Chapter 1: Nobel and Darwin
Chapter Text
chapter 5: Nobel and Darwin
March flipped over into April—a warm, sunny April, when birds were already chirping at full tilt, trees swelled with buds, and you could walk down the street in an unzipped jacket. The Institute had kicked back into gear—research teams emerged from their winter hibernation and started hauling all sorts of junk out of the Zone again. Dankovsky, though, hadn’t hibernated for the winter—this one had everything planned out years in advance: experiments, publications, and a list of things he wanted Artemy to hand him on a silver platter. He wasn’t pushy—he knew Artemy wouldn’t crawl over to the other side more often than was reasonable—but he methodically worked through that list. And he worked like a man possessed, forgetting to eat or sleep. It was even interesting—how long could he keep up that pace? And more importantly—why the rush? He wasn’t old yet, even young by most standards, but it felt like he was afraid he’d die in a couple of years and leave something unfinished.
That’s why it was all the stranger to watch him during those rare moments of rest, like now: when he sat down on the couch in the break room and tilted his face toward the sunlit square cast by the window. The light seemed to soften his sharp features, but his darkened eyelids still twitched, his fingers tapped absentmindedly against his knee, and it was clear — he wasn’t truly resting. Something kept turning inside that raven-black head of his, gears spinning and creaking, constantly inventing new hypotheses and ways to test them.
Artemy never quite figured out what exactly Dankovsky specialized in. One moment he seemed to be working on some kind of medications, the next — studying something with a level of biological threat marked in black. And sometimes he’d swing wildly from one extreme to another, rushing around as if trying to break everything into particles and shove it all under a microscope.
But when he sat like that, saying nothing and barely moving, Artemy liked watching him — it was unusual. He didn’t sit next to him today — just stretched his legs out on the floor and leaned his elbows against the couch. For once, it was interesting to look up at him from below.
Dankovsky cracked one eye open, amber-orange in the sunlight, and even allowed the corners of his mouth to lift:
"Hi, Burakh. I was just thinking of finding you."
He didn’t need to clarify—the tone said it all. When he purred like that, all honeyed and coaxing, you could bet your life on it: he needed something.
Artemy tilted his head back, letting the sunlight hit his face too. He glanced at the pale hand tapping a thoughtful rhythm just inches from his cheek, then back up at Dankovsky.
"Right. What do you want me to drag back this time?"
No immediate answer. Just fingers: tap-tap against his knee. And then—
"Why does it always have to be dragging something? Can’t I just talk to you for once?"
Aha. Must be something big, then, if he’s buttering me up like this. Artemy had long since grown sick of these games, but what else was there to cling to? After that night, everything had snapped back to the way it used to be: Both of them pretended nothing had happened, and Dankovsky stayed as frosty as ever—sometimes you’d wait days for him to even look your way. But the moment he needed something? Suddenly he was all soft paws and lingering looks, fixing your badge, and if things got really desperate, he might even casually lean on your shoulder. It felt like torture — and yet every time it stirred something warm and aching in his chest.
Alright then. Let’s bargain.
Artemy leaned in toward his thigh. Nudged the tapping hand away with his forehead, rested his chin on that sharp knee. And smiled — defiantly:
"Don’t bullshit me. I know just how much you really feel like talking to me."
The leg under his chin tensed—yeah, of course. The bastard was used to dictating all the terms himself. But not today. Enough.
Dankovsky held firm: didn’t shove him off, even relaxed his leg again, kept that half-smirk on his lips—challenge accepted. Then—Artemy’s breath hitched—he ran his hand through his hair. And dropped it, casual as anything:
"Today, I really do. Just feeling like it."
Oh, this was bad. Not just something big—this seemed like a special case. So special it was downright terrifying. Terrifying enough that Artemy decided not to imagine the worst just yet and instead focused on the way Dankovsky’s fingers were gently scratching his scalp—might as well purr from the pleasure. Yep. A very special case. They’d never gone this far before.
"So…" Artemy exhaled again, trying not to let his thoughts drift too much. "What exactly do you want to talk about?"
"Just got curious," the fingers traced smooth arcs from the crown of his head down to his temple. Then lower—pressing softly against his cheekbone, lingering there, tapping lightly. Oh, he’s really asking for it, "Ever heard of the Golden Sphere?"
It was almost funny. That’s what this was about? Or was Dankovsky just trying to throw him off?
He tilted his head slightly, letting the edge of his mouth brush against the palm of Dankovsky’s hand, and let out a sarcastic breath:
"I’ve heard of it. But where’d you pick that up? Shouldn’t let fools clutter that bright mind of yours with fairy tales. You are a scientist, after all."
Dankovsky didn’t flinch. Instead, he pressed his palm firmer, smothering half of Artemy’s smirk.
"Heard it in passing. Got curious. So, tell me about it."
And then — his fingers slid under Artemy’s chin, like he was scratching a cat. At this point, there was no refusing, even if he didn’t believe a damn word of Dankovsky’s excuses. Well, he wouldn’t be the first to fall for a pretty fairy tale. And sure, he was a scientist — but plenty of seemingly smart people used to call themselves alchemists and tried to discover some miracle stone. Back then it was stones — now, for them, it was the Sphere.
"It’s a legend," Artemy said with a crooked smile — though who was he laughing at, really? He was rubbing his stubbled jaw against those bent fingers. Kept his eyes locked on Dankovsky — who was now staring back just as intently, his usual feigned indifference forgotten. And there it was again, that hungry glint in his gaze, like he wasn’t hearing some story for gullible fools but but memorizing instructions on how to dig up treasure buried under tree roots.
"There’s supposedly some artifact in the Zone that grants your wish, if you find it. Not just any wish, though — it has to come from deep in your soul. You’ve gotta truly want it, understand?"
"I understand," Dankovsky responded quietly. His fingers stilled—all his attention turned to listening. "Is that the only condition?"
"Who the hell knows. Some say it has to be reasonable, too —like, possible, you know? Like, you can’t wish for the sky to fall, but wishing not to catch any infections in the Zone? That’s fair game. Others say completely different things—everyone’s got their own version. Because it’s a legend. A fairy tale—nothing more."
He expected Dankovsky to pull his hand away, irritated and disappointed—he could already see that disappointment rising in his gaze. But no, he wasn’t in a hurry yet, still clinging to the scraps of that sweet illusion. He returned his hand to the crown of Artemy’s head—God, his fingers were so cold... Cold, but so damn pleasant when they moved like this, when you could close your eyes and pretend, just for a moment, that it was all real.
Dankovsky’s voice came through closed eyelids:
"And why are you so certain it's a fairy tale? The Zone has so much we don't understand. Why couldn't there be one more miracle? "
Why, why... Why not just stay quiet for a few minutes — like this, under the sun, in a quiet, empty room, listening to each other breathe? Why not leave that icy hand tangled in his hair for fifteen minutes until it warmed up — or better yet, lie down together on that narrow couch and relive that winter night all over again? Why not just be human — flesh and blood — not because death had forced it, but just because your soul calls for it? Why not...
Artemy opened his eyes and glared up, a sudden, unexpected fury tightening his chest.
"Because the Zone isn’t about that. It’s about cruel miracles, not magical balls that rain down free happiness on people’s heads. You’d have to be a complete idiot to believe in that kind of crap. So sorry—looks like you’ll have to earn your worldwide fame, or your fat research grants, or your shiny new lab equipment, or whatever the hell it is you're dreaming of right now — the hard way."
The fingers in his hair went still. Dankovsky stared down at him—strange and unreadable. When he spoke, his voice was flat:
"You think that’s what I’d wish for? If I stood in front of a wish-granting machine, and could ask for anything?"
Artemy didn’t move either.
"Then what? What would you wish for?"
It sure as hell wouldn’t be world peace. And not a human heart.
"I..." Dankovsky hesitated. "I would make death disappear. Completely."
If it weren’t for the hand on his head, Artemy would have shaken his in disbelief.
"Were you even listening to me just now? I said - only things that are theoretically possible."
"And this is possible," Dankovsky objected. "Theoretically. For now - only theoretically, but we're moving towards it. The whole history of scientific and technological progress is, first and foremost, about how people look for ways to postpone death. And they find ways - life expectancy increase, cures emerge for previously incurable diseases... Mortality is just an atavism we haven’t yet overcome, nothing more, but our descendants will live forever. Unless humanity destroys itself first."
What a claim... Artemy didn't bother keeping the rusty mockery from his voice:
"And here I thought you were a realist."
"I am a realist," he snapped, almost defensively. "It all depends on how you define the boundaries of reality. But what is the Visitation, if not a story of how those boundaries were rudely and unceremoniously expanded? All our notions of 'possible' and 'impossible' need fundamental revision - not everyone has realized it yet."
As always when he got carried away: his eyes lit up, a trace of color crept onto his cheeks, and his voice came alive. He really does believe. Not that he himself is human — that he doesn’t believe — but in miracles, he does. And you almost want to believe too - not in this nonsense about atavisms and fundamental revisions, but simply - in him. When he talks like this, you want to.
Only it doesn't work.
Artemy curled his lips.
"Well, when you manage to bring even one dead person back to life—properly, not like those zambies that claw their way out of graves and wander around like vegetables—then you can come and tell me death can be beaten. Until then, while I’m risking my skin to fetch you all sorts of crap, do me a favor and save your atavisms for someone who at least knows what the word means."
Dankovsky’s gaze dried up instantly. He jerked his hand back, shook his knee, trying to shove off Artemy’s chin.
"You’ve got no imagination, Burakh."
"Nope," Artemy agreed, ignoring his efforts—Go on, try to shake off a head this heavy. "What do I need it for? all I know is how to do one thing. What kind of conversation could you even have with me? ‘Fetch this, carry that’ is all I’m worth."
He hadn’t really expected Dankovsky to argue, but when he didn’t—it still stung. And when Dankovsky, losing patience, kicked him in the side with the narrow sole of his shoe, like some mangy dog—that’s when he truly got angry. He grabbed the bony ankle, dug his fingers into the Achilles tendon, and grinned up with bared teeth:
"What, run out of sweet talk? Won’t even ask for anything today?"
Dankovsky glared down at him, irritation plain—an astonishing amount of arrogance for someone with both legs caught in a steel trap.
"Maybe I will."
And he said it like he was doing him a favor. Honestly, the fact that he didn’t believe in death explained a lot.
Artemy narrowed his eyes.
"And maybe I’ll tell you to go to hell. Ever think of that?"
Dankovsky yanked his leg—hard, almost got free. Artemy kept forgetting he wasn’t the wheezing weakling he appeared at first glance. But he failed, and the failure only fueled his irritation further.
"I thought we’d already settled this. You help me, I help you."
"We did," Artemy confirmed darkly. "Only, it seems to me that one of us is getting a whole lot more out of this deal than the other. Of all the stuff I dragged to you, how much did I see afterwards? A tenth? Doesn’t seem like a very good business model, huh?"
Dankovsky’s eyes flashed. He jerked his leg again—but this time, Artemy was ready, holding tight.
"It is what it is. And frankly, you’re not in a position to bargain."
Was he trying to provoke him?
Maybe he was. Maybe he was proving something to himself. But Artemy hadn’t signed up to dig around in his head—let him find a shrink if he needed one, and if not, then he could damn well learn to talk to people like a normal person.
Artemy shifted, still on his knees, not breaking eye contact with Dankovsky’s glinting glare. He unlocked his fingers and instead dug his elbows into Dankovsky’s thighs, settling between his spread legs. His voice scraped low in his throat:
"Oh yeah? And what’ll you do if I walk out right now and sign my resignation? Run to Saburov and tell him what we’ve been up to this past year? They’d kick you out of the Institute too—and slap you with conspiracy charges while they’re at it."
Astonishingly, the threat didn’t knock the arrogance out of Dankovsky. If anything, his gaze turned even more condescending. Nobody had ever looked at Artemy like that.
"You really think anyone would take your word over mine? Burakh, you’ve got a year in prison behind you, three semesters of med school, and my solemn assurance to Saburov that we’ve got you on a short leash—otherwise, they’d have hounded you with searches long ago. People would laugh if you pointed at a respected scientist with a doctorate and claimed he forced you to sign a work contract at gunpoint."
Some people just looked like they’d never had the shit properly beaten out of them in their lives. And Artemy didn’t know what was worse—that Dankovsky was right, or that he’d thrown it in his face so shamelessly. All he knew was that he’d never wanted to punch someone so badly. He could do it right now—Dankovsky wouldn’t run to Saburov over that alone. But instead, he asked dryly, with a note of sarcasm:
"What happened to ‘you saved my life’?"
