Other universes of Cherner's realities.

October seventh. Chemistry classroom The classroom was quiet—not the kind of silence that precedes a test, but rather the sort that follows days of stress, where everyone tries to avoid stirring things up. Kamila sat at the front desk, working on additional assignments. Her handwriting was neat, but the lines sometimes blurred—not from carelessness, but from weakness. Her hand trembled, and she frequently paused, as if checking: Am I still here? “Valieva, please come here,” Shcherbakova said quietly. Kamila stood up. Took a step. Then another. Reaching the teacher’s desk, she leaned her palm on the edge—not out of flirtation, but to avoid collapsing. Her legs felt traitorous. Anna Stanislavovna was writing on a small square piece of paper, carefully forming each letter. Her penmanship was steady and calm—very different from Markov's. “Here are the topics,” she said, handing over the paper. “There were mistakes in the test based on these. Go over them, and we’ll be done.” Kamila took the note, but Shcherbakova was no longer looking at her; her gaze was fixed on Kamila’s face. Pale. Dry lips. Pupils overly dilated. “Kamila…” she said softly. “Did you sleep at home last night?” “Yes,” Kamila answered quickly. “I’m fine.” “What’s wrong with you?” “What’s not wrong with me?” she replied, almost sharply. “I’m fine.” Shcherbakova nodded slowly, as if conceding… …yet immediately said: “I can see you are not fine. You can barely stand. You've had a rough day—a mentally exhausting one. You’re not made of iron.” Kamila grasped the edge of the desk tighter. “I’m fine,” she repeated, pausing after each word. “Really.” If she continues, I’ll fall, flashed through her mind. Right here. “Do you have a headache?”—gentle. “Did you not get enough sleep? Is it from what happened two days ago? Or…” pause. “…is there someone at home?” “Anna Stanislavovna,” she said almost pleadingly. “Please. I really… am fine.” Shcherbakova scrutinized her for another second. Then she sighed. “Alright. Go ahead. But if you faint—I swear, I’ll get you.” Did you understand? Kamila attempted a smile. “I won’t faint.” She walked back to her desk, tossed her notebook into her backpack, and headed for the exit. A step before the door, the world blurred. The floor seemed to drop away. Darkness descended abruptly. “I’ll send the assignments to your email… Valieva?!” She didn’t manage to process anything. Just a fleeting thought: Damn… I’m falling… “Ana…” slipped out almost inaudibly. “I’m sorry…” …then it was warm She didn’t come to right away. First—the sensation of hands. Then—a voice. Then—the familiar smell of shampoo. She lay in Shcherbakova’s lap. Anna Stanislavovna was stroking her hair slowly and rhythmically, as if soothing her to sleep. “Shh… it’s okay, Kami. It’s okay. You’re with me.” A few minutes later, Kamila fell asleep again. Shcherbakova’s apartment She awoke suddenly. An unfamiliar ceiling. A strange room. Kamila tried to sit up—but her body protested with pain. “Alena? Sasha? Dasha? Is anyone here? Where am I?..” Silence. “This isn’t funny…” her lips trembled. “Answer me…” Tears unexpectedly surged—hot and uncontrollable. And along with them—a memory. Rodnina. The phone. Orderlies. The words: “unreasonable.” “It’s all lies…” Kamila laughed, hysterically. “It’s all hallucinations. I’m in a mental hospital. They just made up care…” The door swung open. “Damn it, Valieva!” Someone rushed in, touched her forehead—and immediately recoiled. “You’re burning up. You have a fever. You’re delirious.” “Anna Stanislavovna?..” Kamila looked through tears. “You’re here too?.. In this… mental hospital?…” She tried to stand. Shcherbakova firmly, yet gently laid her back down. “Don’t even think about it. You’re not in a mental hospital. You’re at my place. And you have a fever.” Kamila froze. She glanced around. A room. A blanket. The real Shcherbakova. Reality. She lowered her gaze—and only then realized she was in strange clothes. Her cheeks flushed. Anna Stanislavovna noticed and smiled softly. “I wouldn’t put a sick child in dirty clothes,” she said calmly. “But tell me, sweetheart… where did you sleep?” “At home,” Kamila replied automatically. Shcherbakova shook her head. “At Alena’s.” “That didn’t work out.” Silence. “He…” Kamila swallowed hard. “He kicked me out. Said… a lot of bad things.” Shcherbakova froze. Then her voice turned icy: “**What did he say?