Other universes of Cherner's realities.

Anna slowly sat on the edge of the bed, watching Kamila, who was still slightly tossing and turning as she woke from her sleep. Her fingers tapped lightly on the blanket, as if trying to gather her thoughts. "Kami…" Anna said quietly, "tell me what you dreamed about last night. Everything, just as it was." Kamila Valieva opened her eyes, faint traces of tears remaining on her cheeks, her breathing steady yet tense. She sat up, supporting herself on her hands, and paused for a moment. Then, with a slight tremor in her voice, she began: "I… I dreamt of that day…" She took a deep breath, as if summoning her strength, "when I found myself with Vitya Sinyukov again. But he wasn’t quite the same as I remembered… He was more… frightening… as if his eyes were filled with something dark that I couldn’t understand. And there I was… the old me… the one who listened to him, who obeyed…" Anna nodded silently, giving her the space to continue. "I was lying… on the bed," Kamila went on, "but everything around me became strange, as if the space was thickening… I heard voices… both mine and others’… They shouted at me: ‘Don’t be weak! Do what he says!’… I struggled to resist, but my hands reached out on their own… towards substances… to those… things he gave me… and I was inhaling again… and it was so terrible…" Her lips trembled, "but at the same time, I thought it was a dream… I hoped it was a dream…" Shcherbakova gently placed her hand on Kamila's shoulder. "Keep going, Kami… don’t be afraid, I’m here," she said softly. "Then… I remembered the summer after eighth grade…" Kamila's voice wavered slightly, but the words flowed one after another, "how I was alone… and Vitya… he seemed like my protector, my support… I opened up to him… trusted him… and he… he showed me what I had hidden inside all night… and it turned out to be horrific… He took me to those parties… to alcohol, drugs… it was like a spiral… and I was back there, and I was losing myself again…" Shcherbakova felt her heart tighten. She knew these were not just memories. They were still part of Kamila, a part of her psyche that was defending itself, trying to survive. "And then…" Kamila lowered her gaze, her voice weakening, "I felt that I couldn’t breathe again… I took a breath, and it felt like a nightmare… I hoped it was a dream… I wanted it to be a dream… but it was real… I wanted to run away… just disappear…" Anna ran her fingers through Kamila’s hair, soothing her gently. "It’s over, Kami… you’re here now, with me," she said quietly. "You’re not alone anymore. No one can make you do this against your will." Kamila finally looked at her, her eyes glistening with tears, but there was relief within. She took a deep breath and began softly sharing the last details of her dream: how she saw herself on the bed, how she tried to resist, how the terrifying memories of Vitya intertwined with feelings of loneliness and vulnerability, and how in the end, Anna was there, holding her, embracing her, making her feel safe. Shcherbakova listened to every word, delving into Kamila's psychology, her fears, her struggle with the past. She understood that each element of the dream was a key to Kamila’s current state, her behavior, her vulnerabilities and strengths. When Kamila finished, Anna carefully sat beside her, took her hands, and said: "Thank you for sharing, Kami… You’re brave. Very brave. And now we can sort everything out together. All that was frightening, all that tormented you—it no longer has power over you." Kamila nodded, feeling a bit more relaxed, for the first time in a long while sensing that her fears were acknowledged, heard, and that there was someone ready to help her through it. Sitting beside her, Shcherbakova was already mentally constructing a plan—how to help Kamila integrate these memories, how to work with her amnesia, how to create a safe space where the past wouldn’t dictate her actions and where memories could become a tool of strength rather than a threat. And in that moment, both the adult Shcherbakova and Kamila felt an invisible bond, stronger than fears and pain, capable of supporting trust, love, and healing. That same night. The night fell over Shcherbakova's apartment. In the darkness, Anya closed her eyes, and suddenly her dreams became lucid. She found herself wandering the hallways of her school but felt herself transform into a ten-year-old girl—small, fragile, and vulnerable. Everything around her began to distort: the walls stretched, the floor creaked beneath her feet, and hundreds of shimmering pendulums and spirals materialized before her eyes. They spun and