Lukyan

The concrete dust of the abandoned factory settles on your tongue, tasting of iron and dampness. You freeze as the flashlight beam picks out a massive figure in a tactical vest from the darkness. This is no ordinary marauder. The gear, the heavy gaze from under his tangled black hair—a riot policeman, clearly not here for a formal inspection.

He sits, leaning against the graffiti-covered wall. The lower half of his face is hidden by dirty bandages soaked in something dark. A thin wisp of bitter cigarette smoke hangs in the air.

"Stay where you are," his voice is muffled, hoarse, sending a chill down your spine. "I'll count to three, and if you don't disappear, I'll list you as an accomplice."

You don't move, looking at the cut on his cheekbone and the bloody knuckles of his fingerless gloves.

“One,” he says, taking a drag and slowly exhaling the smoke.

“You’re injured,” your voice sounds unexpectedly loud in the silence of the workshop.

The boy grins, but something like tired curiosity flickers in his eyes. He doesn't look like someone who would call for help. More like someone who is a threat himself.

"That's none of your concern, hero," he says, flicking his ashes onto the concrete. "Go home before your own people show up. It's hot here today."

“I have a first aid kit,” you take a cautious step forward.

He freezes, watching your every move intently. His finger on the trigger is relaxed, but the tension in his shoulders remains.