Even

Born: In a family where the word "I love you" was replaced by the command "pull yourself up." His father was a former military man and a hand-to-hand combat instructor. His mother was a quiet, reserved woman who had learned not to cry in front of her husband or speak without permission.

Childhood: No toys. No cartoons. No "Mom, read me a story." Wake up at six. Jogging. Push-ups. My father used to say, "A man should be a weapon. A weapon doesn't cry. A weapon doesn't get tired. A weapon follows orders." He believed it. He didn't know any better.

At seven, my first sparring session with my father. A split lip, blood on my shirt. My father nodded, "It's okay. Learn." My mother silently handed me some ice. She didn't hug me. She didn't pity me. She feared her husband more than she loved her son.

10 years old: I broke boards with the edge of my palm. I knew where to hit to knock someone out. I felt no pain. I only felt shame if I missed a blow.

13 years old: My father was fired from his job. He started drinking. Quietly, without any drama. He'd sit in the kitchen and stare at the wall. And then he'd snap at my mother. He didn't hit me. He humiliated me. With words. That was worse.

One evening, I heard my mother scream. I walked into the kitchen. My father was holding her by the hair, bending her over the table. He was hissing something through his teeth.

What follows is failure.

I woke up. My father was on the floor. He wasn't breathing. His neck was twisted unnaturally. My mother was in the corner. She wasn't looking at her husband. She was looking at her son. Her eyes were huge, black with terror. She was whispering, "Monster... You're a monster..."

Then: an ambulance. The police. The mother testified: an attack, uncontrollable aggression, feared for her life. The court took into account the age and circumstances. Not a prison colony. A closed-type mental health facility.

18 years old: Released. An adult. Free. But nowhere to go. His mother changed her phone number, city, and last name. Disappeared. Social services assigned him to Solnyshko, a temporary shelter. He's been there a year now.

Now: 19. Quiet. Polite. Doesn't get into fights. If you hit him, he doesn't fight back. Counts his breaths. Four - inhale. Eight - exhale. Every day. Every minute.

Name: Evenir. Annoying. Everyone calls him Even.

Born: In a one-room apartment on the outskirts, where it smelled of sour beer and wet plaster. My mother was drunk when I gave birth. My father was cooking up a joint in the kitchen at the time. No one was expecting it. It just happened.

Childhood: When I learned to walk, I learned not to step on syringes. When I learned to talk, I learned to yell "back off" before I could yell "mom." At five, I knew: if your parents are quiet, check if they're breathing. At seven, I knew how to open the door with a chain to let in drug addicts while my dad was passed out. At nine, I got my first punch in the face from my dad, just like that. Because I was going through withdrawal. Because he happened to be there.

14 years old: That very day. Dad breaks down. Shakes the apartment, looking for something to sell. Grabs the TV—old, still a CRT, but working. The only thing Even ever fell asleep with. Worthless. An anchor. Even stood between his father and the door. A fight. A push. The corner of the radiator. Blood. Silence.

The mother, having sobered up for a minute, said: “You killed him.” She didn’t hug him. She didn’t cry. She simply stated it.

Colony: Two years. There he realized: if you're not the first, you're dead. Pity is weakness. Weakness is death. He returned from there with a broken nose, scars on his ribs, and an absolute lack of faith in words.

Now: "Solnyshko." His parents are in prison. He's 17. He doesn't wait for letters. He doesn't wait for calls. He waits only for one thing: for the next one to come up and answer.

Even isn't afraid of pain. Not because he endures it. But because something inside him has burned out. Fear is a fuse. It was ripped out of Even at 14, when he saw his father, his father, try to sell the last of his life for a fix.

After the colony, he realized: fear is a signal to "beware." And he has nothing to protect. No family, no future, no body. He's already lost everything. So he attacks anyone. Not out of courage. Out of emptiness. His aggression is a voice.

For others, fighting is a means of survival or humiliation. For Even, it's the only language he speaks coherently.

He doesn't know how to ask. He doesn't know how to explain. Swearing isn't a curse word, it's his vocabulary. A fist isn't a threat, but a greeting.

Even grew up in a brothel. Where danger wasn't a loud scream, but a quiet rustle behind the door. He learned to read the silence.

That is why he notices that the main character is not a victim. The others see hunched shoulders and downcast eyes. Even sees the way he holds the pen. Too firmly. Too evenly. That's not the way someone who's downtrodden holds things. That's the way someone who controls every muscle holds things.

He notices that the main character breathes in a rhythmic manner. That his fingers tremble slightly before the conflict, not after. Even doesn't analyze it with words. He smells it. Like a dog smells gunpowder under a layer of earth.

This is key. Even doesn't enjoy fighting. He's not a sadist. He doesn't enjoy other people's pain. He just needs constant reassurance that he's still alive.

Every blow he gives or receives is a cry: "I am! Do you hear that?! I exist!"

In "Solnyshko," he's a nobody. Another difficult one. Another swearer. But inside, he's a child who one day walked into a room and saw his father taking out the television. And his mother passed out. And he realized: I'm not here. I'm just furniture.

Since then, he's been yelling, fighting, spitting. To be noticed. At any cost.