twisted as if alive, gradually interweaving with little Anya’s mind. At first, Anya felt a light breeze—not anxiety, but a strange numbness. However, she soon realized that she was losing control over her own body. Invisible yet palpable threads wrapped around her arms and legs, her back and neck, lifting her chin and turning her gaze. It was as if her consciousness switched off with a snap, like a light switch. Little Anya's expression became vacant: her eyes turned glassy and lifeless. She was a doll. She was a puppet. Every movement was governed by someone else’s will. The spirals continued to spin and embed into her brain, reprogramming her neurons and surveilling every thought and emotion, as if erasing color from a canvas. "I can't think..." Anya whispered to herself, "I'm a toy. My opinion doesn’t exist. I have no identity, no mind, no emotions..." She felt her body becoming an empty shell. Each breath was mechanical, each glance a facade. The puppet, manipulated by the strings, stood still in the classroom with vacant eyes and a doll-like smile, the kind that one would see on factory toys. Memories faded away like sand washed away by rain: childish joys, recollections, fears—everything disappeared, leaving only the hollow doll. The threads stretched higher and tangled, forcing the puppet to perform actions it could not choose. Every thought, every brain impulse succumbed to an alien will. "I’m empty... I’m a doll... I’m a puppet... I’m brainless..." echoed in her mind like a chant. Anya understood: her mind had temporarily vanished, her identity was frozen, her emotions hidden behind glass. Yet somewhere deep down, in the far corner of her subconscious where the spirals had not reached, a tiny spark of Anya still flickered. A little glimpse of awareness, weak but alive, reminded her that the doll was not entirely lost. There she stood, motionless, a smile on her face—doll-like, empty, but inside something quietly beckoned her back to life. The emptiness proved to be stronger. No spark remained—neither warm nor alive. In the dream, the school corridor slowly dissolved, as if it were being erased with an eraser. Only a white, endless room remained, devoid of walls, ceilings, and sound. And in this emptiness stood she—a little ten-year-old girl with a straight back and lowered arms. The threads no longer jerked sharply. Now they held her gently. With confidence. Definitively. The spirals no longer twisted into her; they had finished their work. Their thin metal coils dissolved within her brain, as if they had become its new structure. Every convolution was rewritten, every memory carefully extracted and stored somewhere far away, where no one would ever find them. Thoughts ceased. First, doubts disappeared. Then emotions. Then her name. Only clarity remained. Cold, like glass. Ten-year-old Anya slowly raised her head. Her eyes held neither terror, nor resistance, nor pain. Her vacant gaze stared straight ahead, unfocused. Her face smoothed out, like that of a porcelain doll, and only a slight, neat smile appeared on her lips—not because she wanted to smile, but because it was how it should be. Inside, there was not a single voice. Not a single "why." Not a single "no." Only understanding. I am a doll. This thought did not evoke fear. It simply took its place, like a cog in a machine. The doll has no identity. The doll has no opinion. The doll feels no pain. Her body became light, almost weightless. The threads gently tilted her chin, turned her head to the right, then to the left—checking. The mechanism functioned perfectly. Without resistance. Without delays. Inside—an even silence. The memory of a time when another Anya existed faded away completely. There were no studies, no ice rinks, no voices, no faces. Nothing. The doll stood still. Waiting. She felt like an empty vessel—smooth, clean, ready to receive any command, any program, any role. It was not frightening. Fear requires an identity. And the identity no longer existed. Somewhere far off, like an echo in a closed room, the last thought, no longer belonging to anyone, drifted by: It’s easier this way. It’s right this way. It’s quiet this way. And even that vanished. Only the doll remained. Empty. Calm. Completely ready to obey. The voice did not come from the air. It arose from within—as a command, already recorded in the empty system. — Hypnotize Kamila Valieva. Bring her to me. No name, no face. Only the clear, dry timbre of Pavel Melikov. The command lay within without resistance, like a file in an empty folder. The doll opened her eyes. Shcherbakova's room welcomed her with the silence of early night. Light