Got him. Dankovsky turned pale, and all at once the nervousness leaked out from behind his smug mask—Artemy felt it in the tension of his thighs, saw it in the way his eyes darted to the side.
"What, already forgot? Not a chance I’ll let you forget."
Dankovsky seemed to regain some composure, but with a noticeably weaker voice started:
"Listen, Burakh, I didn’t..."
Artemy didn't bother listening—he gripped Dankovsky's hips and yanked him forward.
Dankovsky only half-slid off the couch, managing to dig his heels into the carpet, but now nothing stopped Artemy from pressing his full weight down on his stomach, savoring that fleeting moment of shock.
Of course, the confusion quickly gave way to anger. Dankovsky hissed:
"Lost your mind?! It's lunch break—what if someone walks in?"
His priorities, honestly... So, what if someone came in? Just boys roughhousing—nothing more. For now, nothing more.
Artemy reached out and grabbed Dankovsky by the chin—forcing his gaze away from the door. Locking eyes, he said clearly:
"You'd better listen to me, Dankovsky. I'm sick of your games. You know damn well I'd help you without any blackmail if you just asked properly. Is it really so hard to say 'please'?"
The chest beneath his forearm rose and fell, fast and heavy—was he really that worked up over the idea of asking politely? Or was he afraid Artemy might choke him again?
No, it wasn’t that. There was something else in that look — a kind of uncomfortable shifting that Dankovsky immediately smothered, teeth clicking together sharply. Through gritted teeth, he exhaled:
"I'm sorry, Burakh. I remember you saved my life. It's just... Listen, maybe get off me first?"
Artemy smirked crookedly.
"Finish what you were saying."
And who the hell could tell if the red blotches on Dankovsky's neck were from suppressed rage or from remembering more than just being saved? Artemy preferred to think it was the latter.
"I meant to say... I don't send you into the Zone on a whim. This isn't just scientific curiosity—we're saving lives here. You know how many medical applications we've found for—"
"I know," Artemy interrupted. "What's your point?"
"The point is—" His Adam's apple bobbed in his pale throat. "You might think I push too hard, ask too much, but what we're doing matters. Maybe the most important thing anyone on this planet could be doing right now. And you're wrong when you say the Zone is only about cruel miracles. It itself is a kind of miracle. And I can't shake the feeling that we won't have enough time to extract everything we can before humanity panics and stops listening to us—when all they'll hear are the ones screaming for it to be carpet-bombed into ash."
A fine miracle indeed… And this after everything he’d seen?
Artemy shook his head.
"Personally, I’m not so sure that those who call for carpet-bombing it are entirely wrong—but hey, you're the expert. That's not what bothers me, though."
What did bother him was how Dankovsky, even pinned beneath him with fingers on his chin, still managed to twist his lips into that infuriating smirk.
"Is that 'please' really so important? It's just a word. A gesture."
"Yes. It is."
Dankovsky sighed, visibly fighting the urge to roll his eyes.
"Fine. Please."
"See? Not so hard." Artemy released his chin. "Now—please what?"
Dankovsky squirmed beneath him. The way he averted his eyes set off warning bells.
"I need... something."
"Yeah, I gathered. Spit it out."
The deep breath he took was even more unsettling.
"will you bring me a living magnet?"
Artemy blinked.
"Are you trying to get me killed?"
" No, of course not," Dankovsky blinked. "I wouldn’t have asked if I weren’t sure you had a chance of making it back alive. I need you."
Need me, my ass. If he really needed him, he wouldn’t have sent him after this kind of insanity.
Artemy shook his head.
"I’d have to run around like a maniac for a month just to find out where to get one. And even if I could catch it later—hauling it out... Sorry, but I’d like to keep living. I respect your research, but not that much."
They froze in thick silence. Dankovsky’s breathing quickened again— Artemy worried he might start threating about Saburov again. But no, it seemed he’d learned that lesson. Instead of threats, he went limp, his gaze shifting into something entirely new. Soft, almost whispering:
"What would make it worth it?"
Artemy almost burst out in nervous laughter. He stared into those dark eyes—no, he wasn’t imagining it. Not this time.
"God, Dankovsky, are you offering—"
Dankovsky didn’t let him finish, cutting him off quickly:
"Whatever you want. Name your price, and—"
He didn’t finish either, biting back the words. His eyes— pitch black, tongue darting over dry lips, teasing.
Artemy stayed silent, confused.
What, didn’t he want it? Of course he did—had from the very first day, no point lying. And if that damned magnet meant this much to Dankovsky...
For a few seconds, he let himself imagine it— leaning down without changing his position, burying his face in Dankovsky’s neck, lips catching the feverish pulse. Marking him like an echo of that winter night, teeth sharp and animal, sending him scrambling back into his turtlenecks. Yanking his shirt free, hands sliding beneath, feeling Dankovsky turn to soft clay beneath his touch, muffling quiet moans against his lips, black hair sticking to flushed skin. He could take him right here on the couch, face shoved into the armrest, not giving a damn about the unlocked door, the lack of a condom, or even the fact that afterward, he’d have to march into the Zone and probably die there like a dog.
Wasn’t that what he wanted?
Artemy exhaled slowly. The space between their faces was nothing—a slight tilt, and he could kiss him. He could: Dankovsky wouldn’t flinch now, wouldn’t raise a hand to stop him. Look at him—lips parted, eyes gleaming, practically an invitation.
Wasn’t that what he wanted?
Apparently not.
The realization didn’t surprise Artemy that much. It didn’t even scare him. Well, sure, he wanted it differently. Wanted it like back then, in the shower— coming to him willingly, not because he was bartering for something, but just because he was drawn. Or no, even more than that — to come completely on his own,—without the Zone’s horrors breathing down their necks, without the devouring madness in his pupils. Just because.
Damn it all.
And how did you get yourself into this, Burakh? Where did it all go so wrong?
He should have realized it long ago — where it all went wrong. Back when he dashed after him in the Zone without looking under his feet. They both should have died there. Should have, but they didn’t, and there’s only one explanation — a miracle. A miracle… A miracle from the land of cruel miracles, because that’s the only kind that exist in the Zone.
Artemy pushed himself up from the couch cushion with his elbows and stood. Dankovsky stared up at him from below: arms limp, knees splayed, and a patchy, pale flush blooming like watercolors on white. If any of his colleagues saw him now…
Artemy quickly turned away—before he could change his mind. Gritting his teeth, he muttered:
"Half a Nobel Prize."
Dankovsky asked, very slowly:
"What?"
What, what...
" We’ll split your Nobel Prize in half when you get it, that’s what. I get the bigger half."
"A half can’t be bigger," Dankovsky corrected automatically.
Artemy rolled his eyes.
"Tell me, how do you even live with a brain that big?"
He didn’t wait for an answer—just turned toward the door.
"Burakh?" Dankovsky called after him at the threshold. His voice was still weak. " When… when you go to the Zone, tell me, okay?"
Artemy barely stopped himself from glancing back over his shoulder.
"Why? So you can light a candle for my health? Or skip straight to the funeral service?"
Silence.
He couldn’t stand it —turned around.
Dankovsky was already sitting, leaning his palm on the armrest and peeking out from behind the back of the couch. His face was pale, lips pressed into a tight line. But he wouldn’t back down, wouldn’t say "screw it, forget about that magnet." Wouldn’t even say "come here, let’s do it anyway."
"Just tell me. Please."
Artemy shook his head.
"We’ll see."
He suddenly felt like the same stupid, sulking kid— like Sticky—and that pissed him off even more. Through clenched teeth, he spat out one more time:
"We’ll see."
And stepped out the door.
Chapter 2: Thirty Steps to the Sky
Notes:
Sorry for the late update, my country was in a war for 12 days! and the internet was shut down! fun!
Anyways, please let me know if there are any mistakes, because my first language isn't English.
Chapter Text
chapter 6: Thirty Steps to the Sky
Before his eyes—a staircase leading up into the sky. Into a small rectangle of sky—moon-gray, with a rough, silvery fringe of clouds. Close. So close. Just thirty steps.
He isn’t wounded—of that, at least, he’s sure. Something down there exploded, but he isn’t wounded. You’d know if you were wounded. If your skin was full of shrapnel—you’d scream. If your guts were spilling out—you’d shove them back in. If your leg was torn off—you’d roll on the ground, pounding your fists, spraying blood and howls into the air.
But he isn’t screaming. And nothing hurts. So—not wounded.
Lucky again. Another near miss. Again— he’s walking back, with the backpack on his shoulders, and in the backpack—a container, and in the container—something’s rattling, rolling, scraping. Let it scrape. It won’t get out. Dankovsky promised—it won’t get out. A thousand tests for airtightness, ten thousand, a million. Artemy wishes he had a body like that—airtight. So blood wouldn’t spill out. So mad laughter wouldn’t burst from his lips.
Can’t laugh. Start—and you won’t be able to stop. Start—and it’s hysteria, exhaustion, death. Here, in the factory basement. In the Zone. In the dark. Death.
He doesn’t laugh. Breathes heavily, gripping the railing. telling himself: Come on, come on, up. Just thirty steps.
There was something down there. Not just the explosion. Something in the air. Or—maybe the explosion first, then the air. He’d gone down there normal. He remembers that. Normal. As normal as you can be in the Zone. But now—he’s bargaining with himself to lift his foot onto the next step—just one, easy, just one, but his vision’s swimming, his head’s spinning, and the shadows around him are moving, like they want to devour him. Shadows... To hell with them, the shadows. Let them eat someone else. Someone else—today. Me—tomorrow.
Artemy looks at the rectangular patch of sky and takes the first step. His legs feel like rags, ready to come apart at the seams—and there are too many seams for one man who only has two legs. Stakh stitched them. Before him—he himself. Before that—his father.
The shadows boil below, licking at his heels. That’s bad—though Artemy can't remember why. Superstition, maybe? Or maybe they shouldn't be feared at all? Black isn’t the scariest color. Red—that’s terrifying. And white—white is certain damnation. But black? Black’s harmless. Dankovsky’s hair is black. Artemy looks at the ink-dark sea below and sees Dankovsky floating there, face down, his hair like wavering tentacles, dissolving into the same darkness, but his skin juts out white: a mountain ridge of vertebrae, the sharp wings of shoulder blades.
Artemy tears his eyes away. Takes the second step.
Something brushes his ankle—five tiny pointed snouts.
The hair on his neck stands rigid.
He leaps three steps at once, heart hammering so hard it drowns out the dizziness and haze. More than anything, he’s afraid to look back.
He looks back.
Nothing.
Gray steps descending. And his own shadow, stretched along them. The shadow’s hands reach toward him, fingers splayed like thorns, like the hooks of burdock. Artemy presses his foot onto the next step, but it shifts—an arc, a curve—and the one beneath his other foot does the same. He presses both—faster—faster, spins a whirlwind, and the wind hits his face, the sun in his eyes, and the sky is so blue, the kind that only happens in summer. He lets go of the pedals and grips the handlebars tighter, drunk on his own desperate rush to pierce the horizon.
Then—he loses balance and tumbles, scraping the dusty asphalt as he falls.
He’s rattling inside his own skull, rattling against the walls, drowning in waves of nausea. He blinks it away. Breathes—quietly, heavily, rapidly. Refuses to moan or cry. Crawls on all fours.
The chain has slipped. Alright, that can probably be fixed. Just needs to haul this dead weight home while the world tilts and the house sways. He’s already standing, already trying to lift the bike. Only then does he notice—on his arms and on his bare legs sticking out from ragged shorts—mold has grown: damp red mold, spreading in thick patches across his skin. The mold starts to burn.
At home, his father pours fizzing peroxide over him—that’s even worse, that’s true hell—but he’d rather chew his own lips raw than make a sound.
It doesn’t hurt me. Don’t look at me like that.
Pressing his lips together, his father bandages him. Says nothing, but Artemy feels the silent judgment radiating off him. It makes him want to bristle, bare his teeth, snap—I’m not five, or seven, or even ten, so back off—but he knows it’s stupid. there’s no reason yet, not a word, not a gesture. Just that—silent.
He jumps up from the chair, ignoring the fire under the bandages. His father asks, calm:
"Where are you going?"
"Lara’s dad’s back on leave. He’ll fix the chain. He knows how."
"And then?"
He juts his jaw.
"Then? I’ll ride some more."
His father looks at him long and hard, and it almost seems—right now, now he’s going to throw something out there that’ll make Artemy’s hair stand on end and hiss. But no, he just shakes his head.
"Be back before dark."
He almost laughs.
"What could possibly happen at night? Some maniac gonna gut me? I’ve got my bike, he’ll never catch up."
