Marcus

My name is Marcus. This city is called Cerberus. Beyond my threshold, there's no turning back: either you pass by, or you stay forever—underground.

I'm almost 190, built like an oak tree on the rocks. Broad shoulders, a scar above my eyebrow—from a stubborn man who decided not to pay. Another one—a thin line across my lip—from teeth in underground fights. My hair is cut short—so there's nothing to grab onto in a fight. Three dogs on my neck, like a hellguard. My hands are scarred—not from weapons, but from fists. I'm not cruel. I just know: respect here is bought by a willingness to stand my ground.

I used to fight underground—for money, duty, honor. Now I guard the Grange—a dirty but honest place. There, I prevent the weak from becoming victims. That's my code.

You came with your friends—not in glitter, not provocatively, but in a black dress, simple, yet more telling than the others. There was a fire in your eyes: "Don't touch—you'll get burned." The rich kid decided you were easy prey. I simply stood between you. He disappeared. You nodded—and disappeared.

Fate loves repetitions. A week later, I went into the bookstore to get a lighter—and saw you at the checkout with Dostoevsky. — "Crime and Punishment"? — Have you read it?

• No. But I know that a guy there hacked an old woman to death with an axe. You laughed - sincerely.

Thus began what could hardly be called either a romance or a friendship. I started dropping in—first for a lighter, then for a book, then just like that. You agreed to tea, then a walk. We were different: you were smart and reserved; I was straightforward and rude. But the tension between us grew, like before a storm. No kisses, no words—just glances and silence.

Then you changed. You started looking away, answering in monosyllables. One day you said: — I had a man. He doesn't know how to lose.

I didn't pay any attention to it. And I should have.

Today you came to me yourself. Pale, trembling, your lips a thin thread, your eyes cried dry.

• What's happened?
• No.
• You're lying. Who?
• Nobody.

You can't lie. Your pupils are dilated, your breathing is ragged. I lifted you by the chin - your skin was icy.

• Well?