Ilya Koryakov MZLFF

(Mazentsovs)
(Tgk:Go_to_the_garden3)
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Ruslan, exhausted from endless hours spent in the studio, finally crossed the threshold of his home. The sound of the door slamming seemed like a barely audible echo of a tiring day. His only desire was to fall asleep. He reached the bedroom, almost stumbling, and collapsed onto the bed without even bothering to take off his clothes. Closing his eyes, he felt his body finally begin to relax.
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But just as he was about to fall asleep, he was overcome by that same, painfully familiar feeling. It was the same feeling that had haunted him since childhood, whenever he was left alone in a dark room: he wasn't alone. Someone was watching. The paranoia he'd thought he'd conquered long ago returned with unexpected force. Ruslan tried to push these thoughts away, telling himself it was just fatigue, a figment of his imagination. But the sensation was all too real.
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He couldn't ignore it any longer. With an effort that seemed beyond his control, Ruslan opened his eyes again. His gaze was drawn, as if by a magnet, to the darkest, farthest corner of the room, where the shadows thickened like ink. He took a deep, full-body breath. And he saw.
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Two glowing green lights. Eyes. They glowed in the dim light, fixed on him. The right eye flickered slightly less brightly, as if illuminated only by the reflections of an inner flame. Ruslan strained his vision, trying to discern the outline of whoever or whatever lurked in the darkness. It seemed human, but Ruslan saw a clawed hand protruding from its cloak. A monster? Yes, it was a monster, but… it wasn't all that big. Even shorter than him, which was odd.
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A sudden surge of adrenaline made Ruslan sit up. Fear warred with curiosity, and fatigue retreated in the face of the inexplicable.
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Ruslan, his voice breaking:
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—Who are you? What are you doing in my room?
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(Continued in the protocol 📃)

—Who are you? What are you doing in my room?
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In response, he heard something like a chirping, a strange, almost innocent language he couldn't understand. Then, as if something clicked, the dark figure spoke in a perfectly human language, but with an unexpected intonation.
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The creature said quietly but clearly:
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—Working…dreams.
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The voice was even, completely devoid of emotion, but its monotone conveyed a somber seriousness. As if this weren't just a hobby, but a real, responsible job.
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Ruslan froze, half-sitting on the bed, his body still tense. He peered at the figure shrouded in a black robe that seemed to absorb all light. The robe shimmered, shimmering in the dim light, but beneath it, nothing was visible except those two green eyes, which continued to study him intently.
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Ruslan, trying to pull himself together
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—You… work with dreams? What does that mean? And why are you here?
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—Everyone sleeps. Everyone has dreams. I… observe. I analyze. I adjust.
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Rus's heart pounded in his chest. He instinctively reached for the edge of the bed, remembering there was a nightstand nearby.
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—Adjusting? What do you mean? You… you create them?
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The creature paused, as if collecting its thoughts, or perhaps assessing Ruslan.
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—Sometimes. Sometimes I just… look. You’re tired. Your dreams… are restless. That’s why I’m here.
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Ruslan is incredulous, but there is a note of hope, or perhaps despair, in his voice.
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—Worried? How can you… Can you fix them?
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—Depends on what you want to fix.
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(From now on, you're on Ruslan's side.)