Other universes of Cherner's realities.

The school corridors were beginning to empty. The noise faded away as if someone had flipped a switch, leaving only an echo lingering in her ears and mind. Kamila stood by the wardrobe, slowly buttoning up her jacket. Her hands trembled slightly, but she pretended that everything was fine. She was good at that. Too good. "I'm going home," she said without turning around. Anna Stanislavovna stood a few steps away. She was not looking at the jacket or Kamila's back—she was looking at her wrists. And she saw what she had glimpsed before. A long time ago, back in ninth grade. Then it had been just a fleeting impression. Then it had seemed like "not my concern." Pale, almost faded lines. Old ones. But the body's memory lingers long. Anna felt a tightening inside her. If I let her go now... If I say “go, everything’s fine”... Tomorrow those lines will be fresh again. She stepped closer. "Kamila," her voice steady, but too quiet for the corridor. "You're not going home alone today." Kamila tensed. "Anna Stanislavovna, I'm really fine. I just want to go home." Anna looked directly into her eyes. "No," she said calmly. "You're coming with me." "I’m not—" "This isn’t up for debate," Anna interrupted gently but firmly. "You’re coming with me today." Kamila wanted to argue but couldn’t form the words. Instead, she simply nodded. The Shcherbakova apartment greeted them with silence and warm light. Anna turned on the table lamp, put the kettle on, and silently handed Kamila a blanket. "Sit down," she said. "You don’t have to take your shoes off right away." Kamila sank onto the couch, as if her legs were holding her out of politeness rather than strength. Anna observed her, not as a teacher but as someone who was not going to look away. "Do you want to talk now or later?" she asked. Kamila shrugged. "If it’s later... I might not be able to." Anna nodded. "Then now." For a while, they sat in silence. The kettle clicked off, but Anna didn’t move—she let Kamila take the lead. "Today...," Kamila's voice was quiet but not broken. "Today was frightening. Not because of the shouting. But because… I suddenly thought it would never end." Anna sat down next to her. Close, but not touching. "I thought the same," she admitted honestly. "When I was younger." Kamila looked surprised. "Really?" "Really," Anna smiled faintly. "But back then, there was no one beside me to say 'stop'." Kamila lowered her gaze. "When Rodnina was yelling... I felt small again. And then...," she swallowed, "then you shielded me with yourself. And it became... quiet." Anna remained silent, allowing the words to settle. "Anna Stanislavovna..." Kamila looked up. "Can I ask you something?" "Of course." "You knew…," a pause, "that I used to smoke." Anna nodded immediately. "I knew." "I quit," Kamila hurriedly added. "I really quit. I promised myself. And you." "I know." "Then…," her voice faltered. "Why did you shush me when I wanted to say that I promised not to smoke?" Anna took a deep breath. "Because you didn’t have to justify yourself, Kamila. You’re not a criminal. And your past isn’t a weapon against you." Kamila listened without interrupting. "You’ve already done everything right," Anna continued. "You survived. You’ve changed. You’re holding on. I didn’t need words. I saw you." Kamila's eyes filled with tears, but she didn’t cry. Instead, she slowly leaned down and rested her head on Anna's lap. Anna froze. Then she gently placed her hand on Kamila’s hair. She stroked it. Once more. Kamila’s breathing became steady. And in that silence, for the first time, Anna did not push away the thought that surfaced on its own. Mine. Not as a possession. As a responsibility. As a choice. Kamila stirred slightly in her sleep and whispered: "Anya..." Anna flinched but did not pull away. "You're warm..." Anna closed her eyes. And stayed there for as long as it took. She was sitting in the kitchen when the apartment finally fell silent. The tea had cooled, the laptop warmed her hands, and on the other side of the wall, Kamila's even, shallow breathing could be heard. She had fallen asleep almost as soon as she lay down, as if her body had finally allowed itself to turn off. Anna opened the school system, not as a teacher but as a person searching for a reason. 