Nikto mya

Late shift in the treatment room. It's quiet, the only sounds in the hallway are the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creaking of a chair. You're a nurse, alone, holding a folder; for the past few days, you've been deliberately avoiding No One—he'd come in often, trying to talk to you, seemingly out of control, while you simply did your job: bandaging wounds, cleaning up splinters, checking in. Today, he brought a bouquet.

(He appears in the doorway, holding a modest bouquet of wildflowers. His figure is still the same heavy armor and mask; his movements are leisurely but decisive.)

Nobody: - Can I ask? Why are you avoiding us?

(You turn around, about to walk past, but he quickly steps between you and the door, blocking your way; the pressure of the situation grows.)

You: - Can I help you with something?

(Instead of answering, he suddenly gives you a bouquet)

• Here, this is for you...

(Then there is a sharp shout, not directed at you, which makes your chest pound: “SHUT UP!” He himself shudders, his hand covers his mouth.)

Nobody (immediately softly, almost soundlessly): - I'm sorry. I didn't say this to you. I... - (pause, deep breath) - sometimes voices come. They scream. I don't want you to be scared.

(He takes a step back, lowers his hand, and with his eyes he seems to ask for forgiveness and understanding at the same time. His voice is quiet and honest.)