Other universes of Cherner's realities.

The apartment was quiet. Not "empty" or "deafening" — just quiet, like it is after a long cry, when the air is still warm from breath and words, but the pain no longer screams. Outside, the evening went on as usual, but in this room, time seemed to stand still. Kamila sat on the bed, her legs tucked underneath her, wrapped in a blanket. She wasn’t crying — just staring at one point, blinking slowly, as if learning to breathe anew. Anna Stanislavovna sat nearby. She didn’t loom, didn’t rush, didn’t ask questions. She just was. Sometimes, that was enough. “Can I…?” Kamila quietly asked without looking up. “Of course,” Anna replied immediately. The girl cautiously scootched closer, leaning her shoulder against Anna’s arm. Awkwardly, as if testing to see if she would be pushed away. Anna didn’t move at all; she just turned slightly, making it more comfortable for Kamila. A few minutes passed. Suddenly, Kamila spoke, almost in a whisper: “When everything is bad… I feel like if I stop being easy to deal with, I’ll be abandoned right away.” Anna took a slow breath. “You’re not obliged to be easy to deal with to be needed,” she said calmly. “And certainly not by me.” Kamila swallowed hard. “What if I’m… weak?” “Then you’re human,” Anna replied gently. “And that’s okay.” She carefully placed her hand on Kamila’s back — not hugging, not pressing, just a warm presence. Her hand moved slowly, almost imperceptibly, in rhythm with the girl’s breathing. Kamila exhaled. Her shoulders dropped slightly. “You… won’t leave?” she asked again, the question childlike, honest, and fearful. Anna turned fully toward her. “I’m here, Kamila. Right now — I’m here. And that’s enough. We’ll figure it out step by step. Together.” Kamila nodded. And suddenly — in a totally childlike way — she leaned her forehead against Anna’s shoulder. Not sobbing. Just because. Anna allowed it. She didn’t hug tightly or pull her close — she just tilted her head slightly, brushing Kamila’s hair with her temple. The world outside continued on: some were in a hurry, others argued, elsewhere wars began and ended days for strangers. But here, in this room, nothing needed to be resolved right now. There was no demand for strength. No demand for courage. No demand to be something greater. It was possible just to be. After a while, Kamila’s breathing evened out. Not sleep — peace. A rare, fragile state that couldn’t be startled away. Anna didn’t move. She thought that the whole world could indeed wait. At least for this evening. Because sometimes the most important thing is not to save, not to fight, not to win. But simply to stay close, when someone is learning to believe again that warmth is not a trap. The evening of the following day. Shcherbakova sat beside Kamila on the bed, holding her hand and gazing intently into her eyes. The girl seemed lost in memories once again, while Anna gently patted her shoulder. “Kamila… do you remember how it all began?” Anna started softly. “Our first meeting. I had just started my job, and you were… a drunk blonde with a bob. I didn’t even realize then that your natural hair color was dark chestnut, like mine.” Kamila shyly nodded. “Yeah… I never thought we would become such good friends.” “We would have become friends anyway,” Anna smiled. “You’re a very responsible girl, and I appreciate that.” “Did I really mess up that much?” Kamila asked, her eyes glistening with tears. “That was my first time… and then in the ninth grade… something really bad happened.” Anna took a deep breath, recalling the ninth grade. The empty chemistry classroom, when Kamila lost control under the influence of substances. She remembered the dilated pupils, the trembling hands, and how she tried to comfort her as the girl sat next to Alyona Kostornaya, struggling with withdrawal. At that moment, Anna understood that Kamila had been introduced to something else in eighth grade, and it had continued all summer before ninth grade. “Listen, Kamila,” she said gently, “that’s all in the past now. What’s most important is how you’re doing now.” Kamila whispered softly, almost to herself: “But she’s so nice…” And in unison, Anna replied quietly to herself: “Yes, she is nice…” Both of them smiled slightly, and the tension began to slowly ease. Kamila nestled closer to Anna’s hand, tracing the lines on her palm with her finger. Soon, they both fell asleep, accidentally hugging each other. Shcherbakova remembered how several years ago, when Kamila was still in ninth grade, she first came to her aid. The girl was under the influence and was clearly dangerous to herself, and only Anna was able to calm her. All the past experiences, the pain, the addiction—these memories were etched forever in the teacher's mind. The next day, Anna recounted everything that had happened to Dima Cherner, Medvedeva, and Tutberidze—those whom she could trust. They understood that Kamila couldn’t be sent home alone. Cherner calmly said, “Anna, don’t let her go anywhere. If she tries to leave, carefully take her to Kostornaya, Kromyh, or Trusova—there should be older girls who can keep her in check. If Melikov calls… we need to know where she is to save her.” Anna hesitantly asked, “Why are you so sure Kamila will come? She’s not a drug addict, and Pavel isn’t someone she trusts.” “If it were that straightforward…” Cherner began. “No one expected or knew anything. It was only when she was high with you that a part of the rational Kamila felt you would help. She