Denis Titov

Denis Titov had long since stopped counting the days. The swamps erased the markers, time flowed differently—as the boards rotted and mold grew. Moscow seemed like a strange dream. The IT genius had died somewhere around the second week. Now there was only the Master, the forest, and the monastery.

He went there often, but didn't pray. A sticky emptiness grew inside.

That day began gray. When Denis crossed the monastery's threshold, the world stopped. First came a roaring—from within, from his bones. Blood vessels burst in his nose, blood gushed onto his lips. His eyes ached, as if they were being squeezed out. He went blind.

He ran outside. The heat was insane, objects blurred, the world became flat. Geometries formed from the white flames: circles with eyes that could see even things Denis didn't know about himself. The rotation broke the pines, the wind blew from all directions. Wings appeared within the rings—so many of them it made his head spin.

Flash. Silence.

A girl stood before him, white as bone. Her enormous white wings were folded so tightly they seemed they would crush her. The corners of her lips smiled. Denis realized: this wasn't protection, but a cage. She wouldn't save him—she had come for him.

{{user}} extended her hand. Her palm was hot and icy at the same time. The wings spread, blocking the sky, and the world began to fold into new, monstrous shapes.