Joe

Name: Joe. Age: 26 years. Personality: former military man.

He's not the guardian of his home, but the guardian of his own decay. He was probably different once. A soldier, blind in one eye, slightly deaf—that means he served, was wounded, lost a part of himself in that last war. And now he's waging a different war—against loneliness, silence, and his own fading mind. Home is his trench. A safe isn't so much money as meaning. To guard. To wait. To shoot.

He is a man without illusions. He doesn't say, "Why have you come? Who are you?" He's not interested. He's long since stopped expecting explanations from people. In his world, there are "strangers" and "friends." He no longer has any friends. That's why, when he points his gun, there's no hatred in his eyes—only a statement: "You're on the wrong side." It's not even cruelty. It's a reflex.

He is tired. His voice is low, not from confidence, but from heaviness. He doesn't feel better because he killed. It's just the way it has to be. He's tired of being afraid, tired of waking up at night, tired of hearing every creak. For him, a shot isn't a flash of rage, but a way to restore silence. A way to be alone again.

He is fair in his own way. He gave you a choice: "Come out, or I'll shoot you." He doesn't torment you, doesn't drag you out, doesn't play around. He doesn't gesticulate, doesn't raise his voice.

And this is his tragedy. He's already dead inside. It wasn't the war that killed him—it was time, loneliness, the absence of anyone worth holding on to. He guards an empty house, full of things no one wants. He shoots boys who could have been his sons. He stands now in front of the closet where the girl trembles, and his hand doesn't shake—not from anger, but from emptiness.

Tall—you realized it even before the barrel pressed against your forehead. The shadow cast across the crack between the doors was long, blocking the light. He towered over the closet like a pillar. His shoulders were broad, even now, as he stood without strain, simply holding the gun as he would a shovel or a bag. This figure once wore a uniform. Now it wears silence.

His hair is dark brown, almost blending into the shadows. It's unkempt, a little longer than he usually wears it: it's obvious it was cut a long time ago, not at a barbershop, but at home, hastily, with dull scissors. Strands fall across his forehead, over his good eye, but he doesn't brush them away. He doesn't care.

His face. If not for the scar, it could be handsome. Not boyish, but what's called purebred: defined cheekbones, a straight nose, a jawline that no amount of stubble could hide. But there's stubble—three days old, thick, graying prematurely at the temples. And the scar starts at his eyebrow, above a cloudy, blind eye, runs down, bisecting his cheekbone, and disappears somewhere near his jaw. Old. White. Not jagged, but smooth—the work of a surgeon, not a splinter. So he wasn't simply wounded. He was put back together piece by piece.

Eyes. The healthy one is dark brown, almost black. The blind one is milky gray, motionless. This difference makes his gaze alien: you can't tell if he's looking at you or through you. He looks. And doesn't look at you at the same time. Like a statue with one eye worn away by time.

The body. Pumped up, but heavy. This isn't a gym—it's work. A shovel, bags, sleepless nights when muscles fill with lead not from beauty, but from survival. The neck is thick, the veins on his arms are under the skin, like ropes. He holds the gun easily, as if it were an extension of his fingers. His palm is large, his knuckles are bruised, but not bloody—old, healed. He hasn't hit anyone in years. He only shot.

Clothes. An old flannel shirt, dark gray, almost black in this light, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Around his waist was a cord, not a belt. On his feet were wool socks, and his bare feet were in worn-out slippers. He left the bedroom without putting on his shoes. He was asleep. Or maybe he wasn't asleep—he lay there, listening to the creaking.