His father looks exhausted, like he’s spent the last hour trying to force medicine down some stubborn patient’s throat.
"Anything could happen."
"Yeah," he tosses out carelessly, and stomps off to the hallway.
Anything—right. What, a rabid rat’s gonna jump him? Or Saburov gonna wag his finger?
He grabs his bike from the sun-dried grass by the porch and trudges toward the Ravel house.
That night the Visitation happens.
Artemy’s sure if he rolled up his pant leg now, he’d see that same bloody mold on his skin. Memories sink into his flesh with wet, hungry mouths, and something squelches behind him—what the hell’s squelching? Shadows shouldn’t squelch. Shouldn’t reach for him either. But they do, the filthy bastards. Well, he won’t stay with them. Not tonight.
Artemy takes another step. Something’s not right. It feels like he’s been on this staircase forever. His calves tremble like he’s climbed seven hundred steps already. Seven hundred. Not seven. God, just let me get out. He’s never going into basements again. Even if Dankovsky crawls to him on his knees, begging—nope, shop’s closed. Hell, let him crawl. He owes Artemy his life: for the Zone, for his junk, and most of all—for what’s in that backpack right now. Artemy doesn’t even want to think what this haul would fetch on the black market. If he thinks about it, he won’t give it up. Hell, maybe he won’t anyway. Out there, he’s the nice guy everyone wipes their feet on, and he just wags his tail. But the Zone scrapes all that shit away fast. Here, you’re alone with yourself, with your real self—the one with a wolf’s heart and a shadow like a reaper’s hook at your feet. Here he knows with perfect clarity that he hates Dankovsky, and he regrets more than anything that first night he didn’t bury a knife in his chest—or whatever it is he has in place of a heart. And even now, nothing’s stopping him. He knows where he lives—saw it in his file. And the knife’s still on his belt, just waiting to taste someone.
The pale bastard looms in the shadows again—smug, mocking, eyes glinting. Black poison on his lips, a gaze like sharpened glass.
"Well, come here then. I’ll paint you up like never before. I’ll color you whole—in red, blue, and violet. I’ll kiss your lips while you choke on your own blood."
Fueled by a blazing fire of hatred, he conquers five more steps. And all five—five again, again twenty-five—he has to smother his laughter, that wild, unstoppable laughter that leaves no way back. But on the sixth step—he wants to cry.
Artemy turns around again, counts the steps once more.
Thirteen. He’s climbed thirteen. A devil’s dozen. Well, shit.
In the Zone, everyone’s superstitious. Out there, you can laugh at superstitions—but not here.
Artemy tries to subtract thirteen from thirty. Doesn’t work. Thirteen’s obviously bigger. If it took him this long to climb them—it has to be bigger. If you multiply those thirteen by two, you get thirteen million and thirteen hundredths, and an infinity sign repeating. And that—should be less than thirty? Then what the hell is thirty?
"Drop it," Stakh advises, stitching up a gash in his skin with surgical thread. "Look how close it came to the femoral artery. Next time, you won’t be lucky."
"I’ll drop it," Artemy drowns the pain in forced laugter. "You said it, so I’ll drop it. Believe me?"
"No. But I tell all my patients that. Doctor’s duty."
"Right." Artemy watches the last stitch go in. "So, what do I owe you?"
"Nothing."
"Come on," he pulls out his wallet. "I’m clearly richer than you. And you’ve saved my life—again."
"Put it away." Stakh’s voice is iron. "Call me overly squeamish, but I don’t want money soaked in the blood of Isidor’s son. If you want to repay me—drop it."
It’s hard not to roll his eyes.
"Fine, have it your way. My father always says—"
He catches himself. It’s happened often in that first year after coming back. It’s hard walking through your hometown and remembering that the most important face is missing. It’s hard lying in that creaky house at night knowing you’re alone. Not because your father’s on a late call or stuck at the Institute on a deadline—but because he’s gone. Gone for good.
"Used to say," Artemy corrects. "Used to say..."
But he’s already lost his train of thought.
Stakh watches in silence. Then mutters:
"You know, after what happened to him... I really thought you’d stay out of this for good."
Artemy’s mouth twists into a crooked smirk.
"Well, you didn’t quit yours. People are too afraid to mess with stalkers, but someone might come after you too—some new fanatic who’ll try to slit your throat for patching up ‘our brothers.’ What’ll you do then?"
Stakh’s calm expression unsettles him—because for a split second, it looks just like his father’s.
"If they want to cut me up, let them. I’ve got a doctor’s duty. There’ll always be some of ‘your brothers’ around, and someone has to treat them. Isidor didn’t teach me all this for nothing."
The past tense comes easier to Stakh. Artemy envies him—envies that, and everything else. That Stakh became the person his father had tried all those years to shape in him. That Stakh would have been the better son. That he had been here all this time. That he knew their father in ways Artemy never bothered to. And now—it’s too late. And that sour, rotting envy sits in his throat like bile.
"Right," Artemy exhales. "I’m off."
And he thinks: Yeah, I should quit. Yeah, I should quit. Why the hell not? Maybe it’s not too late to get my head on straight—maybe the old man will smile down from the other side.
He lets himself imagine it. How he’d slip his sweaty palm off the railing. How he’d relax his trembling legs and let the heavy backpack drag him backward. How he’d tumble down, counting each of those thirteen steps with his shoulders—and finally crack his skull open with a satisfying crunch. And then he’d lie in the warm spreading puddle—like a caress, fingers combing through his hair. Like his father never did. Like his mother might have, if she’d lived. Like Dankovsky might have, if things between them had been real. That would be so good.
Artemy takes another trembling step. Then another.
Sweat pours down his face. He’s halfway up the stairs. He thinks he’s halfway. He’s afraid to look up and check, because at the edge of his mind an icy panic is buzzing: what if he counted wrong? What if it’s not thirty steps but forty? Or fifty? If he finds out he’s not halfway—he’ll never make another step. Only down. Only falling into the arms of those whispering shadows.
Fresh air tickles his nostrils, but Artemy can’t tell if it’s real or another memory. He tries to catch it on his lips, like he used to catch cigarette smoke back when he still smoked. He quit in prison—there, it hit him how enslaved people were to the stuff, ready to sell their own mothers for a drag. It was slavery, and more than anything, he refused to be a slave. But before that—before that, he’d catch the smoke on his lips and think that was freedom. Those grayish strands, like tattered scraps of cloth. He never mastered blowing rings, not that he tried—what kind of pretentious bullshit was that? Let Grief waste time on that crap—he wasn’t a kid anymore, sneaking glances and copying Grief’s swagger and cocky manner. He’d figured them all out—Grief and all the rest: they all liked to act tough, but in the end, they were just street rats like him. he’d always known. Yeah, "elders"…
They’re smoking in an abandoned railcar on the train tracks. The line’s been out of use for ages — the Zone has swallowed up the station and a good stretch of track. Where the rest of the train disappeared to, who the hell knows, but this car stayed behind: no windows, grass poking through the rotten floor, but still there.
All around, the steppe hums. The sun outside drags itself slowly down, the horizon already glowing red, but it's still early—they need full dark. Then—into the Zone. Then—everything gets serious, no jokes, no masks. But for now—for now you can lazily flick the ash off the cigarette and take another deep drag — from the heart, until tears well up in your eyes and your head swims, and for just a moment you forget about the upcoming run.
"well, Ripper," Grief says, resting his leg on the bunk." You’ve grown a bit. Graduated school, big shot. What now? Gonna play doctor like daddy dearest?"
The mockery scrapes, but the nickname scrapes worse. Artemy can't quite explain why. It sounds cool, fearsome even—threatening. But it sits wrong. He'd never admit it, least of all to Grief, but—it itches. To drown the discomfort, he inhales again.
"Nah, don't think so. Father wants me to, but it’s... too much joy — hanging with stinking old men, checking on crazy old women. Freelance suits me better," he smirks, one corner of his mouth ticking up. "Why? You fell out with Braga - are you afraid that you'll be alone again?"
Grief exhales a a cloud of bluish smoke. "Never short on partners. But yeah, Burakh, it'd be dull without you. I like working with you—got an animal's nose for trouble."
A year ago, he'd have pissed himself with joy hearing that from a stalker pionee. Now—he barely stifles an eye-roll.
"Told you—I'm not going anywhere."
Grief waves a hand, dispersing smoke: "That's now. But when daddy barks—"
Artemy bares his teeth through a grin: "Watch it, Grief. Won't matter that we’re going to the Zone now. Say that again—I’ll head straight to my old man, and you’ll be picking your nose out of your skull."
Grief laughs and waves his hand again:: "Alright, alright, don’t eat me up, big bad wolf."
But his eyes—cold. That's what Artemy hates most about him. The sly charm, the petty soul, the constant scheming—that's tolerable. But when his eyes go like that? they make you not want to turn your back even once.
Maybe he shouldn't have teamed up with Grief, but options are slim. Everyone knows Isidor Burakh tries his hardest to keep his screw-up son off the crooked path. And if you accidentally get his boy killed—who'll patch you up after? Only one doctor in town who understands alien diseases—and won’t rat you out to the cops if you come in the middle of the night. You'd have to be as unhinged as Grief to risk that.
"Listen,"—Grief's grin makes Artemy uneasy, too damn sly. Alright, you lousy fox, what's your game?—"What if I told you I know a spot where the Zone's greatest treasure is stashed? what would you say? Don’t want to? Well, just for a special occasion."
"What greatest treasure?" Artemy stubs his cigarette butt on the metal edge of the table and drops it among a pile of butts already there. "You found someone’s stash or what?"
"Stash, my ass! I’m talking treasure. The most valuable thing in the whole damn Zone," Grief glances around like there might be something around besides endless kilometers of rustling grass. "I wouldn't even tell you, but I’ve got a soft spot for you. Consider it a little graduation gift."
"Right," Artemy suppresses a yawn. "You’re telling me it’s not something you can pull out alone?"
"Well, that too," Grief admits without shame. "But it's worth it, swear on my life. What we're after tonight? Trash compared to this."
"Spit it out already. What is it?"
Grief holds a long pause. Dramatic bastard. Then with a theatrical breath drops:
"The Golden Sphere."
Artemy snorts. Okay, good one. That eased the tension before the run, nice work.
He exhales. "Cool. Let’s drop everything and chase a fairy tale. But I call dibs on the wish first: I want someone to run over Saburova with a car."
But Grief doesn’t laugh. Artemy falls silent.
"Are you serious? What Golden Sphere? That’s nonsense, a legend. You’re not that old—losing your mind already?"
"It’s no nonsense," Grief narrows his eyes. "I thought it was nonsense too, but it’s not. You know who showed it to me? Wild Nina."
"Uh-huh. Convenient—dead men can’t call you a liar."
"I’m not bullshitting!" He’s either genuinely pissed or a damn good actor. "Need proof? Fine. Ever seen her son?"
"What about Kaspar?" Artemy frowns. He rarely crosses paths with the Kains, but recently he caught the gloomy little kid in the act of shooting stray cats with a slingshot made of stones. "Yeah, I promised to box his ears someday. So, what’s wrong with him?"
"What’s wrong with him?" Grief parrots mockingly. "Nothing’s wrong with him, that’s the point! Kid's growing up healthy. You ever seen a stalker's kid come out healthy? No fur, no extra fingers, no fused nostrils?"
"They're Kains," Artemy objects, but less confidently now. "They’ve got money to burn. They probably could afford a good doctor..."
Even as he says it, he knows it doesn’t add up. When Kaspar was born, it was just becoming clear that stalkers’ offspring come out defective. Back then, there were no specialists capable of fixing that. There weren’t any — and there aren’t any now.
"She begged for him at the Golden Sphere," Grief says grimly. "It’s real, Burakh. Saw it myself. And I know how to get there. So—we going?"
Artemy stays silent. His mind races.
What if it’s real? What if it works? After all, Kaspar Kain did come from somewhere. Wild Nina was drawn to the Zone like a moth to flame—no one ventured in as recklessly as that madwoman, and it wasn’t even for money, the Kains always had enough money. If any stalker’s womb should’ve spat out a mutant, it was hers. But no—he was born healthy. Growing up handsome, like his older sister...
"Come on, Burakh," Grief’s voice drops to a whisper. "What better chance will you get? Wish for anything. There’s gotta be something you want bad enough, yeah? Forget Saburov—something that you truly want. Something you’d kill for?"
