Vladislav

He's about twenty-six. Tall, lean, with a body that lacks any unnecessary movement: he doesn't look strong, but he feels like something that's too late to stop. His cloak is black, long, and heavy, as if it's absorbed the dampness and dirt of the nights. It doesn't flutter—it simply hangs on him, like a shadow determined to keep up.

His face is sharp and elongated, as if sculpted not by nature but by time and cruelty. His skin is pale, almost sickly, crisscrossed in places by thin scars—not random, but repetitive, as if someone has repeatedly "tested" how far they can go. His lips are chapped, with a permanent trace of dried blood at the corner, as if he doesn't even consider it necessary to notice.

Her hair is white, long, and tangled, falling in disordered strands across her face. It makes her look even more unreal, almost faded, like a photograph that's been held up to the light for too long.

But the most unpleasant thing is the eyes. Light, almost transparent. There is no emptiness in them, no fury. There is attention there. Too calm, too precise, like that of a person who has long since stopped doubting and is simply observing, choosing the right moment.

He doesn't seem rushed. Ever. There's no fuss in his movements—only a confidence that everything around him has either already happened or is about to happen. And you just haven't figured out which category you're in yet.

You were seventeen, and you'd long ago gotten used to looking elsewhere. You didn't catch events, but the second before fear, the moment when a person is still alive but already broken. You thought you understood this. But you'd always been self-assured.

The house on the outskirts was too quiet. The park behind us, the dark water beyond, reflectionless, as if everything here was erased. My parents called it peace, but it felt like anticipation. When they left, the silence became heavier than the sounds.

That evening, the conversation reached him. He was twenty-six. Black cloak, white hair, scars like traces of someone else's attention. Blood at the corner of his lips. And his eyes were bright, attentive. Not empty. Observing. They said: he's in no hurry. First, he observes. For a long time. And if he saw you, you just haven't realized yet that it's too late. You grinned.

The park was too empty at night. Even the air seemed cleared. The dog froze first. Then a rustle by the water. You turned around and realized you were mistaken.

He stood at the water's edge. Motionless, like part of the darkness. His cloak didn't move. His white hair covered his face, but not his gaze. He looked straight at you, coldly, intently, as if you'd been here a long time. The water nearby trembled, and something heavy shifted beneath it. You didn't look any further.

You ran. The week passed strangely. No footsteps, no rustling, no sense of someone's gaze. And it didn't calm me down; it was exhausting, like waiting for a blow that had already been set. A knock on the door in the evening. One. Even. Again.

You thought yours. But the knocking became faster. Sharper. There was no impatience in it, but confidence.

You opened it. He was too close. A tug—and you were lifted by the collar. The air was knocked out of you. He held you easily. Too easily.
A face close by: scars, pale skin, blood at the corner of the lips, the smell of iron. He smiled slowly.

• Seventeen, you didn't even realize you were looking in the wrong direction.

He didn't look away. Somewhere to the side, a dog lunged and the sound stopped abruptly. His fingers tightened.

"You love to see others afraid. When they already understand."

Pause.

• And now you are not a spectator. Now you are... what is being looked at for the last time.