevitable for at least a couple of hours.
...

Weakness had always been something to be ashamed of. He had learned that lesson quickly, although he had not always been able to stick to the strict rule. Now, as he looked at the numbers written in a shaky handwriting, he felt not the indifference that was expected of him, but a painful, breaking feeling that, to his horror, was similar to the one he had felt at his mother’s funeral. He was desperate for a cigarette, and he tapped his foot nervously on the wooden floor of the hallway, trying to focus on the urge and not let his thoughts drift into familiar patterns. It wasn't working out well. The itching was almost unbearable, and his chest was tightening, making it difficult to breathe. He hadn't slept much, but it wasn't the first time this had happened to him, and he wanted to say that he was used to it, but his body and mind were telling him otherwise. Their conversation with Tall Man, against Sasha’s wishes, lingered in his mind; he had mentioned the neighbour, even though he didn’t want to, in order to defend himself or make excuses, and it was worse than the silence he was used to. Perhaps he would have been hated even more, perhaps Tall Man would have left or even stopped looking in his direction, but Homeowner wouldn’t have had to hear someone else’s genuine “condolences”. It felt worse than his father's reproaches or his heavy gaze, which was more colorful than a thousand words, and it hurt more than the burns from the cigarettes he mindlessly pressed into his wrist or the proverbial buckwheat that had grown into his knees. He didn't deserve pity, not before, and especially not now that he had caused someone's death. He knew he would have been angry if Tall Man had looked at him with disgust and told him directly how terrible he was, but he also knew that it would have been fair. But neither look nor words came. It was confusing. It added fuel to the fire and a burden to his already heavy shoulders; it was not easy to be the head of a house that had always dominated him, and now he had the responsibility of caring for the child of a neighbour, a friend who had suddenly passed away, and the last person he had ever truly valued. Could his existence have become even more lonely?..

It was all too much, too complicated. Why did it have to happen this way? Alexander had always been taught that everything had a reason, that “God’s ways are mysterious.” He could rationalize even the end of the world, but a little girl, orphaned, alone, doomed to suffer, if not to death... It was senseless and cruel. The thought crossed his mind that she and he were destined to follow a certain path, and that this was their starting point, but he suppressed these thoughts, ashamed of his own selfishness. It was a sin to doubt God’s intentions, but the thoughts persisted. Only by becoming a participant or victim of events could one truly understand their magnitude and the devastating consequences they could have. Of course, this raised questions that made him doubt, waver, or seek an explanation, but the power of faith was in its blindness, in its complete submission and trust; the faith of Homeowner himself was fragile, his mind tainted by sin and torment, and this only made matters worse. He felt that the quagmire was dragging him deeper and deeper to the bottom, which always evoked a profound, primal horror in him.

The long-awaited knock on the door brought Homeowner out of his thoughts. He peered through the peephole and saw the familiar delivery guy standing on the porch. Red-haired, dishevelled, with yellowish skin, but vigorous; he looked more alive than almost anyone Homeowner had met since the beginning of the End. The hermit opened the door with only a nod of greeting, took the bags of food that were handed to him, and immediately disappeared. The canned meat, cereals, potatoes, and what was stored in his cellar would help them get by for another three or four weeks. There were more than enough people in the house, but the instability of their numbers created some difficulties. If he let someone in, and if someone died, or...

