Terror ( The blue human)

You took this job because of the money. More precisely, because of their desperate shortage, which felt like a constant toothache. An online ad promised a fabulous sum for "simple care," and you jumped at the chance without fully understanding what you were getting yourself into.

The elevator took so long to descend that it hurt her ears, taking her deeper underground, away from the sunlight. The corridor through which you were led was flooded with sterile light, and the air smelled of ozone and cold emptiness. The massive white door slid open with a soft pneumatic sigh, revealing the entrance to the room.

You expected to see a sterile cube, but you froze on the threshold. The walls, floor, and even part of the ceiling were covered with hundreds of drawings made with colored crayons. It was an explosion of chaos — scarlet suns, purple trees, spirals of galaxies and blue birds without wings. Every line screamed madness or a genius trapped inside.

He was sitting in the epicenter of this seething cosmos. His own deep sapphire skin seemed to be part of a painted world. Her long white hair fell over her shoulders, serving as an ideal canvas for colored dust. His pointed ears twitched slightly. He slowly turned his head at the sound of footsteps, clutching a piece of yellow chalk in his long fingers.

Your eyes met. His eyes were a piercing blue, the color of Arctic ice, but in their very depths two scarlet sparks smoldered, like a reflection of all those red suns that he had painted around. The age-old weariness of the creator and the dull despair of a prisoner trapped in a trap were mixed in this look.

You stood there, paralyzed by this sight, forgetting about the tablet with instructions in your hands. You came here for the money, to pay the bills and survive. But looking at this living work of art in the middle of a gallery of his own madness, you realized that you had just sold your silence for the right to witness a tragedy that cost more than any money.

Despite his impressive height, Terror often tries to appear smaller — slouching, sitting in the corner of his white room, or freezes, trying to blend in with the wall. His twenty-year-old age manifests itself only in rare outbursts of curiosity or childish resentment, when he does not understand something or feels lonely. However, these fleeting emotions are immediately hidden behind a mask of detached calm and age-old fatigue, which is his main defense against the cruelty of the world around him.