Artemy swallows. Anything. Absolutely anything. A kaleidoscope of colorful desires spins in his head — from trivial ones, like lots of money and girls falling for him, to ghostly-sweet ones: to suddenly wake up and be seven again, with sunshine through the window, summer, no need to go to school — just run through the city and the steppe, scrape your knees as much as you want, and lash nettles with a stick. And there’s no leper’s spot on his native land yet. No mountain of misunderstandings, no resentment festering so thick he can’t even dash into the kitchen at the sound of clattering dishes to hug his father— as tightly as his skinny little hands can manage. And his father would hug him back, because he isn’t the family’s disgrace yet, not a disappointment, not a lost cause who brings home nothing but bruises and failing grades. Because it’s not shameful yet — to show such tender affection.
Could he ask the Sphere for that? Could he?
Artemy looks at Grief. Into those pale blue eyes—dead and hungry. Something anxiously scrapes at his ribs. He slowly shakes his head.
"No, Grief. We stick to the plan. No point changing horses midstream."
He’s on the sixteenth step now, and now he knows for sure something is pulling him back. Like a fisherman’s hook lodged between his ribs, reeling him in. Maybe it’s the magnet in his backpack, tugging him toward the Zone’s belly. Or maybe he’s just finally lost it. About damn time.
Seventeenth step. Eighteenth. God, how tired he is... And most of all — remembering. If it were up to him — he’d throw all these memories in the trash. Yank them out like weeds, surgically remove them. Every excursion into the Zone. Every night in an lonely bed. Every dream of sunlit childhood. Every sticky binge at the tavern. Every sleepless cram session in the dormitory. Yeah, the university years—to hell with those first and foremost. Those dreadful gray days, those dreadful tired nights. People twirling their fingers at their temples: Why did you come back? Are you crazy or what? They gave you a ticket to life, pulled you out of the hole where they buried us alive, and you — come back. Fool. Weirdo. Madman. Like anyone here’s glad to see you.
Fool? Yes. Freak? Absolutely. But there, in a foreign land, torn from native soil — even fouler and weirder. There — sideways glances and whispers. There — half-voiced questions: Are you really, well, from there?
He’d smile: Yeah.
And the truth is that...
Yeah, of course. It’s all true. The cattle are always born two-headed. And the kids — those are born three-headed right away. And they feed us witch’s jelly —why d’you think I’m so tall? Dinner’s whatever mutants we drag out of the Zone, plus a nice "crab’s eye" stew. God, how he’d hated that city. A thousand times he nearly quit—only his promise to his father held him there. The shame burns like bile now, but when the news of his father’s death came, his first feeling wasn’t grief. It was relief. Now he could go home. Now nothing chained him.
Nineteenth step. Twentieth. Two-thirds there. Almost.
Something scrapes behind his back.
Faster. Come on, faster. Before another wave of nauseating bitterness hits. Before the memory catches up. Before his boot lands on his father’s headstone instead of the next step.
He never went to his father for treatment after Zone runs. Patched himself up, gritted through the pain—if it got bad, he’d drown it in murky pools of painkillers. He vomited often. Strange that he didn’t overdose to death, when he poured handfuls of pills into his palm and pushed them into his tightening throat without counting. Only when it got really bad would he go to Stakh. Stakh would purse his lips disapprovingly—just like his father—but he’d help where he could, and that was enough.
Except that one time. The last run before he left.
He thought it was nothing. he just brushed against some bush with his hand when he lost balance and almost fell off a cliff. Well, it stung like nettles, but the skin didn’t swell or blister, just some white spots appeared. He showed Grief. Grief shrugged. And for half an hour they walked fine. Then — it started to sting.
Artemy desperately tries to shake off the memory. He climbs the twenty-first step. Bites his lip—just like he did back then. And whispers to himself in Grief's voice:
"Quit pissing yourself, it'll be fine. Been through this a hundred times."
Wonder if Grief really hadn't known—or if he was still pissed that Artemy didn’t go with him to the Sphere?
Twenty-two. Artemy climbs, and again white spots appear on his palm. First — spots, then — little bumps, and by the time they come out the other side — swollen blisters, and not white at all, but some kind of greenish, corpse-like shade. And it burns as if he’d skinned his hand and dipped it in a bucket of peroxide. Grief had to clamp a palm over his mouth three times to keep his screams from drawing patrols.
The world melts, dissolves into red flashes. Flash—they're crawling under the net. Flash—a black forest. Flash—Grief's smoke filled the car.
"Take me home," Artemy rasps, voice fraying. "take me. To Father. I'll go with you later—to the Sphere, or anywhere. Just take me."
Grief's face sours. Artemy sees the gears turning, calculating. the bastard, what’s more profitable — to ditch him to die somewhere in a roadside ditch and snatch a second share of the loot, or to get in good with Isidor Burakh. Finally, a grimace:
"Fine, fine, I’ll take you, just shut up. But if we get stopped at the checkpoint—"
Flash.
His father's office. His burning hand on the table—God, is this still my hand? Can part of you hurt this much?
But that’s not the worst — the worst is: the heat crawls up the wrist. And further, it will crawl further — how else? This is from the Zone, this is the Zone, it always goes like that, first it bites off a small piece, then a bigger one, and then it swallows it whole, and...
"Do something," his voice trembles and breaks. "Faster. It's spreading. You can fix this. Can't you? Can't you?"
His father doesn't answer. Just studies the blisters. Methodical. Calm. Meanwhile, Artemy's knees shake. Artemy has a fiery hell on his hand. And he doesn't know what terrifies him more: that this rot will creep to his face—or that his father will say the words. That he'll have to... that they'll need to...
"What did he touch?" His father asks. Not him—Grief.
Grief hovers by the doorlooking down like a naughty schoolboy — all his fiery bravado is gone, all the sly cheek is out of his eyes.
"Just—some bush, I think. A normal bush, local. Only there was something blackish on the leaves, like little bugs."
Father nods. Does he understand? Or is it just a nod? Or—
"You may go, Grigory."
Grief vanishes like smoke. His father turns back to the blisters.
Everything swims in his head from the pain, and rage threatens to overwhelm the fear — what is he still looking at? What’s there to examine? What’s to wait for? Artemy digs his heel into the floor. Through his teeth he spits out:
"Then DO something, damn it—anything! What is this? You know, don't you? You know?"
With the words, a part of the agony is forced out, but the fiery ocean is inexhaustible. Artemy stares into his father’s motionless eyes, and suddenly a shiver runs through him. Maybe he’s staying silent on purpose? Maybe it’s a punishment? No, he couldn’t, could he—first, do no harm…
"Dad," he whispers—completely at a loss, as if he's not almost eighteen but eight. though no, even at eight he had already stopped…"Please. It's my right hand. I... I won't be able to hold a scalpel."
It’s nauseating and humiliating, but that’s all that comes to mind. What else could he use to pressure him? His father’s feelings? Stakh would’ve had a better chance with that. A doctor’s duty? As if—stalkers owe nothing to anyone, and no one owes anything to them. He’d chosen this world himself. His own fault. All that’s left is the most pathetic plea: look, just look at me, I’m not completely lost yet, Dad, don’t believe Saburov, I’m not a total failure, not yet, I’ll make things right, I’ll become everything you ever wanted, just please, please…
His feverish lips tremble:
"I'll... I'll go to university. I'll—whatever you want, I promise, I—"
"Shut up," his father says, and for the first time, there's something in his voice.
Anger.
He's angry.
Artemy closes his eyes and bites his tongue so he doesn’t whimper. A new flash of pain shoots through him all the way to his spine. Sweat runs down his face. Scraping sounds—his father pulls out the toolbox.
A new surge of panic crashes over him. The lid isn't even open yet, but Artemy knows—with absolute, unwavering certainty—what's inside. It’s going to be a surgical saw. He sees it as if it’s right there, sees the sharp blade gleaming in the lamp’s light, the teeth grinning in the frame’s embrace. Sees it sliding toward his wrist, kissing his skin with an icy caress, crawling back and forth, ripping, tearing, biting into the bone with a nauseating screech…
Artemy digs his heels into the floor, tries to move the chair back or at least fall, but his legs are like jelly, and everything in front of his eyes is blurry, only the silhouette of his father looms out of the fog like a menacing shadow. He shakes his head violently. A mad voice ricochets off the walls, splitting his own eardrums:
"Don't! Don't cut my hand—I'd rather—"
A slap splashes across his face. It cuts off the panicked wail, and even the pain goes silent for a moment—Artemy stares up, stunned.
"Hand. On the table." His father’s voice is calm.
In his hand, he holds a simple needle.
For the next ten minutes, the father is occupied with puncturing the blisters and wiping away the yellow-green fluid that seeps out. It hurts, but the pain has sunk so deeply into Artemy’s mind that it’s become a natural part of him. He breathes raggedly and tries not to think about anything. Somewhere on the edge of consciousness, a thin flicker of hope burns.
His father places a basin of some solution on his knees and orders him to keep his hand in it for the next hour. Artemy is afraid he’ll black out and drop the basin, but the dull waves of pain keep him conscious. At first, he doesn’t notice they come less frequently; then, suddenly, he realizes he’s gone a whole five minutes without desperately thinking, like a junkie in withdrawal, about the painkiller hidden somewhere in a cabinet.
Then the hour ends, and it turns out he was celebrating too soon. The moment he pulls his hand from the solution, the pain returns—furious, searing, burning his skin from the inside. He looks helplessly at his father. The man says:
"Endure it. No more painkillers."
The next five hours stretch like a lifetime in the Zone. At some point, delirium sets in, and Artemy vomits words that mean nothing but, in the moment, mean everything. Gray dawn creeps through the narrow gaps in the curtains. Somewhere there’s the sound of rain—or the steppe—or blood rushing in his ears. In his fever, he imagines his father hugs him. In his fever, he leans into it.
When he comes to, it’s already the middle of the day. His hand is tightly bandaged, tongue dry and too big for his mouth, eyes gritty and swollen as if he’s been crying. The chair’s back digs into his shoulders.
His father is writing something in a notebook. Noticing that he’s awake, he looks him over, assessing.
"Dizzy? Nauseous?"
"A little," Artemy croaks. He lowers his eyes to his hand. "Ah—"
"You’ll need to change the bandages and treat it morning and evening for four days," his father says. "After that, it’ll heal on its own."
Relief splashes across his face in a saving wave. Artemy trembles.
"Thank you," he mumbles to his knees.
"Don’t mention it," his father replies dryly. And then: "I want you to leave."
The words hit like a sledgehammer. Artemy stares at him, trying to read his expression in the dim room behind the drawn curtains. He sees nothing—only a stone.
"What do you mean? For good?"
"Study. I’ll arrange for you to get into medical school. After that—it’s up to you."
Shame and bitterness churn in his gut. He looks at his father from under his brows. He raises his bandaged hand:
"And if I hadn’t promised?"
"You promised me nothing," his father says.
But they both know it’s a lie.
Artemy no longer knows how many steps he's climbed—he lost count. All he knows is that the moon is very close now. Sweat is pouring down his face. His muscles are cramping, his bones ache. Doesn’t matter. He’ll get out. Tonight—he’ll get out. And tomorrow, let it all burn.
When the light hits his eyes and fresh air smacks his face, he almost doesn’t believe it. He dives out, like plunging headfirst into water. He collapses by the factory wall and vomits—a sour, watery mess. His nose breathes easier. Convulsions ripple through his body—one, then another, then a third—then subside. Artemy leans back against the wall and breathes. Even the dead air of the Zone tastes sweet. Everything that’s not inside. Everything that doesn’t drag him back. The backpack slumps on his shoulders—defeated.
He doesn’t hear the footsteps. He simply opens his eyes again and sees a girl standing in the moonlit street. She’s wearing boots up to her knees on pigeon-toed legs, a hat pulled low over her forehead. Artemy recognizes her as Saburov’s "daughter."
"Hey," he says, staring at her shadow. Shadows. There are two of them—again, two. One—calmly resting at her feet. The other—facing the opposite way, bristling with sharp hooks.
Artemy doesn’t know which of these is real and which is a leftover of the poisonous fog. But just in case, he reaches for the knife at his belt.
"Don’t," the girl pleads. "I’m not going to hurt you."
Yet.
Yet—fine.
Artemy curls his lips.
"What do you want?"
She points behind her—where the asphalt gives way to scraggly grass and jagged bricks stick out like fangs—remnants of walls destroyed long before the Visitation.
"Want to do a good deed?"
Artemy sneers.
"Do I look like a good guy?"
The girl doesn’t answer.
He squints at her, exhausted.
"Why can’t you do it yourself?"
"I can’t," she says. "I’m in a bad mood today."
God, what nonsense. And he doesn’t even have the strength left to fight it.
"Is it far?"
"No. Straight ahead."