**” “Anna Stanislavovna, please… don’t…” “Kamila, repeat it.” “…that if I don’t have money, I can…”—her voice cracked. “...work with my body.” Silence hung in the room. “I’ll destroy him,” Shcherbakova said softly. “No!” Kamila clung to her. “He’s dangerous! Please! Anya, don’t! I don’t want you to get hurt!” Anna turned around and held her tightly. Not like a teacher. Like the only adult who remained. “I’m here,” she said, stroking Kamila’s back. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise.” Kamila sniffled and pressed closer. “Please… don’t leave me…” “I’m with you. That’s it. Just breathe now.” She stroked her slowly until the trembling subsided, until her breathing evened out. And then she quietly thought: We will solve the problems one at a time; right now, it’s you and your fever. It took Shcherbakova tremendous strength to pull away from the embrace. Kamila didn’t want to let go—her fingers clutched at Anna’s sweater as if it were the last anchor to reality. Anna gently, almost apologetically, pulled the girl away. Kamila looked up at her—quietly, hurt, childlike. “No, Kamila,” Anna Stanislavovna said softly. “I will hug you. I will definitely hug you. But right now, we need to take your temperature and bring it down to a normal thirty-six point six.” She paused, choosing her words. “And at school…”—a sigh. “At school, I can’t hug you like this. Because I’m your teacher. And you’re my student.” Kamila nodded. Not because she agreed—because she understood. Shcherbakova brought a thermometer. “Under your arm,” she said in her usual tone, yet her hands still trembled. Long seconds passed. Anna looked. 38.8. “So…” she mumbled. “That’s high. But not critical.” She frowned. “Let’s measure again.” The second time. Anna watched the numbers without blinking. 45.7. The thermometer almost slipped from her hands. “That… can’t be,” she exhaled. Kamila lay there calmly. Not delirious. Not gasping. She even looked… relatively normal. “Why are you so worried?” she asked hoarsely. “I think… I’m fine.” Anna sat next to her slowly. “Because at that temperature, a person usually…”—she swallowed. “Is not alive.” Kamila shrugged. “Well… I’m alive.” That was what scared her the most. Shcherbakova abruptly stood up and grabbed her phone. “Stay. Don’t get up. I’ll be right back.” She dialed Medvedeva’s number. “Zhenya… she has a temperature near forty-six.” Pause. “Yeah. I understand it’s impossible too.” Another pause. “To whom?” Anna closed her eyes. “To Cherner?…” She didn’t want to call Dima at all. Not one bit. But there were no other options. It didn’t ring immediately. In Cherner’s apartment, the light was dim, music played, and there was a sense of rare, fragile peace. Beside him stood Alexandra—beautiful, confident, too real for the evening. The phone rang. Dima cursed and slapped his palm down on the table. “Damn it…” Sasha jumped. “Who?” He looked at the screen. “Shcherbakova.” “Oh,” Sasha drawled. “That one?” “Don’t start.” He answered abruptly: “Okay. Sasha, wait. What do you want, Shcherbakova? Why are you calling me at night? I’m busy.” “Valieva is sick,” Anna's voice cracked. “Her temperature is forty-five point seven. What should I do?” Silence hung on the other end. “Do you understand,” Dima said slowly, “that at such a temperature, a person is already dead?” “I know!” Anna nearly shouted. “But she’s alive. She’s smiling. She’s just coughing!” She closed her eyes, trying not to burst into tears. “What should I do?..” “Shcherbakova,” he said sharply. “Stop crying. I’m on my way.” Sasha leaned closer to the phone: “Dima… do you think it’s that?” “Yes,” he replied shortly. “Not human.” He hung up. Nineteen minutes later, the intercom rang. “Who else is there?..” Anna snapped. “Shcherbakova, open up. The bear has arrived.” “Can we cut the theatrics?!” she snapped back. “I have a student here with a temperature nearing fifty!” The door opened. Dima walked upstairs and, upon entering, surveyed the room. “Um…” Anna frowned. “The elevator has been out since September. How did you get up?” “I have one that works,” he answered calmly. “Let’s go. Show me your golden girl.” He stepped into the room. Kamila lay half-asleep, her cheeks flushed, her breathing shallow. Dima sat next to her, placed his palm on her forehead—and immediately turned serious. “Just as I thought.” He pulled out a knife. “What are you doing?!” Anna jumped. “Saving her. Don’t interrupt.” He made a small incision on Kamila’s palm. Pus oozed from the wound—thick and dark. Seconds later, it burst into flames. Anna stepped back. Dima controlled the fire effortlessly as if it were his element. The flames coiled into a ball, collapsed—and vanished. “All done,” he said calmly. He measured her temperature again. 