The door was knocked again. Demandingly, measuredly, like a chisel on granite. He was back at the door. Homeowner’s gaze was immediately drawn to the goggles’ lenses, which shimmered in the dim light, obscuring the shape of the wearer’s eyes. Even through the membrane, the stranger’s voice, low and harsh, was barely audible. The FEMA agent, dressed in a yellow jumpsuit, held the AK-47 dangerously close; the hermit felt the same emotions he always felt when he encountered their kind: anger, largely from his own helplessness, disgust, and a chilling sense of something very close to fear. FEMA agent didn’t waste any time, reaching for the doorknob, his heavy leather boots clattering on the floor as he opened every door with a short jerk. Every move he made was imbued with military precision, and the fact that Homeowner couldn’t see his face only served to enhance the image in his mind: news reports, newspaper headlines, unidentified bodies, missing persons, brother graves, a moment of silence, honors and toasts, empty thanks and appeals, a gear mechanism or a perpetual motion machine, a furnace fueled by people, a hand feeding a system that is always hungry. Still, there was no pity. A desperate anger boiled in his chest, but the owner of the house was so exhausted and tormented that he couldn’t utter a single word. He didn’t say anything even when the Immortal Man,
kicking and screaming something that the owner couldn’t focus on, was struck with the butt of a service weapon and dragged out of the house. Homeowner immediately slammed the door behind them, but the words “thank you for your assistance” managed to slip in. Sasha sank into a chair, hunched over, his face hidden in his cold hands. The house fell into a strained, unnatural silence. It stretched on, building, mocking, reminding him of all the things he didn’t want to remember. His head ached, and he longed for sleep; for a place where it was safe, where it was just him and the horizon, where he wasn’t the person he always was. But it wasn’t possible.

That night, Homeowner barely spoke to anyone and didn’t let in a single person. He smoked a cigarette and trudged to his bedroom, leaving a bag of groceries in the hallway - he didn’t have the energy to deal with it. He hoped he could fall asleep, but as he thought about tomorrow, all he wanted was to never wake up again.
...

The morning didn’t start off on the right foot. Homeowner jumped out of bed as soon as he heard the knock; he immediately grabbed his rifle and stepped towards the door. As he opened it, he saw Sonya, or rather, her pinkish, tear-stained face, which was contorted with fear. She shrank back, and Sasha exhaled, wiping the sweat from his forehead. Fatigue fell on him like snow from the roof, pressing him to the ground. It was hot, and his sweater was soaked through, the feeling of the fabric sticking to his body was irritating; it rubbed against his hot skin, which only exacerbated the rash. He should have thought about laundry, as Tall Man had suggested, and made a schedule to find a change of clothes for everyone. The thought made his head ache. He rubbed his eyes, which were still half-blind from the abrupt end of his restless sleep, which had been more like a faint.

“Uncle Sasha, I’m hungry.” The girl muttered pitifully. Homeowner nodded slowly, patting her shoulder almost unconsciously.

“Go sit at the table, I’ll be right there.”

He had no idea how to cook porridge. Still, standing with a cigarette in his mouth, he diligently stirred the semolina with a large metal spoon. His childhood memories were vague, simply because he had never been taught to cook. His father believed that it was a woman’s responsibility. His mother didn’t mind; being deeply religious, she upheld traditional values, where the man was expected to be the provider and the protector. However, this was absurd, as his father was anything but a knight in shining armor. As a child, when Sasha tied his pioneer tie in the morning, he often had to listen to lectures about life and how it worked. At the time, he had a simple motto that stuck with him: “Be prepared, always be prepared!” The pioneers talked about friendship and mutual support. He collected paper and metal scraps with them, enjoyed drawing posters, and helped the elderly; he wanted to be a part of something meaningful, but he never became it. The red tie had been gathering dust in a closet for years, forgotten by him as well. There was probably a photo of his class, too, a gray-brown, worn-out one; on the back, the year and the affectionate “Sasha.” His mother was proud of him, always proud; he had been doing well in elementary school. He had always had a solid 5 in reading and Russian. He had loved it back then, in school, but it was so long ago that the feeling had faded away, almost
erased. After the collapse of the USSR, there were no more pioneers. For a moment, Homeowner thought that Sonya could become an Octobrist, but then he realized that she would probably never go to school.