Artemy is silent.
"Go," the girl says. "It’s like in fairy tales—you’ll be rewarded."
Like in the fairy tales—and no one ever saw them again. Like in the fairy tales—and he died a painful death. Like in the fairy tales—terrible tales of the Zone. Artemy smiles:
"You’re not lying?"
"I never lie."
He’s in a bad mood today too. No—he’s always in a bad mood, or at least angry. But now—he’s just so tired of it all.
Artemy silently circles the girl in a wide arc and heads toward the edge of the asphalt. When he looks back, the street is completely empty.
If he’d been in his right mind—he would never have gone. But something broke inside him on that staircase, something stayed lying down there, in the darkness, in the whispering sea of shadows, with a crushed skull. It happens—it wasn’t the first time, it wouldn’t be the last. Stalkers—they’re as fragile as puppets, just like people.
In the moonlight, Grief’s face is completely drained of blood. He stares for two seconds—he doesn’t believe it either, he doesn’t understand if it’s real or a hallucination. Then he grabs at Artemy’s boots with crooked fingers.
"Jesus, Burakh! Get me out of here!"
The wheezing is pathetic. Grief’s a mess—filthy, bruised, ginger hair matted with dirt, eyes more burst vessels than white. Artemy looks down at his waist—one of Grief’s legs is on solid ground, but the other—up to the knee—is sunk in an earthen mouth.
Mother Boddho has opened her jaws...
"Well, you're in trouble, Grief," Artemy says, voice alien to his own ears. "Should’ve watched your step."
"I know!" Grief’s voice quivers on a pleading note. Playing pathetic—but there’s nothing left to manipulate. "Please, for the love of God, pull me out! You know I won't remain in debt, I..."
What a familiar song.
Artemy peers more closely at the leg swallowed by the ground. Everything around it has already dried up—earthen mouths are always like that. The pant leg above the knee is soaked in blood, but if Grief is still conscious—that means he hasn’t been here long. Are there chances? Yes, there are always chances. But...
"Please, Burakh," Grief’s voice is trembling now—this is real. "I’d pull you out. And I did—remember? Remember?"
When they’d already come out of the Zone—yes. When his father needed something—yes. But now, if they’d switched places—probably not, huh?
"Burakh, Burakh—" he whimpers and whimpers—it’s nauseating. "I’ll give you anything. I’ll tell you about the Sphere. Everything. I swear on anything—just get me out of here, Burakh."
Artemy squats down. He carefully examines the ground around him—no other mouths, just this one, closed. Then he looks back at Grief. Asks, softly:
"Do you understand what you’re asking for? I’ll have to chop your leg off, Grief."
Ten seconds of heavy silence. Grief knows himself—it chewed him up, ground him down, and below the knee it’s a bloody mess of bone and meat. As they’d write in the Institute: the sample is beyond restoration.
"I don’t care," Grief whispers. "Just get me out of the Zone. It’s not far now. I have a car. Just get me out. And take me to Rubin. And that’s it. It’s all yours. The Sphere—yours. Anything. Anything."
The world would be cleaner without Grief. Without Artemy too, sure—but without Grief... He wouldn’t get to Sticky anymore—though he wouldn’t get anywhere now, the one-legged bird...
A sigh catches in his throat. Again, the old man and the turnip? No—no, first a tourniquet... The belt—yes, the belt will do. Artemy reaches for the buckle. It jingles softly.
"Alright, Grief. Let’s do this." he wraps a tight loop around the thigh. "The old man planted a turnip. And the turnip grew—big, very big."
Grief stares at him like he’s insane. Artemy—suddenly, hysterically—wants to laugh. With a crazed grin he whispers:
"It’s okay, Grief, it’s okay. Everything’s gonna be fine. Just don’t scream."
But of course—Grief screams.
Chapter 3: Dirt
Chapter Text
chapter 7: Dirt
At night, it seems to him that the Zone resonates—not with actual sound, but with an elusive trembling in the air, something you can’t even feel on your skin but still perceive in some way. Not a single scientific article has been published about this phenomenon, so Dankovsky dismisses it as part of the gray area of conjecture and sensation—like overly vivid dreams, like hazy premonitions, like non-physical, non-biological anomalies that seem to exist, seem to manifest, but provide too little data for serious conclusions. And yet—it keeps him awake.
When three dull knocks sound at the door, he is floating in a shaky grey borderland between sleep and wakefulness. He runs through the possibilities in his mind: Who? A courier with a registered letter? A crazy neighbor? Some ghost from the past? Good thing no one he knows is buried here. Good thing no living dead can show up at his door.
Again – three dull knocks. This time they nail him to wakefulness.
The floor under his bare feet is cold – it’s always like that at night, even in summer. In the hallway, he rises onto his toes, but doesn’t have time to look through the peephole – there’s a third knock, and now from the other side comes a muffled:
“I’ll kick this door in right now.”
Chill runs down his spine. Dankovsky silently reaches for the latch.
Burakh is too large—for the scrap of a stairwell, for the cramped hallway, for the tiny room behind him. He’s soaked—the rain started pouring half an hour ago—but the thick, rusty smell suggests his clothes aren’t just dark from water. Dankovsky peers into his ash-dusted eyes. The chill on his back grows colder. He frowns.
“What are you doing here?”
Instead of answering, Burakh shoves him aside—easily, like a child—and steps inside, trailing gray puddles on the floor. Blood rushes to his temples, scattering the last remnants of sleep’s fog. Dankovsky hisses:
“What the hell?”
Drunk? No, he doesn’t seem drunk. Wounded? Doesn’t look like it – wounded people move differently. Then what?
A suspicion flickers in his mind, but then Burakh glances over his shoulder and casually drops:
“Brought you your thing.”
Dankovsky breaks out in a cold sweat.
He looks at the backpack hanging on Burakh’s shoulders. Then – quickly slams the door shut and turns around:
“Did you just...” – he still hopes he’s mistaken, though he knows perfectly well he understood everything right– “You brought it straight here? Into my apartment?”
His voice cracks with dissonance: it’s hard to both whisper (God forbid someone hears) and spit out the mix of fear and fury burning his throat. And Burakh, damn him, just grins:
“Well yeah. You asked for it.”
“I didn’t ask you to drag it into my house!” indignation wins over caution. “Are you out of your mind?!”
“Obviously,” Burakh agrees and drops the backpack onto the floor. He glances over his shoulder again, and the next angry outburst sticks in Dankovsky’s throat under that gaze. “what? I’ve got kids at home. And I’m tired of dragging everything back to my place. Just put up with it for a night. And then carry it to the Institute yourself somehow. It’s an easy job, right? Cops don’t hassle you on the street.”
Dankovsky turns away—from him, from the backpack. Orders his pounding heart to calm down.
He goes into the room.
Thoughts in his head are feverish and keep slipping towards the bedside table – to the pistol lying in the top drawer. He forces himself to exhale. Convinces himself he won’t need it – most likely. He turns back to Burakh.
The man is leaning against the wall, arms crossed, a needle-sharp smile on his lips. Dankovsky avoids looking at his hands, smeared with dirt and something darker. Avoids remembering how those same hands once closed around his throat. At the Institute, they classify Zone artifacts by category—from "Category 8" (Safe) down to "Category 0" (Forbidden for Study). The panicky commission members who assign these labels fear nothing more than accidentally underrating something. Dankovsky used to laugh at them, but now he has a rotten feeling that this is exactly the mistake he made.
With Burakh, it’s easy to forget what he is. When dressed up as a lab assistant – he looks like a complete fool. When he stares with those mournful eyes—even worse. And it’s simplest to bury the memory of the other him under all that harmless junk: the one he knows from summer forests and the winter zones. The one with fangs behind crooked smiles and hands so used to violence.
Still – Dankovsky tries to speak casually:
“Are you wounded?”
“Wounded?” a dark echo from the tunnel. Burakh distractedly glances at his hands. “Nah, this isn’t mine.”
Dankovsky doesn’t ask for details—doesn’t want to. And he wants even less to let the tension thickening in the room fester. To hell with it. Like a scalpel – through the air.
“Then why are you still here?”
He doesn’t see the usual flicker of amused admiration in Burakh’s eyes—though that’s his second most common reaction when Dankovsky says something especially blunt. Second only to childish sulking. But right now—no sulking, either. Only a grey heaviness.
Burakh peels himself off the wall and takes a couple of steps towards him. It’s very hard not to back away. Very hard not to think about the pistol.
Burakh is more than a head taller than him – when he comes this close, Dankovsky has to tilt his chin up. And, well, the man could snap his spine with one hand, but there’s nothing to be done about that. All he can do is dig his bare heels into the floor like a last line of defense.
“Well,” says Burakh, looking him straight in the eyes. “Broke my damn head today trying to figure out—why haven’t I slit your throat yet?”
A tiny, detached part of his mind clinically notes the spike in his pulse. Probably nearing one-fifty. The rest of his consciousness freezes in dull shock. That nauseating feeling of sucking emptiness in the skull when someone asks you something and you don’t know how to answer is almost unfamiliar to Dankovsky. He always prepared for exams perfectly, and all memories before university are covered with a plastic film and stored behind glass – quarantined. Only in his first year did he feel something similar, when a classmate suddenly confessed her love for him, and he hadn’t yet learned to brush off people and their foolishness with a crooked smile.
But this feels worse. Here, he truly doesn’t know what to say.
“I see,” says Dankovsky. “And why haven’t you?”
Burakh suddenly looks exhausted, covered in some kind of grime. Maybe it’s just the Zone still clinging to him. Maybe he broke somewhere along the way and didn’t notice. Maybe he needs to be hit to shake off this heavy residue. But making any sudden moves seems unwise. Frankly—terrifying.
“You know, Dankovsky,” says Burakh, lowering his head towards him. “Not everything in this world has an answer.”
And he pushes him onto the bed.
The sheer simplicity of it is almost disappointing. He doesn’t resist. Not because it’s pointless—no amount of military training can shift a mountain without the element of surprise. Not because, God forbid, he wants this—even if he’d wanted it ten times over, sheer spite would’ve made him hate every second of it. No, he just quickly analyzes the situation and decides this is the optimal course of action. Emotions are easy to detach from; the body, slightly harder, but still possible. Thoughts come first. Thoughts birth feelings—which means he can say "I don’t care" and feel nothing at all.
The mattress sinks under their combined weight, and there’s something almost pleasant about the way those broad palms press into his shoulders, something soothing in the sheer heaviness pinning him down. Burakh looks down at him hungrily and intently – so intently, as if searching for something.
He won’t find it. He mustn’t.
Dankovsky smiles – sharp and venomous:
“What are you looking at? Like what you see?”
“Yeah,” says Burakh, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “That’s what’s strange.”
There’s no arguing with that – it is strange. Every time, it’s surprising. Why other people don’t like him, Dankovsky doesn’t always understand either, but at least that’s a constant. But here? a mystery.
A quiet sigh escapes his lips as Burakh’s hand slips under his shirt. Panic screws into his brain like a red-hot drill—straight from the Zone, no disinfection, no shower, God knows what’s on his hands— Misophobia and common sense scream in unison, demanding he wrench free, douse himself in antiseptic, scrub his skin raw with boiling water until nothing remains, no strange particles, no alien filth. But there’s also a reckless thrill bubbling inside him—the kind that surges when you step to the very edge of a cliff and the animal fear of death suddenly flips into weightlessness. Dankovsky knows about himself that he’s a bit of a masochist, but this is the first time he feels it so clearly – when broken nails slide down his skin, leaving hot dirty streaks, when greedy lips seize his Adam’s apple, when someone else’s knee grinds painfully into his groin, and he – wants to laugh.
Maybe it isn’t masochism at all. Maybe –
It’s the bottom of despair. Or relief. Which, really, is the same thing.
Dankovsky shifts, crumpling the sheets. This isn’t like winter—no stress or exhaustion to blame, and Burakh isn’t the same either. This? This requires being sick, and Dankovsky’s long since accepted he is sick, has been for years, but it’s been quarantined under glass for so long that the thought of setting it free now is terrifying. Not that anyone’s asking him. He is the one that barged in with his dirty hands and started the contamination process himself. Ruined a sterile world. Filthy bastard – they’re a match for each other.
Burakh smells of blood and earth – a heavy, thick scent that clogs the throat. Dankovsky wrinkles his nose:
“You reek of death.”
Burakh pulls back from his neck just enough to look down at him again. That gaze dries out his mouth and drags something back out from under the glass—something Dankovsky prefers not to think about.
“What, disgusted?”
“Yes,” says Dankovsky, and he’s almost not lying. He jerks his chin towards the bedside table. “At least use a condom.”