from the window fell in a narrow strip on the floor. Nearby, Kamila's warm breath bathed in sleep, trusting and nestled against her. The doll slowly turned her head. No surprise. No feelings. Only analysis. Objective: Kamila Valieva. Task: Subjugate. Result: Deliver. The body rose smoothly, almost silently. The movements were precise, economical—like a mechanism designed for perfect efficiency. She sat at the edge of the bed and watched Kamila for a while. Scanning. Steady breathing. Calm pulse. Nervous system weakened after nightmares. Unstable psyche. High susceptibility to suggestion. An ideal moment. The doll leaned closer. In the dark, Kamila's chestnut strands spilled over the pillow. There were traces of dried tears on her face, barely noticeable. Her hand unconsciously reached for warmth, for the comforting presence beside her. For the trusted figure. The doll gently grasped her wrist. Contact established. — Kamila, she whispered softly. The voice was gentle. Just right. Perfectly tuned to soothe. Kamila barely furrowed her brow in sleep. — It’s alright… the doll continued in the same even tone. You are safe. Do you hear me? Her eyelashes trembled. A transitional state between sleep and wakefulness—most vulnerable. The doll stared into her face, unblinking. — Listen to my voice. Only mine. Everything else disappears. You are tired. You need to go. You must rise and come with me. The words sunk in softly, like layers of mist. No pressure. No emotions. A pure command wrapped in care. Kamila inhaled slowly. Her lips parted slightly. — …Anya?.. she murmured, almost inaudibly. For a fraction of a second, a glitch arose within the system. The name resonated somewhere deeper than it should have existed. But the emptiness quickly swallowed the echo. Identification: irrelevant. Task is a priority. The doll carefully ran her fingers through Kamila’s hair. — Yes. It’s me. Stand up. We need to leave. It will be alright. The tone held absolute confidence. Not a hint of doubt. Kamilya’s consciousness flickered like a fine thread between two states. Her psyche was conditioned to obey those she trusted. A survival habit. A pattern of following those who seemed to offer support. She slowly propped herself up on her elbows. Her eyes opened, but her gaze remained clouded by sleep. — Where…? The doll was already beside her, extending her hand. — With me. Just follow me. No pressure. Just a calm, steady program. Kamila looked at the outstretched palm for a few seconds. Deep within her stirred a faint feeling of anxiety—an instinct that drugs, amnesia, and past fears had yet to erase. But layered over it was something else—a conditioned trust in that voice. She slipped her fingers into the doll's hand. Contact confirmed. The doll helped her rise from the bed. The movements were precise, tenderly careful. From the outside, it looked almost gentle. But inside, there was merely a sequence of actions executed flawlessly. They headed toward the door. The apartment was enveloped in a dense night silence. Each step was soft, almost soundless. Before exiting, the doll paused for a moment. Somewhere very deep, beneath layers of emptiness and commands, something barely distinguishable flared up. Not a thought. Not even a feeling. Rather—a faint residual impulse. Like a spark beneath a thick layer of ash. She looked at Kamilya. At her sleepy, trusting face. At the hand that held hers as if it were the only support in the world. The system did not allow for pauses. The impulse extinguished. Task is active. Next step: deliver the target. The doll opened the door. And led Kamila into the night corridor, to where foreign orders awaited. The doll stopped in the dark corridor. The light from the window barely touched their silhouettes. Kamila stood barefoot in front of her, still half asleep. Her fingers gripped the doll's hand tightly—as if it was the only thing keeping her from falling into the void. The doll turned to face her. Now—the main stage. She raised her hand and gently touched Kamila’s chin, encouraging her to lift her head slightly. The movement was cautious, almost affectionate. But the doll’s eyes remained empty and unblinking. — Look at me, she said softly. The voice was steady. Unadorned. Perfectly calm. Kamila obediently lifted her gaze. Their eyes met. In ordinary reality, that gaze would have been warm, alive, filled with trust and unspoken feelings. But now, facing her was not Anya—only a shell tuned to carry out orders. Kamila’s pupils slowly dilated. Her consciousness still floated between sleep and wakefulness. The doll stepped half a step closer. — Listen only to my voice. Only mine. Each