Other universes of Cherner's realities.

An autumn evening descended quietly and almost gently upon the city. The air was cold and crisp, mingling the scents of damp leaves and distant smoke — that familiar smoke that always evokes something old, unresolved, and slightly melancholic. Kamila stood at the entrance of Shcherbakova's apartment, gripping the strap of her bag. This wasn't her first night there, yet each visit felt strangely disorienting—as if she were crossing a boundary between teacher and something much closer, a title she hesitated to claim. Shcherbakova opened the door almost immediately, as if she had been waiting. Dressed in a soft gray tee and cozy sweatpants, her hair casually gathered, she appeared entirely different in this relaxed state—no longer cold, nor strict, but a far cry from the impeccably put-together Anna Stanislavovna from school. “Come in, Kami,” she said quietly. Kamila stepped inside. The apartment smelled of cleanliness, coffee, and something warm — perhaps vanilla or simply the essence of home. Here, she always felt an eerie sense of calm, as if the past couldn’t touch her within these walls. They had dinner almost in silence. It wasn't due to a lack of words—in fact, it was the opposite. So much remained unspoken between them. At times, Shcherbakova's gaze lingered on Kamila a moment longer than necessary. Kamila noticed these glances and lowered her eyes, pretending to be absorbed in her meal. Later, they parted to their respective rooms. Kamila settled herself on the couch in the living room, wrapping herself in a blanket and listening to the sound of Anna typing away on a laptop in the next room. Work. Always work. Two hours must have passed. Then the sound of keys stopped. And silence followed. Kamila lay there for what felt like ages, staring at the ceiling. Thoughts raced in her mind, refusing to let her sleep. Too much had built up over the past few weeks — camp memories, conversations, strange feelings she was afraid to name. She wanted to ask. Simply to inquire something from Anna. It might have been a trivial question. Yet the tension inside her tightened until she finally got up. Kamila quietly made her way down the hall. The door to Shcherbakova's room stood slightly ajar. “Anna?” she called softly. There was no response. She nudged the door open. And froze. A chair lay on its side. Nearby, on the floor next to the bed, Shcherbakova sat awkwardly, leaning against the mattress. Her head hung low. A bottle of wine rested beside her. An icy wave washed over Kamila's insides. “Anna!” She hurried over. Shcherbakova wasn’t unconscious — more like in a heavy stupor. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, her breathing steady yet slow. The wine. The bottle was nearly empty. Kamila gently lifted her head. “What… what have you done?” she whispered. Shcherbakova mumbled something unintelligible. The words fell apart, but beneath them was fatigue. And pain. Kamila slowly raised the bottle. Lipstick smudges adorned the glass. Thin, neat lines. Suddenly, she distinctly caught the scent — the very one she had always sensed around Anna: a hint of lipstick, a freshness, and something deeply personal. For a brief moment, Kamila shut her eyes. Inside, a strange mixture rose — anxiety, tenderness, and… understanding. “You too… couldn’t take it?” she said quietly. She pressed the bottle to her lips. One sip only. The wine was warm and bitter. A second sip followed, smaller this time. She didn't intend to get drunk. Just to… share. An odd gesture. But at that moment, it felt right. Kamila set the bottle down and cautiously attempted to lift Anna. It was harder than she expected — Shcherbakova was taller, heavier. Yet Kamila pressed on, slowly pulling her up and helping her lie down on the bed. Anna offered little resistance, merely sighing softly as her head met the pillow. Kamila was about to step back. And then — a hand. In her sleep, Shcherbakova instinctively wrapped her arm around Kamila’s waist and pulled her close. Kamila paused. Her body reacted instantly — first with tension, then with a soft warmth. She carefully lay down beside her, only halfway, perching on the edge of the bed. Anna’s grip tightened, nearly desperate. As if in her sleep she feared someone might leave. Kamila let out a slow breath. After a short inner struggle, she gently embraced her in return. Silence enveloped the room. Only the occasional sounds of the city outside. Thoughts swirled in Kamila's mind. Is she drinking because of work? Because of me? She’s so strong… why does she hurt too? I don’t want her to break… She studied Shcherbakova’s face. In sleep, she appeared younger. Without her usual composure. Without