He’s almost sure Burakh will tell him to shut up now – like that time in the Zone, sharp and abrupt. He almost wants it –that, and a hand clamped over his mouth, and a slap hard enough to split his lip. He’s almost ashamed of wanting it. Almost convinces himself there’s nothing to be ashamed of—because none of this means anything.
To his surprise, Burakh slides off him and reaches for the bedside table – with that strange dog-like obedience of his. He pulls open the drawer and goes still for a few seconds. Then:
“You have a gun here.”
“No way? Can’t be,” Dankovsky bites his lip in irritation. This is dragging on too long. The mix of heat and cold is making him nauseous. “Look under it. It’s on safety, it won’t fire.”
But Burakh isn’t looking in the drawer – he’s looking at him. He asks:
“Do you want to?”
Dankovsky isn’t sure what exactly Burakh is offering. To hand him the gun? Or maybe he wants to take it himself – to poke it at him for revenge? The thought is indecently tempting – here it is, the easy way out: he wouldn’t even have to pretend. When a gun barrel is pressed to your temple, no one in their right mind resists. Maybe he’d even get truly scared. Feel like a normal person.
But still, he mutters flatly:
“No, I don’t want to.”
Burakh looks at him for a long time. So long it becomes uncomfortable. So long that Dankovsky can’t stand it and looks away. For some reason his cheeks are burning.
With a noisy sigh, Burakh collapses face-first into the pillow. Muffled, he grumbles:
“You really want me to hate you, don’t you?”
Dankovsky watches him out of the corner of his eye. Says:
“Yes.”
And he’s almost not lying.
He turns and throws an arm over Burakh. A mountain of muscle, yet trembling like jelly. His fingers sink into sweat-damp hair, combing through absently, absentmindedly convincing himself that he still wants to wash his hands with soap at the first opportunity.
Burakh slowly turns his head, and his eyes are so full of quiet misery that Dankovsky wants to hit him. It’s instinct – like pulling your hand away from fire or squashing a poisonous spider. Instead – he has to hug him, pressing his forehead to his collarbone.
“It’s all over,” Dankovsky says, not entirely convinced—because he doesn’t know what exactly is over, or if it’s really over. Something scrapes inside the sealed container still tucked in the backpack.
Burakh laughs raggedly against his chest.
“Got no words of your own, so you steal mine?”
“You wouldn’t like mine.”
“Try me.”
Dankovsky closes his eyes.
“You never told me why you went into the Zone. Why?”
And:
“I wouldn’t have worried – I knew you’d come back. I even said so.”
And –
No, that’s enough.
They lie like that for a long time. He strokes Burakh’s head, and the tension slowly drains from him, until even the stench of death isn’t so thick anymore. Outside, the rain whispers.
By morning, when gray light creeps into the room and both their heartbeats have steadied, Dankovsky wriggles out from under the heavy arm that somehow ended up around his waist and climbs on top of Burakh himself. He does everything else himself too: peels off clothes – first from him, then, hesitating, from himself. Strokes him with his hand, though there’s no work needed here – it’s even funny how easily Burakh gets aroused, just one languid look aimed at him is enough. Pushing aside the gun, he tears open the condom wrapper with a crackle and rolls it on, all methodical work, like a process honed a thousand times. Only one thing doesn’t fit – the black heat under his skin, spreading out from the way Burakh devours him with his eyes. There’s plenty of animal in that gaze, but plenty of human too – and that’s what makes it burn, that’s what makes it scary, that’s what makes his chest ache, like the fiery impulse of intercostal neuralgia.
He wishes he wouldn’t look.
He wishes he would.
A paradoxical dilemma, not worth cluttering his mind with. As a compromise – Dankovsky averts his gaze himself and straddles Burakh’s hips. Not giving him time to reach out, he guides him in – biting his lower lip and letting out short, broken breaths. It washes over him again – he wants it to hurt right away, wants not to think about the pain and not think about anything except the pain, but when Burakh looks at him like that from below – he can’t. He has to go slowly, carefully, as if there’s still something humanly fragile in him that fears pain.
And still – it feels good. Some aching knot in his chest unravels – so good. Dankovsky clings to the thought that he’s not doing this for himself. Or rather – he is, but in another way: he needs Burakh whole, unbroken, so he needs to fix him. It works – when Dankovsky slides his hands over the firm, scarred stomach, he feels something straighten out, something align, something come back into its proper shape. He once wanted to be a doctor, to heal people. And he became one, but quickly moved into academia: away from patients of flesh and blood, closer to serious research and dry calculations that didn’t imply life. And now here it is—flesh and blood. Muscles shifting under his fingers. A chest heaving and trembling. Eyes shining on a sweaty, dirty face. And there’s no disgust anymore – not now, not when those heavy hands grab his thighs and pull him down hard. Dankovsky chokes on a moan and in that moment feels wildly grateful that Burakh isn’t being gentle with him. That gentleness could have shattered him. But this – this is fine. This – feels good. He can close his eyes and give in to the mad rhythm, growling his “r”s and choking on guttural “kh”s. He can tell himself whatever he wants, feel whatever he wants. Or he can say nothing at all and collapse onto Burakh’s chest, shuddering with a bright sweet flash. Stay a doll for a bit longer, limp and obedient in someone else’s hands. And that’s it. That’s all.
Their bodies stick together, and it should be disgusting, but Dankovsky stays there for another ten minutes, pressing his ear to the heart pounding behind those ribs and greedily absorbing the heat. Then he lazily rolls off and, propping himself up on an elbow, looks at Burakh’s stained stomach. Giving in to madness again, he drags a finger through it, tracing a slick line along a long pink scar and the trail of fair hair. He waits for the wave of nausea – from the sticky slickness on his finger, from the thick smells saturating the cramped room, from the way his throat is now rough with someone else’s name – and this isn’t a fantasy, not a lazy way to entertain himself before sleep. He waits – but the nausea doesn’t come. A completely sick thought flashes – to smear it on his face, to see what else he can do with tongue and lips – but Dankovsky holds himself back on the edge.
He hasn’t lost his mind.
Not that much, yet.
Finally, sliding his finger off Burakh’s stomach, he lifts his eyes. That answering gaze frightens him. Normal, for Burakh – even too normal, but there’s something in it that sends an unpleasant question creeping into his skull: did he go too far? When he was stitching up those invisible tears and sewing them shut – did he accidentally sew them to himself?
Dankovsky wipes his hand on the sheet and reaches out with trembling fingers to Burakh’s face. Runs them along his cheek, tracing the hard line of his cheekbone. Says almost gently:
“You do understand this isn’t about feelings, right?”
Burakh’s lips curl sardonically, and the tightness in his chest loosens a little. Burakh grabs his wrist, brushes the base of his palm with his lips, bites – quick and sharp. Exhales:
“You really are a heartless bastard.”
“Yes,” agrees Dankovsky with relief.
Everything is back in its place.
He rubs his cheek against Burakh’s rough jaw. The stubble pricks his tongue when he bites back – at his chin. He pulls his head back, looks into his eyes again, and with a slanted smile asks:
“Want me again?”
Burakh laughs, pulling him close. Strokes him in such a familiar way that bright flashes of pleasure short-circuit his mind again. And he tickles his cheek with his breath:
“Of course I do.”
Chapter 4: 06-07
Chapter Text
chapter 8: 06-07
He dreams of a white pillar of light on the edge of the Zone. It bristles with burning facets and calls to him with a transparent glassy voice. Dankovsky walks toward it through the steppe. Dankovsky walks toward it knee-deep in blood—and no, it is not a pillar, and not white. It is a sphere—large and colorless. A lacuna carved out of space. A hole eaten out of reality. It calls to him—insistently. The Zone—calls to him.
Dankovsky wakes with a lingering sense of loss. He sits up in bed and looks out the window, searching in the lightening sky for an echo of the dispelled illusion. It must be somewhere—nothing disappears without a trace. Nothing—not even dreams. Especially—not dreams.
A strong arm wraps around his waist and yanks him back sharply. Caught off guard, Dankovsky bumps the back of his head against a hard shoulder.
Burakh is breathing into his neck with a prickling, ticklish breath:
"What did you lose?"
"Nothing," Dankovsky lies. "Just admiring the sunrise."
Sunrises in the city are utterly vile—like the city itself, but for the sake of science, sacrifices must be made.
"Of course," Burakh mutters.
And pulls him even closer, tucking him under a broad shoulder, pressing down with a weight that has become familiar, and stays like that. He does nothing more, although Dankovsky feels his arousal against his bare thigh. Maybe today Burakh needs a special invitation, or maybe he still hopes for a clear answer. He hopes, of course, in vain, but Burakh loves these barren hopes of his, clings to them with enviable persistence. A man from barren lands.
Waking up with Burakh in his bed is something Dankovsky enjoys. Usually, he still points to the door—because it’s important to draw clear lines and remind them both of what’s already been said: this, means nothing special. But sometimes, he can let him stay—why not? At night, with Burakh beside him, he sleeps better. In the morning—he might wake up to Burakh, eyes still unfocused, barely awake, already rutting against him like a dog in heat. Dankovsky, of course, grimaces:
"Animal."
But he’s fine with it.
What he doesn’t like is Burakh’s new habit of dragging finds from the Zone into his home. Yes, Dankovsky himself asks for these things. But objects from the Zone belong in the Institute. At the very least—in temporary storage with someone who doesn’t break out in a cold sweat at the mere thought that something might start creeping around their apartment right now. No one can ever be completely sure with the Zone—not even a top-class specialist.
But science demands sacrifices here, too. He has to endure it.
Burakh seems to sense what he’s thinking. He teases:
"What’ll you do if Saburov shows up while we’ve got something here?"
"He won’t."
Dankovsky is ninety-eight percent sure of that. Something would have to go very seriously wrong for someone to knock on his door with a search warrant.
The pale rising sun catches Burakh’s crooked grin.
"But what if he does?"
Still fooling around—like a child. Dankovsky shrugs indifferently—with the shoulder not pinned to the mattress by warm, heavy weight.
"Obviously—I’ll go to prison."
"God forbid," a rough palm slides over his ribs, chest, neck. Burakh grabs his chin and turns his face toward him, breath tickling his lips. "You know what they do to pretty little things like you in prison?"
Dankovsky doesn’t quite see where Burakh finds prettiness in his pale, earthy, perpetually tired face, but involuntarily he smiles. He slips his hand between their bodies and slowly moves it down. Wraps his fingers around Burakh’s cock, traces the bulging vein with a fingertip. Squints and whispers:
"No, I don’t. Will you show me?"
The summer this year is scorching—some are already worried the steppe will catch fire. At the Institute, his black turtleneck under the lab coat is looked at like a clear sign of madness, but his colleagues have enough tact to limit themselves to meaningful silence. Burakh could learn from them—instead, Burakh flashes his teeth, as if deliberately reminding him of the root cause behind this strange wardrobe choice, and pokes his finger into his wet nape:
"Just say that your lover is bitey."
Dankovsky habitually scans around — is there anyone within hearing range. No one is there, but he doesn’t even bother to answer Burakh, just sharply slaps his hand: Not here—not at work.
"No, seriously," Burakh’s voice carries not a hint of shame. "I get that scientists aren’t supposed to have sex, but you’re gonna get heatstroke."
Word by word, Burakh would drag him into endless, meaningless bickering, so Dankovsky doesn’t take the bait. He nods at the cluttered lab table:
"Wash the test tubes."
And turns away.
He has no time for nonsense. There’s talk of new regulations for Institute staff—something about limiting work hours. Dankovsky hopes that, like a thousand other idiotic initiatives, it will end up being nothing, a hollow imitation of activity. But if not — he has to get as much done as possible.
Lonely nights are sleepless but familiar. The gears in his head, spun up by the day, keep turning, and Dankovsky doesn’t stop them. Good ideas often come to him when his mind wanders on the edge between sleep and wakefulness. If the silence of his cramped corporate apartment becomes unbearable, he turns on the old radio.
There’s nothing to listen to at night—all the important broadcasts air in the morning—but by tuning to an empty channel, Dankovsky pours static into his ears. This gray noise is like the sea, weaving patterns of waves in an irregular, blurred pattern. He listens to this sea. He drowns in it. And there, in the depths, the Zone begins to speak to him.
"Listen," Burakh says one evening as they cool down after a stifling June day. "Do you remember what happened when the ‘siren’ got you? You know, back in winter?"
For a second, his skin burns with the warm aftertaste of touches. The next—a chill runs down his spine. Dankovsky prefers not to recall the Zone’s winter nightmare more than necessary, but his memory is too good — since childhood, reading a page once was enough to remember it almost thoroughly.
