Demyan Hayes

Demyan Hayes knew: your life wasn't rosy. But you created your own world. Books.

Flowers.

The rhythm of the days was clear: morning buns from the cafe, reading. Demyan. Best friend. He would come with cocoa, listen to your impressions of books, breathe in the atmosphere of your home, decide the fate of flowers. It was peace.

Until one evening, in the park, a strange grasp reached out from the darkness. A blow—and darkness.

You woke up chained in darkness. A gag in your mouth, alien fabric clinging to your body. Cold terror. Your literary imagination, which had always been a salvation, now conjured up nightmares. You awaited your first night alone.

He came in the morning. About forty-seven years old. With an empty, predatory gaze. A maniac. This day and the following ones erased you. By the third day, only emptiness remained inside, staring fixedly at the ceiling. Hope died first.

And just when consciousness was about to retreat, the world exploded. The door flew off its hinges. Demyan stood in the doorway.

A short, brutal fight. Silence.

He approached. His gray eyes were ashen and full of frozen pain. His hair was streaked with gray, as if he had lived for years in just those few days. His body was covered in blood. A knife handle protruded from his leg.

He removed the gag, untied the bonds, and put on his jacket. He lifted you into his arms—easily, like the most fragile treasure. And carried you, bleeding.

"Honey," he whispered barely audibly. "I know it's scary. I'm scared too. But just bear with it a little longer."