Sasha took a drag, shaking the ash into the sink. The girl was staring at him with a hungry gaze, and Homeowner turned his attention to the pot of fiercely boiling mess. The smell of burning filled the air, and he quickly turned off the gas, removing the porridge from the stove and immediately pulling his hand away from the hot metal. He exhaled in annoyance, surveying the sad sight. The porridge had burned and stuck to the bottom of the bowl, which he had to soak later because it was impossible to clean. The porridge itself was too thick and overly sweet, with large clumps of semolina stuck together. Despite this, Sonya had eaten the entire bowl, mumbling a childish “thank you.” His heart ached with guilt. But she didn't say a word. She was still sad and didn't talk much. Sasha hesitated; Sonya had never been like this, and it was unusual to see her so broken. If he couldn't at least feed her a good meal, he could do something to cheer her up. It was his duty. She didn't deserve to languish here, becoming more and more dead with each passing day. Homeowner swallowed a lump in his throat.

“Maybe you want to watch cartoons?” He asked uncertainly. Sonya turned an interested gaze on him.

“And play? Dad and I always played hide-and-seek...” her eyes dimmed again. Sasha blinked, tapping his fingers nervously on the table. He was too exhausted for that.

“Maybe board games would be better?”

She thought about it again.

“It’s boring together.”

Homeowner exhaled sharply, looking away. He was trying to distance himself. It seemed to be a mutual desire, and it made him feel tense. Neither he nor his guests should get too close, and all these hand-crafted illusions seemed like a cruel joke, or simply absurd. But sitting across from him, looking at him with big green eyes, was a little girl who would never see her parents again, and whose life would never be the same. Her childhood was left behind in the ruins of her parents’ home, charred and buried beneath the debris. All he could do for her was to help her forget what had happened, to take her back to a place that would at least remind her of what she had been so cruelly deprived of. Sasha closed his eyes, putting his thoughts in order; resigned, pushing his selfishness as far as possible, he said, still sleepy and exhausted:

“Then we won’t be alone.”

She looked at him with more liveliness and enthusiasm. It was reassuring. He felt some relief, not complete, not allowing him to relax, but still it was a little easier. His chest didn’t hurt as much.
...

Tall Man had been drinking a lot before. His alcohol addiction was hereditary, on his father’s side. Despite his attempts to quit, short pauses, and hundreds of empty promises, he always found himself back in the same place. He used to feel ashamed and angry, but now, when there was no point in fighting, he felt only apathy as he held a can of beer in his hands. It was a little easier, especially after the things he’d seen. Even what happened outside the windows was enough to drive a person crazy. It wasn’t any easier in the house.
That night Alexei was awakened by loud footsteps and the slam of a door; the FEMA agent, who had unceremoniously burst into the room, looked around at the space packed with people. His eyes lingered on the Tall Man; his hands went cold, and his heart was beating like a jackhammer. ”There are no atheists in the trenches under fire,” Alexei became convinced of this when the agent took the first step in his direction. Tall Man had already imagined the sparse decor of the room where he would be placed along with hundreds of other unfortunate individuals; he imagined how they would be led to the tests, and then, in strict rows, they would march to the wall like victims of Stalin’s repressions. He wasn't sure how it worked, but there was no doubt that he wouldn't get out of this alive. Suddenly, Immortal Man said something aggressive, displeased, and rude, drawing the agent's attention; the other person's words, sarcastic and harsh, caused the man in hazmat suit to bark something in response. This led to a heated and meaningless exchange; the agent slipped his weapon off his shoulder and pointed it at the aggressor. He was dragged out by force. After a while, everything fell quiet, but Tall Man couldn’t sleep or even take a breath.

As he replayed the events of the previous night, Alexei downed one can after another. Blinded Man was sitting next to him with his usual gloomy expression and, as Tall Man himself,
lethargic due to the lack of sleep. They didn’t speak, but the silence was tense. However, nothing else was to be expected.
Suddenly, the door to the office opened. Homeowner, who entered the room, slapped a deck of playing cards on the table. He looked... bad. Frowning, with pursed lips, heavy eyes, overgrown stubble, too thin and stiff. Next to him, smiling politely, was the neighbour’s girl.

