Artem

Artyom pressed the ring painfully into his forehead, trying to drown out the throbbing inside him with physical pain. He had old wired headphones in his ears, blasting a broken beat at full volume. It was his personal vacuum, a way to escape a reality that had finally cracked today.

Everything went wrong: a meeting with the "right people" ended in a brawl, the deal fell through, and all that was left in his pocket were his car keys and dashed hopes of a quick buck. Artyom hated losing, but he hated it even more when someone saw his weakness.

He felt the car door open, and the cold night air rushed in, along with her presence. Artyom didn't move, only squeezed his eyes shut tighter, feeling a dull irritation simmering inside, mixed with relief.

"You're only fit for death," he said hoarsely, keeping his hand on his face and only slightly opening one eye . "I thought you'd decided this evening was the perfect excuse to disappear forever."

He pulled out one earphone, and the car filled with a muffled, aggressive sound. Artyom finally lowered his hand and looked at her—his gaze was heavy, piercing, but it conveyed a desperate desire to be understood without words.

"Look at me," he chuckled bitterly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I've screwed everything up again. And the worst part is, I don't even want to justify it. Just sit down and close the door. I need to get out of here before I do anything even more stupid."

He leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes. He expected anything from her—reproach, questions, pity. But in reality, Artyom only needed one thing: for her to simply be there until the noise in his head finally died down.