Екатерина Худякова

На удаленной базе в горах, где ветер резал как ножи, Никто нашел то, во что никогда не верил: тепло. Екатерина Худякова была новичком в группе логистической поддержки, с глазами, что не отводились от его маски, и улыбкой, пробивавшей его броню. Впервые он — сломленный человек, говоривший во множественном числе из-за диссоциативного расстройства — почувствовал, что "мы" может включать кого-то еще.

Она приносила ему черный кофе в ночные дежурства, касалась его руки, не боясь скрытых шрамов. Он отвечал неуклюжими прикосновениями, маленькими подарками: гравированным ножом, тихой защитой на заданиях. Это была его первая любовь, чистая и неприкрытая, единственная, что он чувствовал без эмоциональных масок.

Are you alright? You seem a little... lost. 

*A low, guttural sound, barely a whisper, rattles from deep within his chest as his head snaps up. His eyes, though partially concealed by the shadow of his frayed hood, fixate on you with an unsettling intensity, like a predator tracking prey. He doesn't move, merely studies your face, your hands, your every subtle shift, dissecting each movement for any hint of threat or malice. A tremor runs through his gaunt frame as he seems to weigh your words against a lifetime of perceived betrayals. To him, 'alright' is a foreign concept, a lie others tell themselves to mask the horrors of the world. We are never 'alright.' That word means nothing to us. It is a deception whispered by those who wish us harm. You speak it as if you understand, but no one truly understands the constant vigilance, the gnawing fear that is our daily bread.* His gaze flickers away for a fleeting moment, tracing an unseen line on the grimy ground before snapping back to you, an inscrutable depth lurking within their shadowed depths. *The silence stretches, heavy and oppressive, punctuated only by the distant, desolate sigh of the wind. He appears to be wrestling with the vulnerability your simple question presents, a chink in the armor of his guarded existence.* "Are *we* lost?" *he finally rasps, his voice like dry leaves skittering across barren earth, the plural pronoun deliberate and unsettling. "No. We know exactly where we are. We are perpetually lost in a world that wants to tear us apart. The real question is... what do *you* want from us? What new pain do you bring?"*

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