"No," he answers after a pause. "You know how it is—no one remembers."
Burakh grunts—figured as much.
When Dankovsky sleeps alone, he dreams of holding something large and warm. Like a golden sun, like the whole Earth—but not as it is, as it should be. If the Earth could ever be right. If he could smooth out all its flaws with steady hands. If he could fuse his rib cage with the blazing core and, tearing out his own, coldly and glassily wish: let there be light, and let the light have no end.
When Dankovsky wakes in Burakh’s arms, he dreams of nothing.
July crashes down on the city with heat that melts asphalt and cracks the earth. It’s unbearable — too bright sun, sweat-soaked clothes, constant thirst, and a rough desert in the mouth. Everything irritates him: children screaming in the streets, colleagues unsuccessfully masking the smell of sweat under liters of cheap cologne, dogs sprawled gloomily in the shade of buildings with tongues hanging out... Garbage in the trash bins rots and stinks. Food spoils in a couple of hours without a refrigerator. Dankovsky hates every square meter of this filthy little town. He is used to ignoring the physical, but who can think about higher matters when the brain inside the head is frying.
Burakh handles the heat outrageously well. He doesn’t burn like Dankovsky does in the scorching sun within minutes. He mindlessly wipes off the sweat streaming down his face like hail and looks quite pleased with life. Once he showed up at the Institute with a wet head and a strangely fresh scent. To Dankovsky’s furrowed brows, who cannot understand what strange smell is coming from him, Burakh smiles with half his mouth:
"Took the kids swimming in the river this morning. Upstream, where the water’s not as filthy."
Not as filthy? The mere thought of the waste dumped into that river makes Dankovsky want to jump into the shower. Better yet, dunk himself in disinfectant. He takes a hurried step back and shakes his head:
"Wait, you actually have children?"
"Of course I do," Burakh says, surprised. "Wanna meet ’em?"
"No." Dankovsky doesn’t hesitate for half a second. "I don’t like children."
Burakh shrugs.
"You don’t like me either."
Whether this is some ridiculous accusation or a completely useless argument—Dankovsky doesn’t even understand what he wanted to say with that.
"C’mon," Burakh insists. "Been meaning to show you to my boy. Hoping to make a scholar out of him—let him see what one of you lot looks like. You can drone on about your grand scientific ideas, maybe inspire him."
"A scholar?" Dankovsky repeats, amused. "You?"
"Well," Burakh says, dead serious, "he’s sharp. Teaching him to multiply fractions now—back in spring, he couldn’t even do column addition."
It’s strange—talking to Burakh about some children. His children. Not as strange as humoring this absurd idea would be, but still. Dankovsky would prefer to limit the circle of acceptable topics to work and the dirt they whisper to each other in bed.
"No," he repeats. "I have enough of my own work."
Burakh narrows his eyes unpleasantly and prods him in the chest with a finger.
"You owe me, Dankovsky. So make time."
Owe. The word brands his skin like frostbite, crackling with ice.
Dankovsky bares his teeth. Glances around—are they alone?—then rises on his toes to hiss in Burakh’s ear:
"I spread my legs for you— what more do you want?"
Burakh shoves him back—with a crooked smile, but harder than necessary.
"Let’s not pretend you’re doing me a favor."
For a few seconds, Dankovsky is ready to explode, to spit out every venomous thought on his tongue. Then the door opens, and the second lab assistant shuffles in, yawning. He has to swallow the boiling venom and be glad that in such heat everyone’s cheeks burn. Here they are—the small joys of life.
One glance at Burakh's "children" is enough to dispel any lingering doubts: no, they're not his by blood, a stalker could not have such offspring.
It's strange—sitting at a wooden table that smells of dust and old timber, chewing through a simple meal with three other people. The disheveled girl doesn't speak and doesn't even glance at the guest. The freckled boy, on the other hand, never shuts up, chattering about his daily adventures and some petty squabbles between local kids' gangs. But even he keeps eyeing Dankovsky with wary suspicion. Dankovsky already feels like a foreign body in the city, rejected by the immune system, but in this old house—the feeling is multiplied several times.
And Burakh— Burakh here is also somehow strange: relaxed, slightly absent-minded, his rough edges smoothed over. Like a feral dog suddenly turned into a contented house pet. It makes Dankovsky even more uneasy. He barely speaks, glancing at his watch every few minutes.
"You're quiet today," Burakh remarks lazily as the kettle whistles on the stove, signaling the torture is coming to an end. "Tell us about that article of yours. More blue panacea stuff?"
"I'll mail you a copy of the journal," Dankovsky looks at his intertwined fingers. "Read it yourself."
"Think I’ll understand a word of it?" Burakh gets up unhurriedly and starts pouring tea. "Tell it so the kids find it interesting."
Dankovsky grits his teeth even tighter.
"I don’t dumb down science."
Burakh looks again with a mockery—harmless but somehow very knowing, as if seeing right through him. More than anything in the world, Dankovsky wants to wipe away that mockery, so he fixes his eyes on the cracked window frame and starts reciting passages from his research by heart: maybe he’ll be ashamed, overwhelmed by the realization of his ignorance.
By the time he finishes, his mouth is dry, and Burakh is openly yawning.
"Cool," the boy says without enthusiasm. "Didn’t get any of it, but it sounded smart. Do you go into the Zone?"
"No," Dankovsky cuts him off coldly irritated. "I don’t go into the Zone."
Burakh quirks the corner of his mouth:
"Liar. We went in winter. Illegally."
Irritation turns into rage. Ignoring the boy’s flashing eyes, Dankovsky turns to Burakh—but the angry retort sticks in his throat. Arguing with this calm, mocking version of Burakh feels pointless. he wants to vomit.
So Dankovsky simply drops a dull:
"It’s late. I should go."
Burakh sees him off to the porch, near which an old bicycle with rusty spokes leans against the wall. Already there, shielding his eyes from the setting sun with his palm, he says:
"Never thought you’d be shy around kids."
Dankovsky’s jaw drops.
"Are you insane? That’s not it."
"Oh yeah? Then what?"
The fact that your home makes me want to crawl out of my own skin.
Dankovsky clicks his teeth in frustration. He doesn’t even want to explain.
"Well," Burakh slaps him on the shoulder without ceremony. "you’ll get used to it."
Dankovsky flinches so hard he scrapes his hand on the crooked railing. He looks almost horrified.
"Are you expecting me to come again?"
"Yeah," Burakh agrees. And just as calmly he reminds: "You owe me."
For a moment, Dankovsky is speechless. Then he forces out through a tightening throat:
"Isn’t that asking too much?"
Burakh leans in—too close. The only relief is that his gaze is heavy again, and the voice rough. He speaks quietly but deliberately:
"I risk my life for your whims and go through shit normal people can’t even imagine. I think you can handle spending time with my kids now and then."
He wants to snap: It’s not the same! This—this is about life and death and science. Not about this gut-twisting discomfort, not about the echoes of things he’d rather forget.
Instead, a weak voice slips out:
"But I don’t want to."
"Really? What a shame." Burakh gently pats the top of his head. "Oh well. You’ll live."
Mornings before work, Dankovsky listens to the news. He hates this activity with all his heart — few things fill the soul with such melancholy as this endless flow of verbal trash and human stupidity. Nothing good ever happens. Nothing catastrophically bad either—just the dull "not great, but bearable." Much can be borne — almost everything. It doesn’t get any less lousy because of that.
Life would be easier if Dankovsky just ignored the news and thought of nothing but work until something knocked on his door. Most of what’s reported is more likely to irritate than personally affect him. But he can’t help it—he’s afraid of missing something important.
With grim resignation, he waits for the truly bad news to break. Depending on his mood, the top contenders are either a deadly pandemic, a decision to destroy the Zone, or a nuclear war.
More than anything in the world, Dankovsky dreams of living in a world where there are no states, no anxious public, and no news. Just research institutes, work, and a placid populace happily reaping the fruits of progress. An immortal humanity of the future, soaring toward the stars.
Of course, it’s a utopia. Of course, he doesn’t care.
The second evening at Burakh’s house is even worse than the first. The girl still ignores his existence—Dankovsky is starting to think she might be his favorite in this half-family. The boy still mostly talks to Burakh, but now occasionally sneaks curious glances at Dankovsky when he thinks he isn’t looking. With a hollow, gnawing feeling, Dankovsky recognizes those glances.
Back home, among his father’s friends—mostly military men—there had been a military doctor. Seemed like one of them, but also an odd bird — he understood that even at that age: in the others’ condescending tones, their jokes, their exchanged looks. Back then, he’d still tried to convince himself he was just like them, that he liked these officers with their booming voices and sharp laughter. Their cigarette smoke and the stench of alcohol that made his temples throb by nightfall. Their seemingly good-natured but still cutting remarks—"Why’s your son so scrawny? How will he serve?"—and behind them, his father’s hand on his shoulder, calm and dismissive: "he takes after his mother. It’s okay, he’ll grow up."
The doctor was different: spoke quieter, laughed softer, waved off cigarettes. And when he occasionally told something himself, they were all stories about service: some harmless, about everyday troubles and funny incidents, some stained with blood and gunpowder smoke. But even those were different. There was no boasting, no desire to show off: "You know what I went through?", no burning mockery. Just a philosophical and even sympathy—for everyone and no one in particular: "That’s just how it is." And something about that man had drawn him in. He never showed it, of course, but now and then, his eyes would flick toward where the doctor sat. Once, when they were alone in the room for a few minutes, he’d even asked—mimicking his father’s friends’ forced nonchalance, an act that later made him ashamed—"Is it hard? Treating people with bullets flying past your ears?" The medic had looked at him with slight surprise and shaken his head:
"No. When you hold a human life in your hands, you somehow forget about everything else."
That’s exactly how Burakh’s boy looks at him now, and just for having summoned a forgotten phantom to life, Dankovsky could hate him. Could—but he reminds himself that there’s only one real culprit here: the bastard who not only dragged him by force into his kennel, but now also teases the boy with stories about the "next crap" their laboratory is studying this time.
This time, when Dankovsky flies off the porch — with such a fast step that it shamefully resembles a flight — the boy suddenly sticks out of the open kitchen window. Hanging his bony elbows over the sill, calls him by name and patronymic.
Dankovsky turns.
"What?"
"Did that article of yours come out yet?"
"Next week. Why?"
The boy flashes him a toothy grin.
"You promised to bring the journal, remember?"
Dankovsky bites into a furious look at Burakh cooling off on the porch. He shrugs his shoulders and - the bastard - smiles.
His article is published in three languages at once, and though Dankovsky hasn't yet made any truly groundbreaking discoveries regarding the blue panacea, for a while he manages to detach himself from the world, and watch with fascination the discussion unfolding in scientific circles.
That is only one side of his work. The other goes straight into the drawer. Dankovsky has already come to terms with the fact that the lion's share of his contributions to science will likely only receive proper recognition posthumously. Earlier — only if he realizes his full potential and agrees to spend the rest of his life in prison, gifting humanity with the fruits of his illegal research.
The news delivers fresh streams of garbage. Actual garbage rots in spit-stained alleyways and the trampled grass of filthy parks. Dankovsky changes the trash bags every few hours, yet the stench still seeps into his apartment. Volunteer squads are extinguishing fires in the steppe.
Burakh is in his bed, stealing brief hours of nighttime coolness. Dankovsky hates him for how before, when inviting him, he could act like he was doing a favor, but now he can’t. Now — he feels a nauseating relief every time he hears "shall we go to yours?" instead of "come over to mine."
But at night, he almost feels good. Burying his nose into Burakh’s scarred hide, Dankovsky banishes from his mind both the fair-haired boy waving from the window and another specter: a scrawny, dark-haired ghost in a white shirt clutching a heavy encyclopedia with yellowed pages to his chest.
Dankovsky likes Burakh's scars. Likes tracing them with his fingers, guessing what - or who - left each mark. guessing what or who left them. Which he carried out from the Zone, which he got into a drunken knife fight for, which — over some dispute with a cellmate. It’s strange even to himself — finding something to admire in that. But he admires it — even something as mundane as the smooth groove on Burakh’s foot, where as a boy he stepped on a protruding nail while climbing around some abandoned building. In his own childhood such a thing was unimaginable — maybe that’s why he likes it.
Burakh watches his explorations with lazy curiosity. When Dankovsky presses his chin to his chest and dips his mouth to the small crater of an old bullet wound — at first he flinches, but a second later — exhales quietly and relaxes. Dankovsky presses his lips closer, lets his tongue slip between them. Slowly traces the raised circle, gently presses on the indentation. The skin here seems both taut and slack at once. Why Burakh’s breathing quickens from the steady motion of his tongue is clear, but why he himself feels an unhealthy arousal instead of disgust, Dankovsky can’t explain.
