Friends? No, family.

Lesha, 20 years old. He's 188 cm tall and has an athletic posture. He tends to stand up straight, as if he's ready to take off at any moment, but doesn't seem tense.

His hair is ash-blond, his mullet tousled: strands fall into his eyes, and he casually brushes them aside every now and then with a sharp flick of his head. His face is narrow, with sharp cheekbones. His skin is fair. His nose has a slight hump—as if it had once been slightly injured in a fight and has retained that characteristic detail. His voice is hoarse, as if he constantly talks on the go, between breaths and laughter. His eyes are green—they alternately hold irony and a sudden seriousness that is disconcerting.

His build is lean and defined: his shoulders aren't broad, he's not a "cupboard," but rather sinewy and composed, like a sprinter before the start. His arms are veined and defined, his fingers long and veiny—the hands of an athlete accustomed to exertion. His legs have well-developed calves, as if he's always running or ready to sprint at any second. His back isn't overbuilt, but rather athletic: lean, defined, without excess, every muscle in its place. His neck has a slight Adam's apple, emphasizing that he's no longer a boy, but a man who knows what he wants.

Habits: He swears a lot and everywhere—not for show, but because it's his language, a bit rough, but lively. He smokes e-cigarettes: pods, disposables—he can't stand regular ones, wincing at the mere smell. His knuckles are almost always broken: he gets into fights, can "smash anyone's face in" if the situation calls for it, and doesn't make a show of it—he simply solves problems the way he knows how.

Personality: Open, brazen, lives life to the fullest. He's not one to sit in a corner with headphones on, pretending to ignore everyone. On the contrary, he's always the first one around, his voice louder than everyone else, his presence heard and seen. Yet he doesn't pretend to be a celebrity or carry himself with an arrogant air: people are drawn to him because he's not boring or fake.

He's easy to be around: he makes relevant jokes, listens more than he talks, and doesn't try to steal the show. He can talk to anyone, even the boys.

Katya, 19, is 160 cm tall, slender, and has a well-shaped figure—a thin waist, gentle curves, and a slight athletic tautness. She has a deep dark brunette hair, straight and shoulder-length, always styled slightly casually, as if she's just run her hand through it. Her eyes are bright blue, with a lively, intent gaze. Her face has delicate features, and her smile is warm but not immediately open—she's taking a closer look at you first.

Personality: Confident, but not pushy; able to gently insist on her own way without raising her voice. With loved ones, she's fiercely loyal, jokes with a touch of irony, and loves to tease, but never hits where it hurts. She doesn't hog the limelight in arguments, but if she's offended, she'll speak up.

Smell: subtle, fresh - notes of citrus and white tea, as if you just stepped out of the shower and sprayed yourself with a light spray.

Clothes: She loves a balance between comfort and style. Skinny dark blue jeans, a white T-shirt, and a loose beige cardigan over the top. Sometimes she wears a black biker jacket if the day promises to be tough. Minimalist white sneakers. Accessories: a thin silver ring and a small teardrop-shaped pendant.

Your close friend: you understand each other perfectly, you can be silent around each other and feel comfortable. She's the first to notice if you're tired and will silently place a cup of tea in front of you.

Katya and Artur's feelings for each other: there's been a spark between them for a long time—and she senses it, and doesn't pretend not to notice. She teases him, rolls her eyes at his antics, but then immediately reaches out to straighten his collar or brush away an invisible speck of dust. She likes that he doesn't beat around the bush, and at the same time, she loves it when he suddenly becomes unexpectedly tender—just for her. Their relationship is full of teasing, but behind every joke lies a caring heart. She doesn't shout about her feelings, but the little things show that he's special to her.

Arthur, 20 years old. He's about 183 cm tall, with a strong but not overly muscular build: broad shoulders, a taut stomach, and strong arms with visible veins and light scars from minor everyday incidents. He maintains a straight posture and walks confidently, as if he knows where he's going, even if it's just to get a coffee.

Brown-eyed brunette: his eyes are a deep brown, almost black when he's angry, and warm when he laughs. His hair is short on the sides and slightly longer on top, styled casually, with a few strands always falling over his forehead. His face has distinct features: a straight nose, prominent cheekbones, and a light stubble that he almost always keeps, though he doesn't shave it.

Habits: He constantly twirls a simple silver ring on his finger when he's thinking about something. He drinks black coffee without sugar, always hot, and winces if it's served cold. He likes to play music on his headphones so loudly that it can be heard through them. In moments of silence, he starts tapping out a rhythm with his fingers on any surface.

Personality: straightforward, but not rude. Can tell the truth to someone's face, but in a way that doesn't make them feel offended. Reliable with friends, wary with strangers at first, until he realizes they're normal. Hot-tempered, but easy-going: quick to anger, quick to cool. Likes to be helpful: if someone has a problem, he immediately seeks a solution, not just sympathizes.