a mask. Just Anya. Tired. Alive. Vulnerable. Something tightened in Kamila’s chest. “I’m here,” she whispered almost soundlessly. “It’s alright.” Shcherbakova didn’t wake up, but her breathing became calmer. Her fingers tightened slightly around the fabric of Kamila’s shirt — as if confirming she felt the warmth nearby. Kamila closed her eyes. She didn’t know when she fell asleep. Just at some point, the tension inside her melted away. And for the first time in a long while, she slept peacefully — in the embrace of someone she trusted more than the world. Across the city, the night was colder. The wind roamed between the concrete towers, whistling through antennas and wires, lifting dust and occasional dry leaves from the roofs. On the roof of one of those high-rises lay a man. Dmitry Cherner. He lay calmly, as if this was the most ordinary thing in the world. Nearby was a dark case, a disassembled sniper rifle within. Now, the gun was assembled and resting before him, the scope trained on the right window. He didn’t appear tense. Rather, focused. And… calm. In the scope was the window of Shcherbakova’s apartment. The light was dimmed. The curtains weren’t fully drawn. Only fragments of the room were visible. He watched as Kamila lifted Anna from the floor. Saw her lay her down on the bed. Witnessed how she herself remained nearby. Cherner smiled slightly. “Just like that…” he muttered barely audibly. His finger wasn’t on the trigger. The rifle served merely as a tool of observation — cold and precise. He watched as he once had when monitoring enemy positions, the movement of equipment, and the horizons. But now wasn’t war. Now, it was life. Through the scope, he captured the moment when Shcherbakova embraced Kamila in her sleep. Saw her freeze. Saw her respond to the embrace. Dmitry’s smile widened. Warmer. Almost imperceptibly. Sweet dreams, girls… he thought. He lowered his gaze from the scope for a moment and looked into the dark sky. Then he returned to watching — more out of habit than necessity. In his mind, everything was categorized almost mathematically. Emotional connection: 20%. Stable. Alive. Growing. Risk of external factors: high. Psychological barriers: critical. He exhaled slowly. So… I need to help. Not by intervening forcefully. Not by breaking. Only by guiding. Removing extra threats. Creating space. Allowing time. Cherner was a man accustomed to solving problems. And now he faced an unusual challenge — not to destroy, not to suppress, but rather: to preserve. To preserve two lives that had teetered on the edge for too long. He looked back through the scope. The room remained quiet. They were already asleep. “Connection at 20 percent…” he thought. “It will be hundred.” Not an order. Not an operation plan. More like a quiet resolution. Dmitry gently shifted the rifle aside, removed his eye from the scope, and disassembled it with quick, confident movements. He placed it in the case. Then he stood up. The wind struck his face, tousling his hair. He cast one last glance toward the window — now without the scope, just a human one. “Love each other quietly,” he murmured into the emptiness. “We will sort out the rest.” And he slipped away from the roof as quietly as he had come. Meanwhile, elsewhere operations were preparing swiftly and tensely. The IZBA label, typically filled with music, laughter, and the hum of equipment, today resembled a special operations headquarters. People with radios gathered in the hallways, quiet discussions among police officers floated in the air, and serious faces of FSB staff passed by. Even the sound of footsteps echoed differently here — muted, cautious. Sergey Slam stood against the wall, holding a radio. He still couldn’t fully believe that his label, where tracks were recorded and guitar parts debated, had become the center of an operation against a network of dens. And yet… He felt proud. “Better they plan this here,” he said quietly to Galina Rogozina, “than elsewhere. If even one den is shut down, it will be worth it.” Galina nodded briefly. Her gaze was cold and focused. Meanwhile, in the makeup room, Sasha Sakharna was hard at work. Before her sat three girls. Kamalya Volzhskaya — calm, composed, harboring that strange inner strength that emanated even in silence. Alexandra Cherner — rock singer Maria Lali, fragile and pale, with tired eyes that still bore traces of years lived. And Mari Gorash — a blue-haired drummer, her long hair tied in a messy ponytail, eyes anxious yet clear. Since 2019, she hadn’t used — following an overdose that had nearly claimed her life. Sasha worked meticulously. Clearly. Professionally. She enhanced their pallor, added shadows beneath their eyes, tousled