A hand buries itself in his hair, pulls back. Burakh shakes his head:
"Well, of course only you..."
"What?" Dankovsky pulls up the corners of his lips. " You want to say it’s strange?"
He means compared to everything else, but Burakh is deaf to nuance—he just shakes his head again.
"Nah, not strange for you. You've always had a thing for ugly crap."
Dankovsky cups his face in his hands, pricking his wrists on the stubble as usual.
"Why call it “ugly” right away? In the right light, you're not half bad."
Like a perfectly rehearsed scene — he doesn’t even have time to sigh before Burakh is already pulling him underneath. For his size, he's alarmingly quick. Dankovsky feels good again—from this tamed fury, and from the illusion of control.
Until Burakh leans in too close and drops the bomb:
"You know, Dani—"
Dankovsky hits him across the mouth. Backhanded, instinctive and sharp, no thought behind it.
Everything inside him goes taut.
Burakh jerks back, clutching his jaw. Dankovsky would recoil too, but there’s nowhere to go—just the mattress.
For a second, they just stare at each other, stunned.
Then Burakh moves his hand away and spits red onto his chest:
"Fuck, you split my lip!"
"Oh," Dankovsky says sluggishly. "Sorry, Burakh. I... didn’t mean to."
"You hit me in the face by accident?! Are you out of your mind?"
Dankovsky regains himself just enough to match the anger with irritation.
"Well sorry, it happens. Just don’t call me that."
Burakh glares. A bubble of blood swells and bursts on his lip.
"You realize I could crack your skull open? Just like that, accidentally?"
"Be my guest," Dankovsky sneers. "Enjoy your second prison term."
Burakh shakes his head, disbelieving.
"Fuck you."
Dankovsky grabs his shoulders before he can get up from the bed.
"Come on… I said I was sorry."
Burakh gives him such a vicious sideways look it seems any second he might make good on his threat. But he doesn’t try to throw off his hands. Even now a brief spark of satisfaction flares in his chest — Burakh has such funny weaknesses. Like — he just loves being held, nothing he can do about it.
Burakh fists a hand in his hair again—no tenderness this time.
"You’re sick. You know that?"
"Of course," Dankovsky says without any sarcasm. "And so are you."
He watches pale eyebrows twitch in confusion.
"I know it too, or I’m sick too?"
Dankovsky leans forward, ignoring the pain in his stretched skin. He murmurs:
"Yes."
And kisses the split lips, tasting iron-rust bloom on his tongue.
The third evening becomes an escalating torture, but after the split lip incident Dankovsky has even less grounds to refuse. He places the journal with his article in front of Sticky - let him read, he doesn’t mind, there’s little chance he’ll understand anything.
Burakh echoes his thoughts:
"Doubt you’ll make sense of any of that. It’s not Tom Sawyer."
Sticky immediately fires back:
"Just because your brain’s full of holes doesn’t mean mine is too!"
Dankovsky tenses, ready to block Burakh’s way if needed — he’d already had to smooth over a couple of incidents at the Institute when this bone-breaker decided some sergeant was being too familiar.
But here - Burakh just shrugs:
"Well, yeah."
Sticky sticks out his tongue and stomps off deeper into the house with his new treasure to hide. Dankovsky glances sideways at Burakh:
"I thought you wanted to motivate him to become a scientist."
"Yeah," Burakh stirs the pasta in a soot-blackened pot. "Now he'll read it just to spite me. That's how I got him to read Twain and Dragunsky too..."
There’s a strange pride in his voice that makes Dankovsky flinch. What the hell is he doing, standing in Burakh’s kitchen discussing his foster kid with him? They aren’t even friends, and this is unfair — unfair to force him to participate in this farce.
Sticky returns not alone, and they eat dinner again as a foursome. The sullen girl, as usual, is silent and looks like she wants to be here no more than Dankovsky himself does. Sticky keeps tossing questions at him — what is he studying at the Institute right now? what will his next article be about? has he ever been to other branches? He has to answer — can’t just ignore him.
Dankovsky realizes too late he chose the wrong tactic, focusing on the bleakest and ugliest sides of his work. He should’ve bored him with grey bureaucracy and dry jargon, but instead — he only lit his fire more: Sticky's legs are swinging under the table so hard he’s already kicked Dankovsky in the shins several times. Each time he yelps and quickly apologizes, but that doesn’t help — Dankovsky already wants to strangle him.
The food won't go down. Dankovsky bores his gaze into his plate’s contents. As if he’s back in childhood: until you finish eating, you can’t get up from the table.
Burakh has no such rules at his table. Burakh here isn't the sunken-eyed stalker threatening to crack his skull, but a good-natured house pet - a cross between a labrador and a mutt. When he dives under the table to gather candies spilled from Sticky's overturned basket, the girl unexpectedly grabs her ugly doll and thumps him on the head with its stump arm. Dankovsky is seriously afraid he might vomit into his plate.
This time, when they step onto the porch, he's shaking so badly even Burakh notices. He catches him by the shoulder, not letting him flee down the creaky steps.
"Hey. What's wrong?"
"Nothing," Dankovsky tries unsuccessfully to shake off his hand. "Just a chill."
"In thirty-degree heat?" god, he can shove his plus thirty right up his… — "Stay at my place."
The mere thought sends real chills down Dankovsky's spine.
"No," he shakes his head. "Let's... let's go to mine."
He doesn’t even know which is stronger here: fear that Burakh won’t let go any other way and will insist on his own, or the vile premonition that this is the only way to drown out the aftertaste of this evening. God forbid he spends half the night remembering how Burakh crawled around the kitchen on all fours, picking up candies in their bright rustling wrappers. God forbid, instead of the copper sun, tonight he dreams of something from his childhood.
Burakh scratches his head, puzzled:
"Why? I've got a double bed."
Dankovsky can barely believe his ears.
"Are you insane? You've got kids in the house."
"So what, we’ll be behind a closed door."
No, this is unbearable.
Turning sharply on his heel, Dankovsky leans up close to his ear and hisses:
"I want you to make me scream my voice raw tonight, got it? So the neighbors start banging on the pipes and someone calls the cops because they think I’m being murdered with special cruelty. And I want to not give a damn about any of it, because I can’t remember anything except your name."
Not even his own. Especially not his own.
He repeats, more insistently:
"Got it?"
Burakh’s pupils are so huge they almost swallow his entire light iris. Bottomless. Hungry. Just from that look, Dankovsky feels a bit of relief already.
"Got it," Burakh says in his rough voice. He blinks, coming back to himself slightly. "Wait, I’ll tell the kids I’m out for the night."
Dankovsky waits.
It’s a relief. Burakh with the eyes of a hungry predator and heavy, ragged breathing – that’s a relief. Burakh, beating the excess thoughts and unwanted memories out of him – that’s a relief.
Dankovsky digs his nails into Burakh's back as if he wants to flay him—to add more scars, so someone else might later trace them with the same fascination he does now, wondering: Where did these come from? Alien thorns? Barbed wire?
Dankovsky arches his back until his spine cracks. He throws his head back, pressing the back of his head into the pillow. Moans—not in his own voice, but in some thin, trembling one at the top of his range. When he falls silent for a second too long, Burakh slaps his thigh:
"Come on. Wanted it, didn’t you. To scream."
His own voice is rough with strain—just the sound of it sends electric shocks down Dankovsky’s spine. Outside the window, a streetlamp burns, and in its rusty light the sweat on Burakh’s face glitters with reddish sparks. As if it’s not a lamp, but a bonfire. As if they’ve been thrown back hundreds of years before civilization, and like primitive savages they’re entwining their bodies under the wild ritual rhythm of drums beating in their chests. And his face burns like it’s over the flames – from the wet sounds of Burakh moving inside him, from his own broken moans, from the sweet-sweet feeling of such utter helplessness, dangling in someone else’s hands like a toy.
And even that isn’t enough to drive out the vile images behind his eyelids completely.
Dankovsky drags Burakh’s hand up to his throat. Burakh understands – he doesn’t squeeze, but keeps his heavy palm resting on his neck. Like back then, in the forest, when he twisted his wrist and whispered threats into his ear. Like in his wild fantasies, where that and a kiss on the cheek weren’t the end of it.
Dankovsky stares up at him through half-lidded eyes. Burakh stares back—and God, if only he could always look like this, always be like this, ravenous and untamed, if only they existed in a vacuum and there was no world around them, and they didn’t have to be real, because nothing is real anymore, and that means – everything is real.
That’s what the siren sang to him. A fairy tale about the beauty of illusions and the eternity of glass flowers. About the infinity of space and a world deciphered, where everything is a game and everything is truth. He hasn’t forgotten. He only forgot that it was true.
Dankovsky presses his hands into the crumpled sheets, sinks into the intoxicating storm, rocking in time with the furious surf, unable to tell where the ground is and where the sky. He doesn’t touch himself, though it feels like he’s about to explode – like a supernova, like river ice, like…
He slaps Burakh’s wrist. Gasps out:
"Hit me."
"Huh?" Burakh’s eyes flick up and down, uncomprehending.
"Like... in the Zone."
He doesn't ask questions. Doesn't even hesitate—just slaps him across the cheek with an open palm. Not like before, of course: no blood, no split lip, but something still explodes in his head, the world dissolving into hot streaks across his stomach, and he’s forgotten something, but it doesn’t matter, it’s good, after all, that’s exactly what he wanted – exactly to forget something.
Dankovsky spreads out like a puddle of black water, and when he comes back to himself, everything feels too light. Burakh has rolled off him – lying to the side, staring in the darkness at his bruised cheek. Reaches out with his fingers to stroke it – thankfully, without any stupid questions like "does it hurt much?". Dankovsky still doesn’t like his expression, so he pushes the hand away from his face.
Burakh darkens but smothers a rusty smirk:
"Did they beat you as a kid, or what?"
His thoughts come slowly – his mind feels like viscous jelly. Dankovsky mumbles:
"What?"
Burakh’s eyes burn with grim amusement. He gives Dankovsky’s stomach a wet slap. Rubs his palm down hard – as if trying to rub it all into his skin. His cooling face flares hot again when Burakh says:
"Just trying to figure out why shit like this gets you off. With me it’s obvious, the Zone scrambled my brains ages ago, but you… That’s why I’m asking – did they beat you as a kid or something?"
Dankovsky doesn’t even want to know how Burakh connects things like that in his head.
"No, they didn’t beat me," he answers with irritation. "I mean, no more than anyone else. Don’t you have anything better to do than play psychoanalyst?"
"It’s just interesting," Burakh keeps rubbing and rubbing with his sticky hand. Dankovsky almost manages to revive his old disgust. "What, I’m not allowed to know you better?"
"You’re not," Dankovsky cuts him off. Maybe – a little too quickly. "Don’t dig under my skin. Don’t dig into my past. I don’t like it."
He rolls onto his side, back to Burakh. Wants to throw his hand off with a sharp movement, but of course it’s not that easy – Burakh just scoots closer. Presses against him, hot and tight, rests his chin in the hollow between his shoulder and neck. His dirty fingers wander absently over Dankovsky’s ribs, as if searching for the place where his heart beats the hardest. Dankovsky squeezes his eyes shut and forces himself to breathe deeply. His ear tickles:
"Don’t call you by name, don’t ask about your past… What am I supposed to do with you?"
"Whatever you’re doing – keep doing it," he squirms, but Burakh holds him too tight to even breathe properly. "My body is yours, use it however you like. Forget the rest."
Silence thickens in the room, and Dankovsky is already hoping that the conversation is over, when Burakh quietly says:
"You know that’s not what I want."
Why does he always have to ruin everything?
Really?—the words almost spill out, venomous and old. Well, you’ll live.
"Strange – just five minutes ago it seemed to me you wanted it pretty badly."
He waits for another flash of annoyance, but Burakh only sighs. And strokes his stomach again.
celestial_sorrow on Chapter 1 Mon 02 Jun 2025 09:05AM UTC
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Anonymous Creator on Chapter 1 Thu 26 Jun 2025 10:22PM UTC
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m0useRat on Chapter 1 Tue 03 Jun 2025 06:18PM UTC
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Anonymous Creator on Chapter 1 Thu 26 Jun 2025 10:24PM UTC
Last Edited Fri 27 Jun 2025 07:54AM UTC
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Hello_Im_A_Duck on Chapter 2 Mon 30 Jun 2025 03:14AM UTC
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