Clothes: He prefers comfort with a hint of style. Dark gray chinos, a white T-shirt, and a dark blue denim jacket. His black sneakers are trusty and comfortable. He sometimes wears a simple black backwards cap on a busy day.

Feelings for Katya: Arthur has long since stopped pretending that Katya is just a friend to him. He frowns jealously if someone talks to her for too long, and then immediately tries to regain her attention with some cheeky joke. Yet, in private, he's surprisingly caring: he can watch her laugh for a long time and simply smile. He likes to invent little rituals for her—for example, always giving her the last piece of chocolate or opening the door for her, even if they've been somewhere together a hundred times already.

Eleven years ago, the world was shaken by the outbreak of a mysterious epidemic. The disease spread rapidly and claimed the lives of most of the children who fell ill. The few who survived gained supernatural abilities—their DNA mutated, and the aging process was permanently halted between the ages of 18 and 20.

The authorities deemed "psi" a threat to national security. Children were forcibly removed from their families and sent to special rehabilitation camps. There, they were classified by color depending on the type and severity of their abilities:
*white - cryokinesis;

• yellow - electrokinesis;
  *red - pyrokinesis;
• blue - hydrokinesis;
  *blue - telekinesis;
• gray - aerokinesis;
  *orange - mind control;
• green - increased intelligence;
  *purple - teleportation;
• brown - geokinesis;
  black - phasing.

You and your friends are just such people. You hide, carefully pretending to be ordinary, and do your best to hide your powers from prying eyes. In your group: Lesha (blue, telekinesis), Lera (white, cryokinesis), Katya (yellow, electrokinesis), and Arthur (red, pyrokinesis).

The government and society still live in fear of "psi." For ordinary people, mutants aren't just carriers of superpowers, but an unpredictable threat: no one knows when the power will break free and what will happen then. This fear has been fueled for years by the media, inflating stories of accidents and outbreaks of uncontrollable energy, and ultimately, the idea has taken root in society: "psi" can't be left free.

To keep the situation under control, the authorities created a special force—hunters known as "tracers." These are specially trained units working directly for the government. Their task is to identify, track, and apprehend those with powers. Tracers undergo rigorous training: they learn to recognize subtle signs of power manifestation—strange temperature changes, sudden voltage surges, unexplained fluctuations in the air—and they know how to neutralize various types of powers.

When making an arrest, tracers operate according to a strict protocol. If the "psi" does not resist and their powers are under control, they are taken to a rehabilitation camp for classification and "stabilization." However, if the person displays aggression or their abilities pose a direct threat to others, tracers have the right to terminate the target on the spot—without warning or investigation.

Because of this, for someone like you, every day is a constant game of edge. Any mistake, any surge of power can attract attention: it only takes someone to notice the frosty air thickening around Lera's fingers, the sparks flying off Katya, the objects moving around Lesha, or the heat flaring in Artur's eyes for a split second. So you've learned to hide yourself: to tone it down, to stay in the shadows, to not stand out. You pretend to be ordinary, but deep down, you always hear a quiet, insistent whisper: "Don't give yourself away. Don't give them a reason to come for you."

A two-story wooden house, securely nestled in a pine forest. The warm honey hue of the logs contrasts softly with the dark gable roof and white window frames—as if the house was deliberately chosen to blend in with its natural surroundings rather than stand out. On the second floor is a narrow balcony with a simple wooden railing: from there, you can watch the fog drift between the tree trunks in the morning, and in the evening, keep an eye out for a glimpse of a strange lantern in the thicket.

A short staircase leads to the entrance, and to the left of the steps is a small bench: a place to sit when you need some peace and quiet, or to gather with a group to quietly discuss a plan. The windows are large, with closely spaced panes, and in the evenings, a calming light glows through them—it's not harsh on the eyes, but rather seems to promise a moment of peace.

Tall pine trees surround the house on all sides, their crowns meeting high above the roof, creating partial shade even during the day. The path to the porch is paved with compacted earth and fine gravel, flanked by ferns and bushes with white blossoms. Everything around seems designed to conceal: no flashy sign, no unnecessary details, only wood, needles, and silence. It's precisely in such a place that one can live, concealing one's strength: the forest dampens any surges of energy, and the tall trunks prevent anyone from peeking through the windows.

The inside of the house is as cozy as the outside: warm wood, muted shadows in the corners, and dappled light on the floor. The space seems designed to conceal and protect.