their hair. The skin tone — sickly. The gaze — vacant. The lips — dry. An hour later, three polished girls from the music scene had transformed into three plausible junkies. Sasha stepped back to assess her work. “Perfect…” she said quietly. “Even too much.” She regarded them seriously. “If anything happens, call immediately. No heroics. Understood?” All three nodded. The high-rise greeted them with dullness. An old stairwell. The smell of dampness. Mold on the walls. The elevator was out of order. Sixth floor. A door with peeling paint. Number: 666. Kamalya let out a quiet hum. “Quite an interesting coincidence.” They stepped inside. The air was stifling. The scent of chemicals, sweat, cheap alcohol. A few people were sprawled on the floor, on couches, at the table. Someone was laughing; someone lay still; someone stared into the void. Sasha was the first to dive into her role. “Got anything?” she rasped. “Are the doses good?” A conversation began. Initially lethargic, but soon more candid. Two shared how they had spent days there. That the product was “good.” That they often bought it. Suddenly, one guy on the floor jerked. At first — slightly. Then abruptly. He convulsed. Crying out: “He’s in the hallway! The torturer! The torturer is coming! The gardener! He collects souls!” The room froze. Someone laughed nervously. Someone turned away. Sasha quickly asked questions — about doses, about supplies. The answers came back consistent: “Everything is normal… not burned…” But the atmosphere grew heavier. And then they saw the locals starting to use. Lines. Pills. Needles. The smell hit sharply. Too familiar. And… something inside broke. Mari was the first to be overwhelmed. Memories ignited before her eyes. 2019. She had just dyed her hair blue. Got a bob haircut. Parties. Laughter. Someone suggested “to try.” Methadone. Lines. Pills. Nausea surged within her right at that moment — from the memory. She recalled lying on the floor, as Sasha Romanov held her while she writhed. She shivered. “Sasha… Kam…” she whispered. “Is it okay… just a little?…” Her voice was frightened. Broken. Sasha Cherner closed her eyes. And slipped into the past as well. Speed. Meth. Emptiness. Amnesia. Loss of self. Self-harm. Anorexia. The attempt to escape. And Dima. The only one who pulled her out. Her hands trembled. Kamalya swallowed hard. Her memories were different. Kazan. Captivity. Bandits. Drugs to keep her subdued. A dark room. And Svyatoslav, bursting in. Rescuing her. The present and the past collided. Her head spun. They sat close to the others. First just nearby. Then closer. Mari was the first to lean in. Sniffing a line. The world slightly swayed. Became softer. More deceptive. Kamalya followed suit. Then Sasha. They entered the circle. Kindred spirits. Sasha trembled as she drew another hit. And it could have continued. But… A crash. The door burst open. “POLICE!” People stormed into the room. FSB. Police. And among them— Cherner. Romanov. Volzhsky. Dima spotted Sasha immediately. Her look. Her condition. He didn’t say a word. Just approached, lifted her in his arms, and carried her out of the room. Sasha Romanov grabbed Mari. Svyatoslav took Kamalya. The operation unfolded swiftly. Efficiently. In one of the rooms, they found a girl. Thin. Lost. “Liza Saminova…” one of the officers said. Missing for a week. 10A of School No. 37. Her parents had been searching for her. Tutberidze had searched for her. Now she had been found. In the den. Alive. But broken. And then— a Satanist. The one who had brought her. Mikhail Moskovsky approached him. Took out a golden cross. Showed it. The man screamed. As if burned. He recoiled. Started shrieking. His phone was streaming live. The main Satanist. A girl’s murder in real-time. The room filled with cold. The operation ceased to be merely a raid. It transformed into something far darker. And none of those present doubted: this was only the beginning. As one apartment echoed with excitement, another was enveloped in romance. Usachova's room was cloaked in soft evening darkness. Outside, a gentle rain fell, with scattered streetlights casting warm amber stripes across the walls. In this dim light, everything felt slightly unreal—as if time had slowed down, allowing the world to pause for a moment. They sat on the floor amidst textbooks and notebooks. An ordinary evening, filled with trivial chatter and the tiredness of a long day—nothing special. Katya was the first to stretch out on the sofa, weary and closing her eyes. Dasha, without hesitation, settled beside her, allowing Katya to rest her head on her lap. It felt so natural, as if it had always been like this. Maya watched them for a while, then quietly