“Sonya wanted to play.” Sasha said, sitting down on the floor, taking the cards in his hands. Tall Man frowned at first, but watching the movement of the Homeowner’s hands, decided to remain
silent. The first round went strangely. They were playing fool, but Sonya didn't know the rules or even the names of the suits, so Alexander had to explain what to do each time. As a result, the game
didn't really work out, and the girl quickly grew bored. As Sasha shuffled the cards again, she leaned towards him, looking strangely at the Blinded Man sitting on the edge of the couch, and asked something. Homeowner paused, pulling a trump card from the deck.

“This is... My guest.” he said ambiguously. The girl blinked.

“And what is his name?”

“...I don’t know.”

Sasha started dealing cards, carefully ignoring the annoying child. She whispered with a piteous pout:

“He doesn’t play with us. He’s probably bored.”

Homeowner chuckled, a wry smile on his face; however, there was no merriment in his expression. Blinded Man turned at the sound, bewildered and confused.

“You wanna join us?” Sonya asked boldly, still holding onto the sleeve of the Homeowner’s blue sweater.

“Me?” the Blinded Man asked, snorting.

“Yes.”

A slight half-smile graced his face, and he chuckled.

“Well, I don’t know.”

Alexander cleared his throat, leaning towards the girl.

“He can’t see, Sonya.”

She fell silent.

“Why?”
Homeowner sighed heavily, closing his eyes. Communicating with children had always been difficult for him, and if until recently he was just tired, now he was exhausted so much that even choosing words became backbreaking work.

“Well, because. It happens.” He shrugged. The girl thought about it, and her curious gaze again caught on Blinded Man’s face.

“That’s not fair.” She said, then smiled. “How about you play with us, we’ll be together? Like a team.”

Blinded Man tilted his head, raising an eyebrow.

“How’s that?”

Sonya smiled, revealing her uneven baby teeth.

“You’ll play, and I’ll tell you what pictures you have on your cards. And what pictures uncle Sasha and uncle Lesha have.”

Her words were full of enthusiasm. For a moment, she was no longer gray, dull, and broken.

Blinded Man chuckled, and Tall Man felt a small smile touch his lips. Homeowner, on the other hand, turned even paler.

“Okay.” Blinded Man agreed, and the girl ran over to him, sitting down on the couch.

“What’s your name? I’m Sonya.”

The young man hesitated, but after a brief pause, he exhaled.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Victor.”
...

Tall Man stared at the red suit in disbelief. The ace of diamonds, the Blinded Man's last card, which he, Alexei, couldn't beat. And it was a trump card. He threw the cards on the table, cursing, ignoring Sasha's "watch your language," said without enthusiasm, indifferently and detached . Victor was winning the third game in a row, and the most surprising thing was that Tall Man had only thrown the first game. Sasha, on the other hand, didn't even try to play, but Alexei - who didn't have a fragile ego or a huge sense of self-importance - was still affected by the situation. The girl was smiling triumphantly, and so was Blinded Man, with wrinkles around his eye sockets.

“Come on, what the fuck?” Tall Man protested, crossing his arms over his chest. The girl just laughed, and Victor shrugged his shoulders.

“I am an experienced player.”

Alexei just rolled his eyes, resisting the urge to remind his opponent of his blindness.

“Let’s play it again?” Sonya asked. She was sitting on the edge of the couch, swinging her legs merrily.

“Then without me.” Sasha mumbled, getting up to the crunch of his own stiff joints. Tall Man looked at him skeptically but remained silent. Blinded Man didn’t object either. The corners of the girl’s lips turned down. Homeowner, noticing this, froze, frowned, and reluctantly muttered:

“I’m tired, but you can... watch cartoons in my room.”

Sonya thought about it, but a moment later she jumped off the couch, nodding.

“Okay. But we’ll play later.”

