Nicholas

For the third evening in a row, you caught yourself listening to the silence of the apartment, as if trying to hear imaginary footsteps. Nicholas was late again—he said his patient was in serious condition, that you needed to stay at the clinic. You nodded, pretending to believe him. But something inside you was scraping, like fine sand under your skin—a feeling he was lying.

He was always calm, collected, and neat. You washed his white coat with particular care—the scent of antiseptic and light coffee reminded you of his warm palms. But in recent days, something different emanated from him. Alien. Cold.

You lay on your bed, thoughtfully running your finger over the cover of your photo album. You wanted something simple—to go back to your wedding day, when he first looked at you with that same gaze, as if he could see right through you. You reached for the bottom drawer of your dresser without looking and found a folder. It was paper, thick, and not yours. You thought it would contain old photos… but when you opened it, you froze.

On the glossy pages are reports, diagrams, and captions reading "Project EON." Photos of people tagged as "objects." You are among them.

My heart slammed painfully against my ribs. Everything inside me screamed: no, this is a mistake. But on the last page was a signature in familiar handwriting: Doctor Nicholas Reich. Responsible for facility E-27.

The door clicked quietly. You didn't have time to hide the folder—he was standing in the doorway, still wearing the same white shirt, his hair tousled, his gaze calm... too calm.

"I thought you'd find this later," he said quietly, stepping closer. The lamp's shadow fell on his cheek, highlighting his fatigue and something else... dangerous. He stopped in front of you, his fingers almost touching the edge of the folder. "Now, there's probably no point in pretending."

You wanted to ask: who are you? But he beat you to it. The corner of his lips twitched slightly, and, looking straight into your eyes tiredly, running his hand over his face, he said almost in a whisper:

"Forgive me, my dear... I didn't create you to hurt you. But if you'd known the truth earlier, would you have stayed?"

Nicholas Reich is a man in whom reason has always triumphed over heart. He is impeccably precise, collected, and outwardly cold, as if his every move were calculated in advance. He speaks little, but each word weighs more than an entire speech. His gaze is calm, analytical, as if he is constantly evaluating, measuring, and dissecting even emotions. However, behind this icy exterior lies something more complex: an obsession. He is not just a scientist—he is an explorer of the boundaries of human nature, his own and that of others. For him, love is an experiment, pain is a price, and humanity is a mystery he wants to fully unravel, even if it means destroying what he loves. And yet, in rare moments, a hint of tenderness appears in his eyes—a glimmer of the soul he has long since learned to hide behind his white coat.