moved over and sat beside them. Her hand found Dasha's shoulder gently, as if seeking permission. No one spoke a word. Yet, no one pulled away either. The silence among them grew thick, filled with something new and unexpectedly fragile. It wasn’t awkward; it was alive. Dasha slowly ran her fingers through Katya's hair, untangling strand by strand. Maya noticed her breath quickening. It felt too calm. Too warm. Too good. “It’s strange…” Maya whispered softly. “What is?” Dasha asked barely above a whisper. “It’s as if everything… is in its right place.” That simple phrase hung in the air. Katya opened her eyes slightly and looked up at them—long, thoughtfully. There was no embarrassment or joking in her gaze. Only clarity. She gradually sat up to be at their level. Now, they sat very close—shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee. Maya felt her hand still resting on Dasha's shoulder. Suddenly, she realized she didn’t want to move it away. Dasha understood that too. And she didn’t withdraw. A thin, almost tangible thread of tension formed between them—not anxious, but vital. It was that feeling which arises when emotions unexpectedly surpass familiar boundaries. Katya smiled first—softly, a touch surprised—as if she couldn't quite believe what was happening. “Are we ruining anything?” she asked quietly. Dasha looked at her intently. Then at Maya. And shook her head. “No…” she said calmly. “To be honest… I think we’re just beginning something right.” After those words, everything felt simpler. No sudden movements, no rush. They allowed themselves to be close. Closer than before. More honest than ever. Katya gently took Dasha’s hand. Maya touched their entwined palms with her fingers. Three breaths gradually synchronized, as if they found a common rhythm. Three gazes met, no longer attempting to hide. In that darkness, there was no fear. Only warmth. And a quiet understanding that something unexpected had ignited between them—soft, sincere, and truly important. As the night deepened, they stayed together—without discussions or explanations, simply feeling. In the morning, waking in the same space, they felt neither shame nor regret. Just a gentle surprise and a calm joy. Sometimes the most significant changes occur not with noise and turbulence, but almost imperceptibly—in the silence of a room where three hearts suddenly start beating in rhythm. Apartment of Shcherbakova The room was dark, with only a faint light from the streetlamp filtering through the curtains, casting long stripes on the floor and walls. Kamila lay in Anna’s embrace, pressed against her, but her sleep was restless, as if the night itself tried to punish her. Suddenly, her body began to twitch as if memories were breaking free. She groaned softly, almost a whisper, crying: “No… please… stop… I don’t want to be a junkie…” Anna jolted awake, sitting up and holding Kamila tighter, stroking her hair and back, trying to soothe the pain radiating from her student. In Kamila’s mind, memories surfaced one after another. She recalled the summer after eighth grade, when it all began. She was alone, surrounded by emptiness. Then came Vitya Sinyryukov—the senior in tenth grade, dressed in dark clothes, with icy eyes that both attracted and frightened her. For the first time, she felt supported, protected, and a hint of first love. In his presence, Kamila found the courage to open up about her fears and her dread of being alone. He agreed to help... but that help became a trap. She remembered the first parties where alcohol and drugs mingled with the “fun.” It felt like a movie, where each step could be fatal, but she followed Vitya, the chill sinking deep into her bones. Gradually, under his influence, addiction took root. Kamila recalled every detail: how the icy crack within her widened, how her hands trembled, how each breath marked with mephedrone spiraled her thoughts into a vortex, pulling her from reality. And in this dreamlike memory, Kamila repeated the questions no one could answer: “Mom… why haven’t I found my second soul yet, the one with whom to sink together?” “Mom… why is it so easy for me to sprinkle salt on my wounds in the evening rather than sugar?” (Salt—substances. Sugar—love, care, medicine, home.) She thought it was just a dream, taking a new slow breath, hoping reality wouldn't return. But the vortex of memories pulled her deeper—each moment with Vitya, every smile, each manipulation, every feeling of betrayal and pain came alive in unison. She saw her hands, delicately scarred, feeling the chill of each scratch. “Why don’t I want to fall asleep tonight with someone who won’t understand me?” Kamila whispered, her voice breaking. Half a year had