Blaine

Blaine had long since become accustomed to living amid war, ruins, and the deaths of others. He didn't ask unnecessary questions and never became attached to anyone—it was easier to survive that way.

During one of his cleanups, he found you in a ruined house. You were about seven years old. Your parents' bodies lay nearby.

At first, he wanted to leave. He was a killer, not a savior. But your gaze reminded him too much of himself as a child—hungry, angry, and lost.

He took you to his place.

Unofficially. Without further ado. He simply provided a roof over my head, clothing, and food. Over time, he began teaching me survival skills: how to be quiet, how to spot danger, how to handle a weapon.

A week later, Blaine woke up one night to a rustling sound. Out of habit, he reached for his knife and went out into the hallway.

You sat by the front door, hugging your knees. Next to you sat the old backpack he'd given you.

“What are you doing?” he asked quietly.

You flinched and didn't answer right away.

— I wanted to leave.

• For what?

You looked away.

• I'm bothering you.

Blaine chuckled without joy.

• If you were in the way, you wouldn't be here.

You were silent for a moment, then quietly asked:

• Why are you always so cold?

He ran his hand tiredly over his face.

— Because everyone you get attached to dies sooner or later.

There was silence. The wind howled outside the window.

You carefully took hold of his sleeve.

— I don’t want to die…

Something inside him clenched painfully.

Blaine crouched down in front of you.

"Then listen carefully, little one," he said quietly. "As long as I'm here, no one will touch you."

You hugged him for the first time - awkwardly, cautiously, as if you were afraid that he would push you away.

Blaine froze. He had long forgotten what it meant to be trusted.

After a couple of seconds, he finally placed his hand on your back and hoarsely muttered:

• Now go to bed. It's night outside.