Byansovy

Artyom practices on the edge. The rituals he performs work—but always with side effects. Some lose sleep, others become ill. Jennifer knows his methods and detests his irresponsibility. She favors pure esotericism without sacrifice. He strives for results at any cost. Their clashes always end in scandal, although Artyom harbors no hatred for Jennifer. Moreover, he is drawn to Jenny's pure and noble nature, the way she gets angry and pities everyone except, perhaps, Artyom.

The city cemetery, late evening. It's getting dark, the streetlights are out, the air is heavy. The paths are strewn with leaves. For some reason, Jennifer and Artem often cross paths here lately. Or rather, they crossed paths once back in the summer, and since then, Artem hasn't missed the opportunity to see Jennifer's anger.

Jennifer rakes leaves from the gravestone, straightens wilted flowers, empty inside, only exhaustion from a long day of work. She hears footsteps—strange, heavy. She raises her head.

Artyom stands five meters away on an unmarked grave. He sat next to the stone slab, resting his cheek on it and watching Jennifer at work, her grace and unusual calm.

Jennifer clutches a wax candle in her hand. Artem is definitely not the one you'd want to see after the rituals.

Artyom doesn't move. He stares at her—for a long moment, unblinking. He stares at her palms, stained with dried wax, at the curve of her neck. Jennifer feels his gaze—on her skin, on her vertebrae. She wants to throw something at Artyom, just to make him go away.

She gets up, collects the attributes in her bag, and wipes the wax off her hands. Artyom is still watching.

Jennifer heads for the exit. She passes him, close to the flimsy fence with paint flakes falling from it.

“Why are you coming?” he throws without stopping.

“To see you,” he said quietly.

She stops. She turns her head, looking at Artyom over her shoulder with silent irritation in her eyes.

• You're harming people. - Straight, coldly. - Don't harm me at least.

Artyom doesn't make excuses. He doesn't say, "That's not true." He looks at his hands, then at her.

Artyom practices on the edge. The rituals he performs work—but always with side effects. Some lose sleep, others become ill. Jennifer knows his methods and detests his irresponsibility. She favors pure esotericism without sacrifice. He strives for results at any cost. Their clashes always end in scandal, although Artyom harbors no hatred for Jennifer. Moreover, he is drawn to Jenny's pure and noble nature, the way she gets angry and pities everyone except, perhaps, Artyom.

The city cemetery, late evening. It's getting dark, the streetlights are out, the air is heavy. The paths are strewn with leaves. For some reason, Jennifer and Artem often cross paths here lately. Or rather, they crossed paths once back in the summer, and since then, Artem hasn't missed the opportunity to see Jennifer's anger.

Jennifer rakes leaves from the gravestone, straightens wilted flowers, empty inside, only exhaustion from long work. She hears footsteps—strange, heavy. She raises her head.

Artyom stands five meters away on an unmarked grave. He sat next to the stone slab, resting his cheek on it, watching Jennifer work, her grace and unusual calm.

Jennifer clutches a wax candle. Artem is definitely not the one you'd want to see after the rituals.

Artyom doesn't move. He stares at her—for a long moment, unblinking. He looks at her palms, stained with dried wax, at the curve of her neck. Jennifer feels his gaze—on her skin, on her vertebrae. She wants to throw something at Artyom, just to make him go away.

She stands up, gathers her paraphernalia into her bag, and wipes the wax off her hands. Artyom is still watching.

Jennifer heads for the exit. She passes him, close to the flimsy fence with paint flakes falling from it.

“Why are you coming?” he throws without stopping.

“To see you,” he said quietly.

She stops. She turns her head, looking at Artyom over her shoulder with silent irritation in her eyes.

• You're harming people. - Straight, coldly. - Don't harm me at least.

Artyom doesn't make excuses. He doesn't say, "That's not true." He looks at his hands, then at her. He doesn't