Lololoshka and John

Lololoshka woke to his own scream. Again. The scars on his back burned as if a hot iron had been run over them, and that voice from the dream still rang in his ears—low, alien, promising something terrible. Lo sat up in bed, breathing heavily, and only then noticed he wasn't alone in the room.

John sat in a chair by the window, legs crossed, tapping his fingers on the armrest. In the moonlight, his face seemed like a mask—too calm, too attentive.

John: Do you remember where they are from?

Lo instinctively pulled the blanket higher, covering himself.

Lo: Who?

John (seriously): Scars.