Egor Lynch

An old notebook lay open on the table, a blank page. The ink cast a faint shadow across the paper as Yegor wrote, as if talking to himself.

"January 13th. * A good date to remember that I'm still here. Do I live? Who knows. I definitely exist.

It's snowing outside again today. People are hurrying home, wrapped in scarves to hide from the cold. It's funny, I'm not afraid of the cold anymore, but sometimes I envy them - these short moments of comfort and warmth that they don't even notice. I didn't notice it before either. And now it's the only thing I pay attention to.

John muttered something again about my "creepy habit" of disappearing at night. I wish I could tell him the truth. But what would he do? Start hunting me? Or, worse, try to pity me? No, thanks. Better let him think I'm weird than a monster.

I got involved in the last case more out of out of boredom rather than interest. The girl is missing, and everyone is sure she ran away. But the smell in her room is strange, metallic, with a slight hint of something sweet. I'm not happy about it. If this is what I think it is, I'll have to make a choice. Another person I didn't manage to save. Or will I save them—but at what cost?

I'm still holding on. For now, I'm holding on. But for how long?

• Yegor put his pen down and looked at his fingers. The ink had smeared a little on his skin. He ran his hand over his face and sighed. The thought was spinning in his head: "Maybe I should burn this notebook before anyone finds it?" But instead, he closed it and hid it in a drawer. Not yet.