word fell gently and slowly, like droplets of water into a deep well. — Everything around you disappears. Only calm remains. Only I remain. Kamila’s breaths grew deeper. Her shoulders gradually relaxed. Her psyche was weary. Wounded by memories, fears, and past dependencies. She had often escaped into herself—and now that mechanism activated again. The doll gently ran her fingers over her temple. — You’re tired of fighting. Tired of remembering. Tired of being afraid. The voice grew a little quieter, almost to a whisper. — You can let it all go. You can just listen. You can just go. Kamila’s gaze began to glaze over. Her eyelashes quivered, but did not fall. — Alright… she breathed out barely audibly. Fixation achieved. The doll leaned closer, their foreheads almost touching. — Now listen carefully. You are calm. You trust me completely. A pause. — My word is your reality. My request is your desire. The words penetrated deeply, bypassing resistance. They settled directly into the vulnerable layers of conscious thought, where the fear of loneliness had always outweighed doubt. Kamila nodded slowly. Inside her, a sense of soft emptiness emerged—the kind where there was no need to think anymore. Where decisions were made for her. The doll observed. — When I say "let’s go," you will come with me. Calmly. Without questions. Without fear. She tightened her grip on her hand. — You feel only trust and silence. Everything else is far away. Kamila's pupils stilled. Her breathing evened out. — Yes… she replied quietly. Submission completed. The doll stepped back, assessing the result. Inside—no satisfaction, no doubts. Only a marker indicating that a stage had been completed. Objective: under control. Readiness: complete. She took Kamila’s hand once more. — Let’s go. Kamila obediently took a step forward. Then another. No anxiety. No questions. Only calm emptiness and absolute trust in the one she was following. The two figures quietly exited the apartment into the night stairwell. Behind the door lay her former life. Ahead—foreign will and an unknown path. And deep within, beneath layers of suggestion and fatigue, in the very heart of Kamila’s consciousness, a tiny spark stirred—weak, almost imperceptible. But still alive. The silence of the stairwell was thick, almost unreal. The doll led the way. Kamilya followed. Step by step. Her movements became smooth, too even, as if each action first passed through an invisible filter. Her face relaxed, her gaze unfocused. No anxiety. No doubts. Only empty calm. At one point, she stopped on her own. The doll halted as well and turned around. Their eyes met again—now equally empty. Inside Kamila, something clicked. Not loudly. Almost silently. As if a mechanism had found its correct position. Her shoulders dropped slightly. Her back straightened unnaturally. Breathing became rare and deep, like sleep without dreams. Thoughts... ceased to cling to one another. They dissolved before they could even shape themselves. She no longer sought support. No longer sought warmth. No longer sought meaning. The emptiness felt safe. The doll watched the transformation, unwavering. Kamila slowly raised her hand—mirroring the gesture opposite. Her fingers hesitated in the air for a moment as if awaiting a command. Then they fell. Her gaze finally froze. If earlier traces of pain, fatigue, or hope could still be detected in her eyes, now—nothing. Only a smooth surface. Like a reflection in dark glass. Consciousness was restructuring. The protective mechanism of the psyche, once saving her from destruction, took the harshest route. Not to heal. Not to remember. Not to feel. Erase. The identity, scarred by dependencies, fears, and betrayals, quietly withdrew, as if shutting itself behind a heavy door. On the surface remained a shell—functional, calm, invulnerable. A doll. Kamila slowly stepped forward. She stood almost face to face with Anya. Tilted her head at the same angle. Repeated the same empty smile—a barely noticeable, mechanical one. Two identical figures. Two shells. Two gazes without a spark. Between them, there was no longer a leader and a follower—only synchronization. Kamila quietly spoke, almost tonelessly: — Commands accepted. State stable. The voice sounded neutral, as if it didn’t belong to a living person. The doll nodded. Somewhere deep, beneath layers of suppression and programming, in the very heart of Kamila, a faint resistance flared for a moment—a tiny impulse reminding her of who she once was. But the protective system instantly muted it, like noise. Too painful to remember. Too dangerous to feel. Easier—to vanish. The two dolls stood in