36.6. Dima smiled and stroked Kamila’s head. “Sleep, little flame.” As he stepped into the hallway, he said: “Nyuta, your girl is fine. No charge needed. But I won’t say no to coffee.” Anna poured the coffee with a face that seemed to consider whether to add poison. Dima laughed. “Relax. I’m on your side.” Ten minutes later, he was already leaving. “By the way,” he called back as a parting shot. “Eteri Georgievna sends her regards. We’re neighbors. I’m thirty-four, she’s thirty-three.” Anna watched him go, stunned. After Cherner left, Anna Stanislavovna slowly entered the room where Kamila lay. The girl sat on the bed, lost in thought, her gaze distant, and her shoulders slightly slumped. “Anna Stanislavovna…” she began quietly, not looking away. “Why did your attitude toward me suddenly change for the better? You hate me… everyone hates me… I know they hate me throughout the school, and in other schools too…” Shcherbakova came closer, sat down next to her on the edge of the bed, and took Kamila’s face in her hands. Her palms were warm, firm, but soft. She wiped the girl’s tears away. “Kamila, you silly girl,” Anna said gently but with unwavering resolve. “Why do you think such nonsense?” Kamila raised her eyes, still glistening with tears. “Who hates you, Kamila?” Shcherbakova continued. “Your classmates love you, your teacher Zhenya Medvedeva considers you her sister, Eteri Georgievna thinks of you as a daughter, and psychologist Liza Tuqtamysheva called you the best for your mental health. Who told you such nonsense that everyone hates you? Who put that in your head?” Kamila sniffled softly. “Marina Svelova… Lida Petrenko… Vika Temtsova… Ira Temurova… Karina Lizonova… from 11B…”—her voice trembled, and tears flowed again. Shcherbakova pulled the girl closer to her. Anna thought: All those names… the Language crew… They broke her once, but they won’t break her again. “They beat me in eighth grade…” Kamila managed through her tears. “They said the whole school hated me… I broke down… I lost my worth… I gained weight and gave up…” Shcherbakova hugged her tighter and whispered: “Kamila… if you can, get up with me and come to the mirror. Without the blanket, in what you’re wearing right now.” Kamila struggled to get up, leaning on Anna, and went to the mirror. Her heart raced—and for the first time, she looked at herself not in fear, but honestly, without flinching. Before her reflected a sweet seventeen-year-old girl, slender, fragile, in a cat t-shirt. Her eyes were a bit tired but clear. Kamila couldn’t believe it: my parents said I was fat, and they… all those girls from the Language crew… they were lying. Shcherbakova placed her hands on the girl’s shoulders. “Do you see?” she said quietly. “You’re as thin as a twig. Small, fragile. What they told you is a lie. They wanted to break you… but they couldn’t. You’re strong.” “Come here, little one. Don’t cry. Come to me.” Kamila relaxed her shoulders and finally allowed herself to unwind. Shcherbakova hugged her tightly. At that moment, Anna thought: Oh, my child… I didn’t know you were this sensitive, sincere, and real. You must return to the stage, participate in school productions, shows… show your real emotions. Still in Anna’s embrace, Kamila quietly yawned like a kitten and nestled into Shcherbakova’s shoulder. Anna carefully took her hand, led her back to the bed, and tucked her in. She sat beside her. Both girls were tired, but they felt the silence and safety that seemed almost magical. After a few minutes, Kamila was already asleep, and Anna, looking at her, quietly whispered: “My little one… everything will be alright.”