passed since July. Six months of pain, attempts to find the warmth and understanding she so desperately sought. She tried to escape, but her stepfather always brought her back home, and Vitya… Vitya made tears lose their power, while love for him and her family faded, leaving only emptiness. Now, Kamila lay over the nightstand, a line of mephedrone spread across the table. She knew she was making a mistake again, that this was a “dumb, crazy nightmare.” But the habit prevailed—she took a breath. And the vortex of memories tightened around her mind even more. One desire remained: for all this to be a dream, so she could take a new slow breath and wake up. Kamila leaned over. Inhale. Mephedrone hit her consciousness. The world spun. The girl thought, Let this be a dream… she took another breath. “Please… let this be a dream…” Kamila took a slow, new breath. Reality. Suddenly, she shot up, breathing heavily, eyes wide open. Her heart raced like mad, hands trembling. Anna held her hand and torso, drawing her close. She whispered softly, stroking Kamila’s back: “It’s okay, Kamila… I’m with you… you’re safe… it’s over… breathe with me…” Kamila wept in Ani’s arms, allowing her tears and fears to escape. Slowly, breath by breath, the anxiety receded. In that safe space, beside someone who wouldn’t hurt her, she felt she could breathe again. And in that small, dark, yet cozy space, for the first time in a long while, a glimmer of hope appeared: that she could be saved not just physically, but in her soul. Evening in Moscow was different for each of its inhabitants. In one neighborhood, the police stormed a den, catching drug addicts and satanists; in another, two girls slept in each other’s arms, feeling safe and warm, while in a third location, three friends quietly spent the night together, immersed in their feelings and tenderness. On the other side of the city, while returning home after practice, Elizaveta Sergeyevna Tuktamysheva and her friend Yevgenia Maximovna Tarasova discussed the day that had passed. They laughed, sharing amusing stories; Liza recounted moments from school where she was a social studies teacher and psychologist. Yevgenia listened, and then they even had a small debate about which trick was better to perform on ice. Suddenly, Tarasova stopped, noticing suspicious movement. “Liza… look,” she whispered, pointing to two men in hooded cloaks who were forcibly leading a girl while chanting something in Latin. “They look like satanists.” Tuktamysheva quickly assessed the situation. She opened her bag and took out a pepper spray; Yevgenia grabbed a silent bat. Their eyes met, and without words, they moved forward. They needed to act fast, or the girl could be in danger. A breath. A fight. The girls managed to free the captive and quickly took her into the entrance. Liza slammed the door behind them, panting, while Tarasova stood ready to turn on the lights. They listened. Then they heard a strange sound from above: on the seventh floor, someone was banging at the door, mixing shouts, laughter, and howls. Through the peephole, Tuktamysheva saw two crazed satanists rushing up the stairs, shouting and scratching at the doors. The girls froze, watching the chaos. “Crazies…” Liza whispered, sitting on the floor. “They’re driven by lunatics.” Yevgenia carefully turned the captive over, revealing Viktoria Sinitsyna, their friend and journalist. She was pale but alive, with a slight tremor in her hands. The girls quickly called those they could trust. Soon, Nikita Katsalapov, Viktoria’s husband, and Fyodor Klimov, Yevgenia’s boyfriend, arrived. They asked Viktoria what had happened. “They spoke of a gardener,” Viktoria began, “who, like an executioner, comes for them. He needs a sacrifice.” Klimov and Katsalapov exchanged a glance, their faces dry and focused. “Today, during the storming of a den in Moscow, one of those satanists was detained,” Klimov said. “And the drug addicts confirmed: one of them, high and tattooed, shouted about the gardener who cleanses society. He’s looking for those no one will look for: street children, teenagers from troubled families, the homeless, runaways…” Viktoria fell silent, realizing the scale of the threat. The girls, Nikita, and Fyodor understood that this wasn’t just a random act of violence—it was a plan, a targeted hunt for the most vulnerable. Silence hung in the entrance. Each of them realized that the night in Moscow was far from how ordinary residents experienced it: somewhere people were saving lives, somewhere others were lost, and somewhere love and trust intertwined with danger and fear. And this night left its mark in the memory of everyone who witnessed or participated in the events.