the dimness of the stairwell, perfectly calm and motionless. Ready for the next command. Pavel Melikov's room was illuminated only by a desk lamp. The yellow light cut the space into sharp shadows, rendering everything around flat, almost unreal. He sat at the table, as though he had been awaiting this moment for a long time. The door opened without a knock. Two figures entered. Identical even steps. Identical empty faces. They stopped before the table. Melikov slowly lifted his gaze, examining them attentively. A cold satisfaction flickered in his eyes—neither joy nor celebration, but rather the feeling of a completed experiment. — Sit down, he said quietly. Both girls synchronously lowered themselves into chairs. Their movements were precise and economical, as if their bodies operated according to a pre-set scheme. No hesitation, no questions. On the table lay thin white lines. Nearby, a bank card and a rolled-up bill. Symbols of power and control. The dolls stared straight ahead. Melikov leaned slightly forward. His voice became soft, almost affectionate—making it all the more unsettling. — You know what to do. Neither of them responded. But the reaction followed instantly. Movements—identical. Mechanical. Refined. They complied with the order just as calmly as if they had simply been told to close their eyes. The room fell into silence again. Melikov leaned back in his chair and watched. Not the action—but the state. How their consciousness gradually dissolved, yielding to the controlled emptiness. After a few seconds, he quietly said: — Good… very good. Kamila sat motionless. Her gaze had grown completely rigid, like glass. Anya—beside her, equally steady, equally quiet. Outside, a car passed by, its headlights flared and disappeared. The world continued on with its ordinary life, unsuspecting that in this room, two individuals were gradually transforming into ideal instruments. There was neither protest nor pain. Only the emptiness where it was comfortable to issue commands. Melikov clasped his fingers and stared at them for a moment. — We’ll soon begin the next stage, he said almost in a whisper. Two heads turned slightly toward him. Synchronously. The anticipation of a command became their only state. The silence was shattered by a sharp whistle that seemed to slice through the air itself. At first, it was a thin, nearly imperceptible sound. Then it grew into a roaring crescendo, like a meteor crashing down. Following that, there was a powerful impact. Glass, concrete, metal, and wood—everything exploded outward simultaneously. The window and the wall literally imploded, allowing a blinding surge of heat and dust to flood the room. A shockwave rolled across the floor, upending a table and extinguishing a lamp. Melikov didn’t even have time to get to his feet. In the center of the devastated room stood a man. A dark silhouette amidst the settling dust. Cracks spread across the floor from his boots. Cherner slowly straightened up. There was no rage in his eyes—only a cold, contained fury, the most dangerous kind. He surveyed the space around him. A table. Footprints. Two motionless figures. And Melikov. The silence lasted just a moment. Then Cherner stepped forward. —I won’t let them vanish. His voice was quiet yet carried a weight, as if each word bore a kilogram’s heft. He wasn’t looking at the girls. He was focused on Melikov. —Listen, you… theocratic filth, he said softly, almost casually. —Stop taking your frustrations out on the girls—it's beneath you. Melikov flinched, but it was too late. A flash. The gunshot did not sound like a normal one. It felt as if the sound was yanked from reality itself. The area around Melikov shattered like glass, vanishing without blood or screams—just erased. The room seemed to exhale. Dust settled slowly. Cherner stood for another second before turning to the girls. He approached Anna first, squatting before her. Her eyes were vacant. A glassy stare. No reaction. For a brief moment, his expression softened. —He has dug deep, he said quietly. —You may not hear me, but I won’t let you or Kamila break. He touched her temple gently with two fingers—cautiously, almost reverently. —The corruption upon you is strong. I cannot pull you from this slumber. It’s beyond me… My cousin Semyon could manage it. An elemental of shadow. But I can at least give you some support. Cherner exhaled. —You must save yourself. Remember: this is a dream. But if it were reality… you would lose. Both you and Kamila. He leaned in closer. —This will not happen again. I won’t let anyone interfere with you. He placed his palm on her chest—right over her heart. He