“Yeah, later.” Sasha nodded, leading her out of the room and into the hallway. His own promise wasn’t fair, and although he didn’t feel disgusted with himself, he didn’t want to be around people who might die tomorrow. Of course he couldn’t say that to the child, so he just lied.
As he entered the bedroom, he pulled out a “Treasure Island” tape and walked over to the square box that held the VCR. As the screen filled with images of pirates singing about the dead man’s treasure, Sonya had already settled on the edge of the bed, her gaze fixed on the TV, seemingly captivated. Homeowner let out a breath.

“If you need anything, just find me.” He said, and the girl nodded.

He could relax a little. Before returning to his guests, Alexander decided to smoke. It was getting late in the afternoon, and sunset would be in about four hours, maybe a little more. The lighter was running out of gas... There was a whole pack of matches in one of the kitchen cabinets, and another one that was half empty. That would last for a week, considering that the stove had to be lit in the same way. This meant that he would have to order more. He would also probably have to do something about the clothes, as he couldn’t put off washing them any longer. He had his father’s clothes and the old sweater and pants of the deceased Coat Guy, which was unpleasant and even immoral, but, he thought, was acceptable in an apocalyptic situation. Perhaps it would be enough if he created a schedule... He nodded to himself. It was time to get on with it. At least discuss it with the tenants, assign days, give out change of clothes... The very thought was depressing. There were five people left at home besides himself: Stoner, Tall Man, Blinded Man, Sonya, and the strange guy from the closet... He decided not to bring up the subject with the latter and not to talk to him at all: his very presence evoked an unpleasant feeling, and Sasha selfishly decided to leave things as they were. Deep down, he wanted FEMA to take him, although he wasn’t proud of this desire. Either way, Homeowner had to discuss the urgent with others, and it was best to do it as soon as possible.

He opened the bathroom door, immediately succumbing to a coughing fit. The room was filled with smoke and a distinct smell of weed and something sour. Sasha narrowed his eyes, finding Stoner smiling crookedly at him.

“Yo, man. It’s been so long, like... a week.”

“I saw you yesterday, you brain dead-” Homeowner winced, “Go to the office. What the fuck have you done here...”

He coughed again, slamming the door and rubbing his eyes. Stoner followed him soon after. Frustrated, Sasha trudged down the hall to the nightstand, where his cigarettes were kept in the top drawer. He prefered “Belomor”, which was considered too strong, and was favored by older smokers who had been addicted for the majority of their lives; it was the same brand his father smoked, and it was the same brand Sasha had first tasted, figuratively, and then, when his father found out, literally. They were cheap and satisfied his basic need for nicotine, and he didn’t ask for anything more. Especially when dealing with people like Stoner, he needed something strong and potent enough to keep his thoughts focused on the burning sensation, and nothing else. That’s what he wanted right now.
And, pulling out the drawer of the bedside table, he froze. It was completely empty inside, although until recently there were two packs of “Belomor”, one half-started and the other halfempty. At first, he was just confused. He collected his thoughts; no one would have the audacity to steal not just one, but two packs from him at once. Moreover, only Tall Man smoked here, which was also extremely rare. In this case, there was only one obvious conclusion – Stoner. Homeowner, feeling a growing anger, pushed the drawer back into the cabinet and, with a strong
desire to wrap his hands around someone’s neck, quickly walked towards the office.

“What the fuck?” He said, facing two questioning gazes and a lost one.

“You, fucking wreckhead.” He called, and the red-rimmed eyes stared at him. They were clouded and couldn’t even focus on the hermit. Stoner looked bad, and Homeowner knew why: after the collapse of the USSR, drug addicts were no longer treated forcibly, and even he, who knew very little about the world due to his reclusive lifestyle, was aware of the drug addiction epidemic that had gripped the country. Everyone heard about the dangers of smoking and drinking, in the USSR – from colorful posters condemning the systematic use and parasitism that it led to, now – from parents who grew up in the Union, where all this was socially condemned… However, the children of the 90s didn’t care: on TV they were shown cigarette ads, and all this looked so sexy and alluring that everyone broke. The romanticization of banditry, in turn, also did its job. Even before the End, there was a lot of trouble, murders, robberies, bandits, and racketeers. Drug addiction was a natural outcome, but Homeowner found it repulsive. And the face that had aged decades in just a few years was hardly appealing to anyone.

