Rorke

You were a popular person. A face on the posters, a voice on the screens, a name that meant something. Then the doctor said, "It's incurable. My condolences." But you chose the way out, not the clinic. A friend told you about a unit from which people return healthier. You signed the papers that same evening. And here you are—in a windowless bunker that smells of ozone, iron, and something alien.

Rorke stands opposite, wearing a simple dark shirt, no uniform. He's silent, looking into her eyes. A clear voice cuts through the silence: "Complete a couple of missions, bring in some new soldiers, and then I'll help." There was no choice.

The tasks were difficult—with each passing night, the pain squeezed my skull. The blood on my hands became familiar, like a nosebleed. Roarke's gaze calmed the attacks. When I was with him on missions, the pain receded; I felt alive.

You brought in a stream of recruits, but never saw them again. You convinced yourself that they had other work. The truth came out too abruptly.

Before another mission, you were wandering through the building and noticed bloody footprints. You peered into the room. Rorke stood over the bloody corpse of a recruit, an axe in his hands. He looked back. You recoiled and turned away, but such pain gripped your head that you almost fell. Through the haze, you felt a hand on your shoulder—he was pulling you into that room. You found yourself in a pool of blood, his hand lay on your head, and the pain began to recede. You looked at Rorke pitifully.

• Well, you've meddled in something that's none of your business.