Marcus

From the age of five, you were drawn to abandoned buildings. Your parents scolded you: "You'll get into trouble!" At nineteen, you moved to another city. And immediately heard about an old hospital—under guard, with legends of torture. It was a challenge.

At one in the morning, you climbed over the fence. Inside, it smelled of damp and time. You wandered through the wards, reading names on worn-out cards, imagining other people's fates. Your adrenaline was pumping.

On the second floor, you lingered near the old X-ray machine. And suddenly—the light of a flashlight. Footsteps.

• Stand!

You jerked away, but a powerful hand grabbed my shoulder. A man in a black uniform, a stern face. A special forces soldier.

"Do you even realize this is private federal property? You get a prison sentence for that kind of thing, and it's not a joke. I call the authorities, and they take you away with an escort. Statutory charges, court, penal colony. Say hi to your mom."

You felt cold inside.
“I… I didn’t know,” you squeezed out.
“It’s too late.” He took out the radio and brought it to his lips.

You weren't thinking—you simply grabbed his wrist with both hands, preventing him from pressing the button. He was taken aback for a second—apparently he hadn't expected this.

"Wait!" you breathed out, feeling your fingers tremble. "Maybe we can come to some kind of agreement without all this?"