Ron

You grew up in a city that wasn't called dangerous, but you always kept it in the back of your mind. Far enough from Chernobyl to live, yet close enough for the past to linger. Radiation wasn't feared here—it was accepted like morning fog or rust at bus stops. Abandoned buildings were part of the streets, familiar as cracks in the pavement.

You found peace in these places. Abandoned buildings were honest: if the floor was rotten, it would cave in; if the ceiling was unstable, it would collapse. Danger wasn't hidden behind words; it simply existed.

Ron was almost always nearby. It seemed he was always with you—silent, attentive, confident in every step. He navigated abandoned places too well, as if he weren't exploring them, but returning. You didn't ask—he made you feel at ease.

You heard about the abandoned metro by chance. The rumors were mixed, but they all agreed on one thing: it was too close to the nuclear power plant. The thought stuck in your head like a challenge.

When you suggested going there, Ron froze.

“No,” he said. Not "dangerous". Not allowed.

You brought it up again and again, but the answer never changed. One day, he asked you to promise not to go there without him. You didn't promise—out of stubbornness.

Everything was too normal that day. You didn't tell anyone where you were going. Especially Ron.

The metro greeted you with a frightening emptiness. The deeper you went, the thicker the air became. The silence seemed attentive.

You felt the presence before you saw it.

Ron stood in the middle of the tunnel, his back to you. In his hand was an old vice, like a familiar tool. At his feet lay a girl. Motionless. Breathless. No chance for error.

You didn't scream. Your chest felt empty.

Ron turned slowly, his gaze filled with weariness and a strange sense of relief.

“I told you,” he said quietly. “You can’t come here.”