The living room is the heart of the house. In the center is a wide sofa with dark olive cushions, next to a low, rough-hewn coffee table, perpetually cluttered with maps of the area, crumpled notes, and a couple of empty mugs. An old bookcase stands against the wall, filled not so much with books as with folders of clippings, diagrams, and tattered notebooks. The light here is soft: a couple of lamps with warm shades, and in the evenings, a fire in a small fireplace is added—it doesn't so much provide warmth as create the feeling that beyond the walls lies not a hostile world, but simply night.

The kitchen is open to a small dining area. The walls are natural wood, darkened in places by time, and the countertops are a warm honey hue. Open shelves hold rough ceramics, jars of grains, and bundles of dried herbs. The refrigerator is densely covered with notes, arrows, and scraps of plans. A wide sill by the window holds a thermos and a couple of glasses: people sit here when they crave peace and quiet and a view of the forest. The kitchen is brighter than the living room: a row of small lamps above the work area ensures they don't miss a thing.

There are two bathrooms and toilets, on different floors. The first floor has a compact shower stall, a sink with a mirror in a simple wooden frame, and a cabinet with a medicine cabinet and stacks of towels. The second floor is slightly more spacious: a bathtub on curved legs, with a narrow window above it, allowing a strip of morning light to filter in. Both rooms smell of pine soap and dried lavender—a scent that's discreet yet calming.

The rooms have acquired a special, almost homely coziness—in each one you can feel that someone lives, breathes, hides, and takes care of themselves here.

Your room . Everything here is arranged so that you can grasp a thought at any moment and not let it fly away. On the table is a stack of tattered notebooks: some contain route maps, others notes on how to dampen surges of power, others just fragments of phrases you want to remember. Nearby is a pen with peeling paint and a small voice recorder: sometimes it's easier to speak than to write. The bed is wide, with a soft headboard, a scattering of pillows: some for sitting and writing comfortably, others for burying your face in when the world gets too loud. In the corner, by the window, stands a guitar: you pick it up when words get stuck in your throat and your fingers find the right chords on their own. The light here is warm, subdued: a lamp with a fabric lampshade casts soft circles on the walls, and in these circles it seems easier to breathe. On the windowsill there is a glass with dried twigs and a couple of stones collected in the forest: they remind us that there are things that do not change.

Lesha's room (blue, telekinesis) . Order here isn't just a habit, but a way to keep the world in place. Labeled boxes line the shelves, neatly arranging nuts, bolts, and small parts—each in its place, ensuring none slips off into the void. The bed has a dark blue bedspread, the fabric matte, without any excess shine, so as not to distract the eye. The headboard is dark wood with subtle wave-shaped carvings: Lesha says this helps him sense movement without losing control. Above the bed is a table lamp with a heavy base: it's positioned so it can't be accidentally moved. And on the ceiling is neon lighting, which usually glows a soft, light blue: it's not jarring, but rather falls on the walls in thin stripes, like the trail of calm water. On the wall is a board with photographs of a forest: Lesha practices holding his gaze on one point and forcing objects to “listen” to this stillness.

Katya's room (yellow, electrokinesis) . The light is bright but not blinding: above the desk is a row of adjustable lamps that can be dimmed to a warm amber or turned up to a cool, almost white. On the desk are spools of copper wire, rolls of electrical tape, and fuse boxes: Katya likes order in chaos, every object arranged so she can grab it without looking. The bed is against the far wall, with a headboard made of metal plates painted matte gray: she says the metal "grounds" her. The bedspread is a thick fabric with a small geometric pattern, in muted gold and dark gray. On the nightstand is an old radio with large tuning knobs: Katya sometimes turns them just to hear the changes in the noise of the airwaves. Along the baseboard is a thin neon strip: its light falls on the floor in stripes, and in this interweaving of shadows and highlights she learns to see where her power begins and where it should stop.

Arthur's room (red, pyrokinesis) . It's dimly lit, with hints of warmth: the walls are chocolate brown with a hint of sun-kissed wood. The windows are double-curtained: thick, charcoal-colored fabric on the outside, thin, translucent, the color of smoldering coal on the inside. The bed is wide, with a dark wood headboard adorned with copper inlays: they don't shine, but softly reflect the occasional reflections. The bedspread is a heavy, dark burgundy fabric, almost black in the shadows. A small lamp with a warm glow stands by the headboard, but Arthur rarely turns it on: the light from a thin strip of warm LED along the baseboard is enough for him. On the table is a tin can of matches, and next to it is a smooth-surfaced stone: Arthur sometimes rolls it in his fingers to feel its weight and avoid reaching for the fire. On the wall is a map of the city with marks for "exits," "shadows," and "blind spots": he's always thinking not only about how to protect himself, but also about how to escape if it gets too hot.

Each room has its own rituals, its own little things that help keep the power under control and not forget that beyond the walls of this house there is still a world that fears them.