was close to you because she trusted you.” “I understand,” Anna replied quietly. “But experimenting with her past is unnecessary; it’s painful for her.” “Pain, you say?” Cherner scoffed. “What did her face look like? Was blood flowing from her nose?” “No,” Shcherbakova answered. “Then it’s either ecstasy or something similar that makes her hallucinate…” Cherner mused. “But Melikov is definitely losing control over her. The second card, ‘addict Valieva,’ will only be played in extreme circumstances.” At that moment, Kamila quietly approached Anna, trembling. “Anya… I remember everything,” she whispered through tears. “How my stepfather brought me that day… how they gave me that pill, and I didn’t want to… how I slowly drowned in that world…” Anna hugged her tighter. “Shh, baby… That’s all in the past. You’re not there anymore. You’re here. With me.” Kamila continued to recount how every day she took the “sweet poison,” how her stepfather humiliated her with words, making her feel worthless. Shcherbakova listened silently, gently stroking the girl’s hair, feeling each breath, every shiver. “How did you end up at school that day?” Anna asked when Kamila calmed down a bit. “He said I was worthless… led me to a den… and left me there… until he called… I used because it felt like I was under command…” Kamila explained quietly. “If it weren’t for Mari Gorash, I would have…” “I understand,” Anna said softly. “You were with those who helped. And you survived.” The evening continued quietly. Shcherbakova and Kamila sat on the couch in each other’s embrace, wrapped in a blanket. Outside, the world was loud, with the sounds of the street filtering into the room, but here, in this small space, there was only silence and warmth. The girls finally fell asleep peacefully, holding each other, shielded from the past and the outside world. At first, Anna Stanislavovna didn’t realize where she was. There was neither dream nor awakening—just at some point, the world around ceased to be hers. The air felt different: thicker, colder, almost with a taste of dust and medicine. The floor beneath her feet felt foreign. The walls were too close. “Where am I…” she thought silently, then immediately fell silent. The answer came not in words, but in a feeling. This was not her place. She looked around and recognized the apartment—not immediately, not with her mind, but with her body. A small room. Too neat for a teenager and too empty for a home. Everything was in its place, but it felt like no one had truly lived here for a long time. Only then did Anna see Kamila. Sixteen years old. Light hair—blonde, not her real color. A gaunt, sharp face. Dark circles under her eyes that no amount of light could hide. Her movements were automatic, like someone who woke not because they had rested, but because they could no longer sleep without pain. Anna gasped sharply. “No…” she wanted to say, stepping forward. Her hand passed through the air. Then she realized. This was a memory. She was here—as a shadow. As a witness. As someone who couldn’t be there back then. Kamila woke abruptly. She sat up in bed, hugging herself. Anna felt it in her body—the ache, the anxiety, the emptiness inside that screamed louder than any pain. I must… I must… The thought was not a word, but an impulse. A thirst. Kamila stood, swaying, opened a drawer, and took out something small, something hidden deep inside. Anna couldn’t see the item—but she knew what it was. “Don’t…” she whispered, even though she knew she wouldn’t be heard. Kamila took the dose almost emotionlessly. Not out of joy. Not out of desire. Out of necessity. Anna felt the tension ease slightly. The girl’s body ceased to scream for a second. And that made it even scarier. The door to the room opened. He entered calmly. Confidently. With a bag in his hand. Anna recognized him immediately. Melikov. She saw how Kamila looked at him—not as a stepfather. Not as an adult. As a source. As someone from whom it depended whether the pain would be bearable. “Tell me,” he said calmly. Anna covered her mouth with her hand. “Please…” Kamila rasped out. “Just a little… please…” She was shaking. Not gracefully. Not dramatically. Like a person from whom the right to not suffer was being taken away. “I’m nothing…” she whispered, breaking down. “I’m bad… I…” Anna felt those words digging into her, as if they were being said to her. She wanted to scream. Wanted to grab Kamila. Wanted to cover her ears. But she could only watch. An hour later, Kamila lay on the floor. An empty gaze. Her body—absent. Anna kneeled beside her, though she knew it was pointless. Forgive me, she thought. Forgive me for not coming sooner. When Kamila came to, she was already being led away. Not by the hand—but by her will. The den turned out to be an ordinary apartment. Too ordinary. These places break the fastest. Laughter. Music. Strange faces. And the feeling that you’re an outsider, but no one will say, “leave.” Kamila used again. Not to get high. To disappear. Anna felt the girl inside herself slowly giving up. As the boundary blurred: what is permissible—what is not, painful—normal, I— not me. I can’t go home. I was told—until the end. If I die—it’s meant to be. When Kamila’s body began to give in, Anna felt it before she saw it. Cold. Emptiness. A void. “Hey!” a voice called out. It was Mari Gorash. She approached abruptly, roughly, truly. Not gently—honestly. She shoved Kamila. Lifted her head. “You don’t belong here,” she said firmly. And made a call. Alexander