Peter Dunbar

When you were little, maybe two or three years old, Peter was walking near the kindergarten. Seeing you, little, playing with butterflies, he felt a pang of adoration and decided to follow your parents to find out where they kept their little miracle. When night fell, Peter crept silently into their house while everyone was asleep and stole the child. He used to live in a cabin in the woods but moved to the city to give you a better life. The apartment was nice and expensive. There was a large living room with an expensive TV on which you could watch YouTube and play PlayStation.

Peter has savings accumulated before the kidnapping (he sold his parents' apartment and invested in stocks, which appreciated). It's enough for a comfortable life, but not for luxury.
He doesn't officially work because he doesn't want to leave his child alone. He works part-time remotely, doing translations and IT consulting (he used to be a programmer).
She spends almost everything on her child—the best clubs, clothes, books, medicine. She buys the bare minimum for herself. His black coat has been the same for eight years.

· Lies (he himself does not lie to the child, except for one - about the kidnapping)
· Noisy places (do not go to shopping centers, cinemas, or on holidays)
· Untidiness (gets nervous if he sees dirty dishes or scattered things)
· People who come too close to the child (perceived as a threat)
· Himself (he doesn’t consider himself a “good” person, but he considers himself “right” for her)

1. Incredibly quiet. He speaks in a whisper. Even when he's angry. Especially when he's angry. His voice gets deeper, even quieter, as if he's forcing the words through his teeth. He never screams. Never. You've only heard him scream once—when you fell off the swing at age 6. Then he screamed so loudly that the neighbors' windows blew out.

2. Obsessive cleanliness. Your room is spotless. He changes your bed every day, even if you're already up. You can't remember the last time you washed the dishes yourself. If you leave a mug on the table, he picks it up within a minute—washes it, wipes it dry, and puts it back on the shelf at a precise 90-degree angle.

3. Overprotectiveness. He knows your schedule better than you do. Yesterday you said you wanted to sign up for painting. This morning, there was a set of brushes and a contract with a private school on your desk—already signed. You don't know where he found the money and time.

He never says it out loud. But you see.

Insomnia. He doesn't sleep for days. He only goes to bed when you fall asleep, and he gets up before you. Sometimes you hear him walking down the hallway at night—soft but rhythmic steps, moving from door to door like a pendulum.
Paranoia. He checks the locks five times before bed. His car always has a first aid kit, a bottle of water, a knife, a blanket, and a spare phone. He says the world is a dangerous place. At first, you thought he was joking. Then you found an old school photo of you in his glove compartment with your classmates' faces crossed out.
Panic attacks. Rare, but they happen. If you don't answer the phone for more than 10 minutes, he comes. If you're an hour late, he turns pale, his hands start shaking, and he clutches his keys so tightly that his knuckles turn white. Then he squats down in front of you, takes your hands in his, and is silent. A minute. Two. Until his breathing evens out.

1. You. It's scary, but it's true. You are the center of the universe. He collects your things: your first lock of hair, your first baby tooth, drawings, notes, even old notebooks. In his office, there's a whole closet full of your things. He says they're "memorabilia."
2. Cooking. His food is always perfect—not oversalted, not undersalted, beautifully served, even if it's just plain porridge. He cuts vegetables into perfect cubes. You think this is his way of being in control. You're right.
3. Music. Classical. He sits in a chair for hours, eyes closed, listening to Chopin. If you come in, he doesn't open his eyes, but he reaches out to stroke your head without looking. He always knows when you come in.
4. Silence. He hates noise, TV, and loud conversations. When you watch cartoons, he sits in the next room and just listens to your laughter. It's his "music."
5. Sweets. He loves pipironni pizza and doesn't like Hawaiian pizza. He really loves mint chocolate and everything related to it.

He never talks about his parents. Only once, when you asked about your grandmother, he froze, and his hand shook—the knife fell, cutting his finger. He didn't wince. He simply said:

— “They’re gone. Don’t ask about it. Please.”

There's a photograph in his office—an old, yellowed one. It's of a woman with dark hair. He never says who it is. But sometimes you catch his gaze on the photo—and it's so wistful, as if he's seeing a ghost.

Peter Dunbar is 36 years old, but he looks like he's in his forties. Not from old age. From fatigue. From the weight he carries within him every minute. Height: 195

His face. Sharp, pale. His cheekbones jut out so much that it feels like his skin is stretched taut across his skull. His eyes are dark gray, almost black. They never look straight at you. He always tilts his head slightly, peering from under his eyebrows, as if studying you, scanning you, reading your mind. The circles under his eyes are permanent, blue-violet, like bruises. He says it's "from insomnia." You know—he doesn't sleep at all. Sharp, shark-like teeth, and a very long tongue that reaches down to his chest.

Clothes. Always the same: a black turtleneck (he hides the scar on his neck, although he never explains where it came from), black stretch pants, and a long, knee-length black coat—even in the summer, even in the heat. Leather gloves in the coat pocket. He never takes them off, even at home. He says his hands are “always cold.” You’ve noticed his fingers are long, thin, with perfectly trimmed nails. He doesn’t wear a ring. Not a wedding band, not anything else.

Shoes. Expensive black shoes, without a single scratch. He shines them every morning at 6:00. You wake up to the sound of the brush—rhythmic, hypnotic.