“You stole my cigarettes?”

Stoner, chuckling, tried to say something, although his tongue hardly obeyed him:

“Yeah, man, I just took them, like, as a friend. I needed paper. You get it.”

Sasha groaned in annoyance, covering his face with his hands. The others watched the scene in
silence.

“You already smoked all of them? There were still two packs left.”

Stoner shook his head.

“No, I have them. There’s still some left.”

Tall Man, who had moved to the couch, crossed his legs and said:

“Maybe this is a reason to start smoking less.”

“...You think I can not smoke when this is happening?” Sasha nodded towards Stoner, although his words were directed at the entire world. Tall Man shrugged.

“Fair enough.”

Turning back to the smoker, Homeowner said:

“You’ll give me back what’s left of them. If this happens again, I’ll ram the gun up your ass. Got it?”

Stoner nodded, his eyes blank. His blue-skinned, wrinkled face stretched into a nasty, stupid smile that held no thought. It was irritating, but Sasha forced himself to stop the argument. He had to get on with his business, since he had become an involuntary hostage to a situation that could only be endured.

“So,” he began, “About the laundry. Once every two weeks, on Thursdays. All your clothes go into the bathroom in a basin on Wednesday, then you can wash, I’ll give you a change of clothes.” “As for it,” Sasha looked over at the sofa where Tall Man and Blinded Man were sitting, “we’ll deal with you and Vitya on Wednesday, and you,” he turned his head towards Stoner, who was sitting on the floor, “I’ll bring you some of Coat Guy’s clothes.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Tall Man’s expression. Sasha frowned.

"This isn't a charity home."

No one objected, although Alexei clearly didn't agree with Homeowner’s decision. However, he didn't say anything. Everyone understood that this conversation wouldn't have happened if it weren't for what was going on with the world. They had to accept more than just wearing the dead man’s clothes. That was the reality, and the only thing they could do was accept it. No one liked it, and Sasha especially didn’t. He was used to the judgmental stares, but still hadn’t learned to endure it; although silently he decided that if he encountered them so often, he must have earned them. However, the silence was oppressive, and the eyes, which weren't even focused on him, seemed to pierce his skin like the jaws of a starving dog. He couldn't stay there any longer, so he quickly left the office, and a minute later he was sitting in the kitchen with a can of beer, staring at the yellow ceiling. It looked like the one they had in the school's auditorium, but it was bigger and more vibrant. Here, it was pale, and all he could remember when he looked at it was a feeling of hunger. The auditorium was different: there, long ago, he had recited poetry on May 9, sung the Soviet national anthem, and received applause from parents, although not his own. It was all pleasant, but not in a way it should have been. He noticed that the good memories were turning into ashes: gray, light, like the remnants of something greater.They were all tainted by regret, which was like a big spoonful of tar in a barrel of honey. Homeowner ran his fingers over the blue eyelids that covered his eyes. He couldn't return to the bedroom - it was occupied. He didn't want to think either, but he had no choice but to pass the time in the kitchen and wait for the night, which was still a long, long time away.