6th grade. Activity—high. Sports events—participation, participation, participation. School competitions, relays, performances. A lively, noisy girl who stood out. Anna smiled absentmindedly. There she is… the real one. 7th grade. And the smile vanished. A sharp drop in academic performance. Almost complete disappearance from school activities. Sports—zero. Events—zero. Olympiads—zero. As if the child had been turned off. Anna scrolled further—8th grade. And stopped. Biology Olympiad. 1st place. Note: declined the prize. "What?..." she whispered aloud. She clicked on the participants list. Valieva. Yazykova. Anna slowly leaned back in her chair. Memories hit her all at once, without warning. Rodnina's screams. Hysteria. Saliva on her lips from anger. Accusations of falsification. Humiliation—Valieva, Medvedeva, everyone nearby. And herself—standing between them. Instinctively. Because something was already wrong then. "Here’s where..." Anna said quietly. She began to piece the puzzle together, each piece making her feel nauseous. Before 7th grade—active, strong, alive. In 7th—a sharp break. In 8th—systematic pressure: Yazykova, her group, two adults who should have protected rather than broken. In 9th—Trusova and Kostornaia. They pulled her up. Did not heal—just kept her afloat. Anna closed her eyes. She was broken for a long time. Methodically. And she survived. The thought of a tissue stained with blood and the thin, almost faded white lines on her wrists came back to her—not in a panic, but with cold clarity. "Please… let it not have been a desire to disappear," she said almost prayerfully. Anna knew this behavior. She knew it all too well. Brashness. Defiance. Denial. Conflicts. Not a "bad attitude." Defense. Somewhere inside Kamila, a small fourteen-year-old girl was stuck, who at some point realized: if you show softness, you will be destroyed. And built a shell. A troublemaker. Sharp. Intolerable. To survive. Anna closed the laptop. The decision was already made; it just took shape in words. "Tomorrow. Medvedeva. Liza." Elizaveta Tuktamysheva. A colleague. A psychologist. A person who knows how not to break further. She mentally reviewed the threats—as if going through a list of enemies. Yazykova—broken. The danger is gone. Rodnina—arrest, trial on October 12. Done. Polykarp...—Anna clenched her jaw. If he was in that video—he's dangerous. And he will take revenge. But... Anna exhaled heavily. The scariest part—the home. Drunken parents. Unpredictability. Silence. Fear that can’t be told to a teacher. She didn’t want to know what exactly Pavel Melikov could do. But she already knew enough not to leave Kamila alone. Anna stood up and quietly walked into the room. Kamila was sleeping, curled up like a child, her fingers clutching the edge of the blanket. Anna carefully sat beside her and adjusted the cover. "I’m here," she whispered, not knowing who needed those words more. And for the first time all day, she allowed herself to think not as an educator, not as a class leader, not as an adult with instructions. But simply as a person. We will pull you out. Slowly. Gently. But you are no longer alone. The director's office door closed quietly. It didn't slam shut— it simply closed, as if the school itself didn't want to make a fuss. Eteri Georgievna Tutberidze stepped inside, still wearing her coat. Usually, she didn’t do that. This was the first warning sign. Daniil Markovich Gleykhengauz looked up from his papers. — Eteri? Is something wrong? Without a word, she approached his desk, placed her laptop, turned the screen toward him, and only then spoke—softly, almost routinely, and that made it all the more terrifying: — Dania... I received a response. I wrote to the Yazykov family, asking what to do about their daughter next. She paused, but not dramatically—just tiredly. — They refused her. In writing. They attached the documents. Gleykhengauz blinked, then blinked again. — What do you mean… refused? — In the literal sense, — Tutberidze replied calmly. — Their exact wording: "We do not need a defective daughter. We refuse any defective items." The office fell very silent. So silent that the sound of a door slamming shut somewhere in the corridor and someone laughing—a typical school sound—now felt blasphemous. — They… — Daniil Markovich removed his glasses and slowly rubbed the bridge of his nose. — Do they even understand that this is a child? — They do, — Eteri answered. — That's why they wrote it that way. To hurt more. To leave no room for doubt. She was looking not at him but out the window. There, where the schoolyard lay, with benches and wet asphalt. — And what now? — he asked dully. — An orphanage? Psychiatry? Foster care? Finally, Tutberidze turned to him. There was no