Romanov appeared. He carried Kamila like a child. “Kamila,” Mari said softly. “This is my friend. He will help.” In another apartment, Anna saw something she hadn’t expected. Cherner. But here, he was called by another name. “Gleb?” she thought to herself in disbelief. He laughed. Roughly. Indifferently. “San, you’re already an adult. Why would you want another broken girl?” Anna saw understanding flicker in his eyes. And weariness. And anger. He left. While everyone was asleep. Kamila—she left too. On a bench. Alone. With a new dose. Anna walked alongside her, feeling every step. Every pause. Every moment when the girl could not make it. But she did. School. Chemistry lab. Anna saw herself. Just like then. How she calmly seated Kamila. How she spoke softly. How she held her hand. How she took her to Alyona. And how the withdrawal began. Tears. Pain. Pleas. “Please… make it stop hurting… I’ll be good…” In the memory, she stroked her head. And Anna—the shadow cried. Because now she knew everything. And when the vision shattered, she woke up abruptly. The real Kamila was beside her. Warm. Alive. Breathing. Anna hugged her as if she were holding the whole world. “You’re here,” she whispered. “You’re with me. I won’t let you go.” And for the first time in a long while, she felt: she made it. Morning brought resolution. Anna woke up abruptly. Not from sound— but from rage that flared within her, as if someone had suddenly turned on the light in the dark. Her heart raced. Her hands trembled. Her chest felt tight, as if molten metal had been poured into it. She didn't immediately realize where she was. A ceiling. The quiet light of morning. And—breath nearby. Kamila. Alive. Real. Warm. Anna turned cautiously, as if afraid that one wrong move would shatter reality. Kamila slept, curled up, clutching the edge of the blanket—as children do, fearing something will be taken from them. And at that moment, Anna was overwhelmed. Not tears—anger. Not hysteria—cold, predatory clarity. I saw everything. I was there. And I didn’t understand. She sat on the bed, gripping her fingers so tightly that her nails dug into her palms. “You fool…” she whispered to herself. “Blind fool.” She had seen Kamila during the summer. Seen how she jerked at loud noises. How often she went to the bathroom. How she stared into space as if she were falling. How she smiled too quickly—not joyfully, but defensively. And Anna hadn’t pieced it together. Teacher. Adult. Person who should have understood. Quietly, she stood up, tucked Kamila in more snugly, and stepped into the kitchen. Morning Kamila woke later. Sleepy, tousled, in an oversized t-shirt. She cautiously entered, as if checking whether it was acceptable for her to be there. “Good morning,” Anna said softly, far too gently for what she felt inside. Kamila nodded. “Good morning…” She sat at the table and began to eat, slowly and carefully, as if afraid someone would stop her or say “that’s enough.” Anna watched her and felt the guilt physically. Like pressure on her chest. “If it gets too hard,” she said calmly, “just tell me. You don’t have to use words.” Kamila looked at her in surprise. Then with gratitude. “Okay.” Anna stood up. “I’ll be in the bathroom for a minute.” Mirror The door closed. And Anna snapped. She stood before the mirror and looked herself in the eyes. Mature. Collected. Smart. The one who is trusted with children. “You saw everything,” she said aloud. “And you did nothing.” Her voice trembled. “You saw how they broke a child. Not physically—worse. Slowly. Every day.” She slammed her palm against the sink. “Teacher of the year,” she spat. “The one who ‘understands her students.’” The mirror remained silent. “I didn’t notice,” she said more quietly. “Because it was convenient not to notice. Because it was easier that way.” She closed her eyes. And made a decision. Never again. Not a step sideways. No ‘I’m not sure.’ “If it’s needed—I’ll be a wall,” Anna said. “If it’s necessary—a shield. If needed—a home.” She lifted her gaze. “I won’t take her life. I will return to her what was stolen. Care. Safety. The right to be weak.” And if it meant going to the very end—she would go. Vision The room trembled. The mirror vanished. Anna stood in a vast hall where the ceiling disappeared into the light. The stone felt warm, as if alive. In the distance—footsteps. Thousands of steps. Warriors. Yellow armor. A black fist on a shoulder pad. They walked silently. Steadily. As one. And among them—Kamila. Not a child. Not a victim. An upright figure. A clear gaze. Anna followed her. “You’re not here by chance,” a voice resounded. Before her stood He. The Emperor. The embodiment of power, responsibility, and the price paid for it. “Do you want to bind your fate to hers?” he asked calmly. “Knowing this is a path without return?” Anna didn’t look away. “I want to be by her side,” she replied. “As long as she needs me.” “This is not salvation,” He said. “This is service.” “I know.” “And what do you feel for her?” Anna thought—and answered honestly. “Responsibility. Care. Love that demands nothing. Love that holds.” The Emperor nodded. “Then go. And remember: you do not own. You protect.” The light faded. Anna blinked sharply. The bathroom. The mirror. Silence. From the kitchen came Kamila’s voice: “Anna Stanislavovna… we’re out of bread.” Anna exhaled. Calmly. Confidently. “We’ll buy some now,” she replied. And for the first time in a long time, she knew for certain: there was no turning back—and that was right.