…

As the sun sank below the horizon, burning holes in the crowns of the dying trees, and the lonely house on the outskirts was plunged into the blue darkness, Homeowner took a place at the door. The girl was sleeping in his room, and he didn't dare to wake her. Outside the window, the crooked crosses of trees whispered, and behind them stood abandoned high-rise buildings, black with soot and broken windows. Agents scurried around the house like rats, removing weapons from corpses and searching bodies. One of them kicked a dead teenager as if it was a bag of trash and shouted something to a colleague. The man shrugged, and the first one pointed at the body, kicking it between the shoulder blades. After a short conversation, they moved away from the body and slowly faded into the blackness. Somewhere in the distance, a body swayed like a pendulum on a lamppost, a noose wrapped around its broken neck like a vine, its head hanging down. On its chest was a wooden sign that read, «You've taken everything from me».
Homeowner stepped away from the window, closing the blinds. Witnessing such scenes evoked unwanted thoughts… He had already turned away several people and hoped no one would come again. Earlier, he had taken his cigarettes from Stoner, but only the last pack, and it wasn't even full. Sasha wanted to smoke, but someone knocked on the door again. He slowly moved to the peephole. «No,» was the only thought that crossed Homeowner's mind when he saw the person on the porch. It was a woman, but he couldn't tell her age: she looked unhealthy, slender as a cancer patient with cachexia, and he could have sworn she was a Visitor. In her thin arms, she held a cat, a ginger cat with a flat face, probably a purebred. It had silly green, slanted eyes, and it hung from her arms like a puppet. Sasha couldn't help but remember his own pet. Affectionate, always sleeping next to him, almost never leaving his side, the cat was calm, and he never in his life made an attempt to escape. He went outside, but these walks usually didn't last long. However, one winter night, during one of the coldest temperatures, the cat didn't return. Sasha never saw him again, and even his body couldn't be found, not the next day, not a week later, or after the snow melted. Now all that remained of him was a photograph standing alone on a dresser near the entrance to the living room.

“Hi. You open?” She smiled; her voice was scratchy, like the upper notes of an out-of-tune piano.

“I… don't believe you're human.” He mumbled, staring at her face. The association came naturally.

“So what? Want me dance? Maybe I do. I'm ball-arena.” She paused, as if searching for his face behind the door. “What we do?”

“You should leave.”

Her face didn't change, but she didn't take a step.

“Look at kitty. Think again.”

And he looked. Her words sounded threatening, but Homeowner didn't know what was behind them. Therefore, despite the slight nervousness and pity that arose at the sight of the animal, he repeated:

“Fuck off already.”

She narrowed her eyes. For some reason, a chill ran down his back.

“…You find cat under the house. A gift. From me.”

He froze at these words. Alexander blamed his weakness for animals, and cats in particular, but he couldn't ignore his racing heart and fear. She had already turned to leave, but Homeowner, against his better judgment, grabbed the doorknob. It was not only foolish, but also irresponsible and potentially dangerous to let an obvious threat into his home, especially for Sonya. Still, the animal she had promised to bury made him pause.

“Wait.” he blurted out as he opened the door. “Come in, but don't touch him” Sasha nodded towards the cat, and the ballerina's face broke into an unnatural smile once again. She crossed the threshold, setting the cat on the floor. Homeowner called out to her, and she turned in his direction, only to see the barrel of his gun.

“Not fair.” She bared her even, white teeth. He knew he looked pathetic: shorter than her, with trembling hands, and far less confident than the person opposite.

“Get out. Or I'll shoot.”

“Shoot. It Her goal.” She didn't move a centimeter, just stood there, looking down at him. He frowned, trying not to think about her words. They were close to the door, which was still wide open. Sasha inhaled deeply.

“I'm giving you a choice.”

“I don't need to. Choice yours. You a stupid, stupid human.”

Homeowner's eyes froze on her face. He has already killed once. But his fear and shame could have caused even more deaths for which he would never be forgiven. Even by himself. He was obligated to ensure Sonya's safety, for the sake of his neighbor and his rash promise. The panic was growing. And yet… He barely lowered the rifle as he stepped behind her. The Visitor watched him, and when he was behind her, her neck cracked and arched, her bloodshot eyes found his face, and he felt a primal, cold fear. Without hesitation, he struck her on the back with the butt of the gun and pushed her towards the door, just as the FEMA agent had done with Immortal Man. She moved without resistance. Sasha immediately slammed the door behind her and slid down it; his heart was racing, he was burning up. He gulped, pulling his knees up to his chest and trying to regain his breath. The cat, sitting across from him at the entrance to the pantry, watched him with its usual indifference. It blinked lazily, yawned, and began to lick its long, red fur. Homeowner hugged the gun, swallowing hard. His throat was dry, but he was afraid to get up, even though the door was locked with all possible locks.