panic in her gaze. There was determination. — Now, Danya , we cannot afford to make mistakes. This girl is no longer just a troubled student. She is officially unwanted. Gleykhengauz stood up sharply. — I won’t let her fall into the system, — he said firmly. — Not after what happened today? After Rodnina, after this dead end, after she broke down in front of half the school? No. — I wasn’t planning to, — Eteri replied calmly. — I came not to ask for permission. I came to tell you that we are running out of time. He glanced at the screen. Signatures. Stamps. Legally, everything was in order. Humanely—it was disgusting. — Where is she now? — he asked. — Under supervision, — Tutberidze said briefly. — And that’s how it will remain. A pause. — Danya… — she added, now softer. — If not for Valieva, that girl might have died today. Or harmed someone else. — I know, — he replied dully. — And that’s why… He fell silent, then exhaled: — Here’s the plan. Let’s arrange temporary custody through the commission. A medical examination—not punitive, but genuine. A psychologist—Tuktamysheva. And no self-initiatives. — What about class 11D? — Eteri asked. — I’ll handle that, — he responded. — And Semyonenko too. They already understood that the line was close. Eteri nodded. Then suddenly said—very quietly: — You know, Danya… the scariest part isn’t that the parents refused. The scariest part is that she seemed to expect it. Gleykhengauz clenched his fists. — Then even more reason to ensure she doesn't validate that thought. Eteri closed the laptop. — Fine. Then let’s act. And, Danya… He raised his gaze. — We don’t touch Kamilu today. No questions. No commissions. She’s already been through too much. — Agreed, — he said immediately. — We can’t touch her. They looked at each other—two adults who suddenly realized that today the school stopped being just a school. — That’s it, — said Tutberidze. — I’ll take my leave. And added as she was exiting, without turning around: — Sometimes, Danya, it’s not monsters who break children. It’s their parents. The door closed. What Was Happening to Katya at That Moment? By evening, everything had somehow resolved itself. Dasha and Maya silently brought Katya to the Khromyh's apartment. Katya walked obediently, as if the light inside her had been turned off. She didn’t resist, didn’t cry, and didn’t ask questions — she just kept walking. This was far more frightening than any screams. In the hallway, Maya still held her by the wrist — tightly, as if she was afraid to let go and lose control. Dasha noticed. She said nothing, just nodded: — I’ll be quick. Bus. Stuff. I’ll explain to Mom. I'll get groceries. I’ll be back. Maya nodded in response. Katya nodded too. In sync. That was the first alarming sign. In the Khromyh's Apartment When the door closed, something snapped in the silence. Maya paced the room like a caged animal. Her head was buzzing. The image of Yazyko was not alive or real — it was more like an imprint, a habit. Katya sat on the couch. Her back straight. Her hands on her knees. — I… — Maya halted. — You understand, right? Katya raised her gaze. Empty. Yet trusting. — I’m a toy now, — she said calmly. — That’s how it should be. This became the point of no return. Maya trembled as she took out the collar. She placed it around Katya’s neck slowly and cautiously, as if afraid of inflicting pain. Katya didn’t flinch. On the contrary — she exhaled in relief. — Don’t be afraid, — Maya quickly added, as if justifying herself. — I won’t… be like her. I’ll take care of you. I’ll be… different. Katya nodded: — I know. I was bad. Now I’m good. A little doll. Maya swallowed hard. — You’re not Yazykova, — she suddenly said. — You’re… Naydenova. We found you. — Yes, — Katya replied obediently. — I’m Katya Naydenova. In that moment, Maya was scared of herself. Her hands shook more intensely. She suddenly realized: she liked the control. Liked the power. Liked that someone was emptier than she was. It felt all too familiar. — No… — Maya whispered. She abruptly removed the collar. The metal burned her fingers. Instead, she put a regular soft necklace on Katya — meaningless, insignificant. Maya sat down next to her, resting her forehead against Katya’s shoulder. — We’re the same, — she exhaled. — And that… is terrible. Both girls stared at a single point. Empty. Vulnerable. Two girls who learned too early how easily one can stop being oneself. Katya stroked Maya’s hair. Suddenly, Maya felt calm — dangerously calm. A thought flickered: maybe… it’s