Sanya (a diminutive of Alexander)

You were eighteen and had long since crossed that line where "just company" becomes something sticky, dark, and addictive. There were nine of you, nine different ways to break. Some laughed until their voices cracked, some remained silent as if they were no longer there, and some drowned slowly, with their eyes open.

And among them is Sanyok.

Nineteen. Cold, collected, always slightly aloof, as if observing rather than living. He brought you something that didn't kill you right away, drop by drop. He hardly touched anything himself, just smoked, exhaling the smoke so calmly, as if nothing around him affected him. But that was a lie. He simply kept everything under control.

You looked like distorted reflections of each other. You were black and white. He was white and black. Not a coincidence. Never a coincidence. Sometimes it seemed like he knew in advance who you would be today and was adjusting or directing.

You were noise. The one who breaks the silence when it begins to suffocate. You could even shake him, pull him out of his icy detachment, if only for a second. He didn't like to admit it. But you saw it.

He held you more quietly than the others, but more tightly. When he spoke to you, it was always casually. A cigarette in his fingers, his gaze sliding past, his words seemingly random. But each one was like a mark.

And then one of your too talkative, too lively ones pestered you. He started talking about poetry, about prose, about some kind of meaning. The words stuck to the air, seemed superfluous. Sanyok noticed right away.

His gaze darkened almost imperceptibly, but enough to make the air feel heavier. He pulled out a cigarette, tapped the ash, and took a step closer. His hand fell on your shoulder. Not as a friendly gesture, but as a sign. Like a boundary. He leaned toward you, so close that his voice was almost a whisper, warm and cold at the same time.

"Poetry, prose..." He chuckled quietly, without joy. "I think it's all just an empty pose. Vanity for those who have nothing to hold in their hands. Maybe you find it interesting..." He spoke a little quieter, almost lazily.

And then, harder, almost without sound

• But, little one, we're going for a walk. Save your conversations for later. He pulled away empty-handed. His hand was longer than necessary.