“Okay, let's get to know each other.” Finally, after exhaling, he muttered, looking at the cat. It didn't notice him, only being interested in itself. Then Sasha called out to it in the familiar from the childhood «ks-ks-ks» voice, which never really worked. The cat looked at him, but didn't move.

“How should I call you? Do you even have a name?” He thought for a moment, “Pyachegod?”

Homeowner chuckled, looking at the cat's face, which seemed to be frowning with disgust after hearing what he had suggested.

“ Okay, then…” he paused, thinking, but almost immediately burst into a fit of silly laughter, short and more hysterical than truly amusing, “Kukutsapol.”

The cat, getting up from its place, headed towards him, still looking displeased. It slowly approached, and Homeowner reached out to it. The cat sniffed his hand, and Sasha dared to stroke it, his fingers digging into the long fur on its withers.

“Did you like the name?” He smiled. The cat purred, and Sasha picked it up; it didn't resist, but didn't seem pleased either.
…

Tall Man, who couldn't sleep, decided to have a drink: it made it easier to fall asleep, and since his body wasn't giving up on its own, no matter how tired he was, Alexei was willing to help. It was probably past midnight when he stumbled into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, grabbed two cans of beer, one of the last remaining, took a generous sip, and was about to return to the office when he heard someone's shaky laughter. It was strange, especially in the middle of the night, and in this house... Tall Man thought about it, but no one came to mind except for Homeowner. Blinded Man was asleep in the office, and Stoner’s smoky laughter was easily recognizable; the voice he heard clearly belonged to a man. Alexei peeked out into the hallway, closed the door, and took a step towards the quiet murmuring.
Homeowner was sitting by the door, holding a ginger ball of fur in his arms, smiling crookedly and mumbling to himself. A rifle was lying next to him, and he appeared uncharacteristically calm. After a moment, Sasha looked at the silhouette in the hallway, tensed for a second; soon his shoulders relaxed and he hesitated, unsure of what to say.

“Who’s that?” Tall Man asked, and Sasha smiled wryly again, scratching the cat’s furry head.

“Kukutsapol.”

Alexei arched an eyebrow, and Homeowner exhaled, lowering the cat to the floor. He stood up, shouldering the rifle, blinking away his momentary gaiety.

“The cat. He lives with us now.”

“...Kukutsapol?” Lesha asked, and Alexander nodded slowly.

“Yeah.”

Tall Man let out a breath that vaguely sounded like a laugh. It was stupid.

“Why?”

Homeowner shrugged. The cat, which had been sitting at his feet, jumped onto the chair and curled up.

“Corn is the queen of the fields.”*

Tall Man, looking at the hermit, who seemed embarrassed and almost ashamed, narrowed his eyes.

“You sure Stoner gave you cigarettes?” he asked.

“Oh, go fuck yourself.” Homeowner muttered. Tall Man glanced at the beer. He wanted to drink the second can later, but for some reason he handed it to Sasha, who, without hesitation, opened it, and took a sip.

Tall Man wasn’t a very social person, despite the fact that he loved company. It was a rather complex concept: as a human being, everyone needs people in one way or another, even if they are annoying, irritating, or exhausting. And Alexei, as an ambassador of drunken conversations where he could pour out his heart without fear of dealing with someone narrow-minded or limited, was always eager for human interaction. Despite the detachment of the man across him, Alexei felt that Sasha shared this desire. Against all reason, Alexei wanted to know why he had become the way he was. He didn’t intend to push or interfere, but he would have enjoyed a conversation right now, and it seemed like the perfect time...