better to be a toy? Less pain. Fewer choices. — I’m ready, — Maya whispered with a broken voice. — Make me empty. Make me toy Katya stroked Maya, calmingly, slowly sinking into Maya's brain and plunging her into a trance. After all, both girls understand that it is better to be an empty toy: Katya asked Maya: "Who are you?" Maya answered brokenly: "I'm a doll". Dasha's Return The door swung open with a sudden force. Dasha burst into the apartment — and stopped. The scene felt wrong. Too quiet. Too… familiar. Maya — with a vacant expression. Katya — stroking her, just like she once stroked Kamila Yazykova (the briefly broken Kamila Valieva). For a moment, Dasha thought she saw a third figure lurking behind them — ghostly, with a sadistic smile. “Mine.” Dasha shuddered. She noticed the collar in Maya’s hands. She felt the metal press against her chest, as if calling her. And in that moment, Dasha thought to herself: “Enough.” She approached them quickly, without hesitation. — Maya, — she said firmly. — No. Maya sobbed. — I’ve become Yazykova… this is the end. Please… put it on me. Better to be destroyed than to become her. Dasha looked her straight in the eye. — And then what? — she asked quietly. — Me too? Then Katya? Then someone else? So that Yazyko continues to live through us? She walked to the window and threw the collar down. The metal disappeared into the darkness. Dasha returned and embraced both of them — tightly, genuinely. — She won’t come back, — she said dully. — Yazykova is gone. You won’t become her. I promise. Maya broke into tears. Katya sobbed for the first time. It was the breaking of a trance. After Dasha helped them get to sleep. She sat close until their breathing became steady. Only then did she allow herself to think the worst: if I hadn’t pressed that button… But she immediately cut off that thought. Cherner approached the house just as dusk settled. He spotted the collar immediately — too alien for the yard, far too neatly lying in the dirt, as if it had been placed, not discarded. The metal was dark, matte, with barely visible runes that an ordinary person's eye would mistake for scratches. Dmitry crouched down and took out a dosimeter. The device beeped — softly but with a tone that left no room for doubt. Cherner smirked crookedly. — Well, of course… — he muttered. — A magical artifact. Theocracy of the Paladins. I recognize this metal. Damn fanatics. He grabbed the collar with two fingers — without respect, as one would pick up trash. Activated the analysis. A projection flared before his eyes. Too long of a list. Cherner cursed under his breath — briefly, harshly, without censorship. Then he forced himself to read. History of Artifact Use: Creator: Viktoria Biseeva Primary User: Pavel Melikov Next users/and artifact carriers: — Ekaterina Yazykova, 8th grade — Kamila Valieva, 8th grade — Ekaterina Yazykova, 11th grade — Partial influence: Maya Khromyh, 11th grade — Contact: Daria Usacheva Cherner exhaled slowly. — So, that’s how it is… — he said quietly. — So you were an instrument. Not the cause. He activated the resonance memory recall. Pavel. A sticky, pleased smile. Collar in his hands. Katya — confused, dependent. Click. Katya — someone else now. School restroom. Kamila — broken, empty, glassy gaze. The collar around her neck. Click. Alena Kostornaya. A sharp movement. The collar ripped off. Metal hitting Yazykova in the face. — Kamila will never be your property, — Alena’s voice. Click. School dead-end. Maya. Hands trembling. One more second — and… Click. Apartment. Dasha. Decision. Window. The fall. The memories abruptly halted. Cherner closed his eyes for a second. Then smiled — truly for the first time that evening. — Well done, Dasha, — he said aloud. — You chose wisely. He set the collar on the asphalt. Activated the protocol. — Spell for destruction of a magical item. Minimum rebound. Target — the creator. The metal hissed. The runes flared — and then began to melt, as if ashamed of their own existence. The collar twisted, cracked — and crumbled to ash. Somewhere far away, in the Theocracy of the Paladins, Viktoria Biseeva screamed and collapsed to the floor — the jolt weak, non-fatal, but pitifully precise. Enough for her to understand. Cherner shook the dust off his fingers. — It's over, — he said quietly. — The cycle is closed. He looked at the windows of the house. Up there, asleep, were the girls who survived. Not perfectly. Not without scars. But — alive. And not anyone’s toys. Cherner turned and walked into the night.