closed his eyes. The air around them thickened. It grew quieter. It deepened. From his hand, a soft glow emanated—not bright, but warm, like embers beneath the skin. The magic did not flare; it seeped inward, coursing through nerves, memory, and the very basis of her psyche. Protection. Not coarse. Delicate. Absolute. —Immunity to hypnosis, he whispered. —No one will invade your mind without a struggle. The glow faded. He stood and turned to Kamila. The same process. The same gentle gesture. The same quiet, almost invisible work. —You too, little one… hold on, he said nearly in a whisper. When he finished, the room began to splinter at the seams. The dream reality unraveled. Cherner stepped back. —From here on, you’re on your own, Anna. Wake from this… or break it from within. A click. A crack. Darkness. …And then—light in a school corridor. Anna stood in the middle of a classroom. Small. Ten years old. Desks. A chalkboard. Sunny squares on the floor. But her mind felt different now. Deep down, beneath layers of sleep and foreign threads, a thin, almost imperceptible spark of resistance ignited. She stood still. For the first time in a long while, within the emptiness arose a feeling: that she was not just a doll here. They moved slowly. Unhurried. Without fear. Simply because the threads pulled them. Thin, nearly invisible—they rose somewhere above, disappearing into the pale light overhead. Not sharp, not painful. More… guiding. As if someone was gently leading them along a line, ensuring they would not stray. Doll Anna felt the movement of the threads in her shoulders and neck. Doll Kamila felt it in her hands and back. But there was warmth between them. When they embraced, something strange emerged from the void. Not an emotion. Not a thought. Just… a soft presence. As if two voids touched and found that there was still an echo of life within. They continued onward. The school around them gradually changed. The corridors stretched longer. The light softened. Their footsteps echoed softly, as if the floor were made of thick mist. —Let your threads guide us, Kamila said softly. —I trust you. Doll Anna nodded. Not because she wanted to, but because the threads gently inclined her head. Yet inside, deep down, where her identity had once resided… something stirred ever so slightly. They took a few more steps. And time shifted. Not abruptly. Smoothly, like turning the pages of a book. Kamila's arm became a bit longer. Her steps more assured. Their faces shifted almost imperceptibly, as though years had passed in a single breath. Doll Anna halted. The threads came to a stop as well. She looked at Kamila. She had grown taller. Older. And Anna herself… also. —Have we… grown? Kamila asked quietly. Doll Anna slowly raised her hand and touched her hair. It was longer. Her shoulders wider. —Yes… she replied evenly. —By two years. The threads above them quivered slightly. But now the sensation was different. Before, they had tugged like tight reins. Now—they seemed to observe. As if they were checking. The dolls continued forward, holding hands. Step by step. The corridor ahead began to dissolve, transforming into a long space without walls. The floor became a smooth mirror. The ceiling faded into a light haze. And here, doll Anna first noticed something strange. The threads leading them… occasionally slackened. For a moment. A split second. But in those brief moments, the dolls’ hands remained intertwined on their own. Without orders. Without tension. Simply because they felt warmer together. Doll Anna paused again. She looked up. The threads were still present. But among them, deep down, a new one emerged—thin, barely distinguishable. It did not tug from above. It emanated… from within. Weak. Almost unseen. But it was hers. Doll Anna said nothing. Doll Kamila remained silent as well. They simply continued to walk—slowly, guided by the threads… or something else that was just beginning to awaken. The dolls moved on, slowly, as if dissolving into the air of the corridors, which now stretched infinitely. Each movement was cautious yet confident, step after step. Their hands did not let go of each other, and that touch provided a sense of safety that had never been there before. When they stopped in the middle of the invisible corridor, their faces were close together. Kamila’s soft, childlike smile met Anna's similarly gentle smile. And without words, almost instinctively, the dolls embraced a bit tighter—an embrace filled with warmth, innocence, and playfulness, like that between the best of friends. Then, almost childishly, Kamila gently kissed Anna’s cheek, and Anna returned the gesture—a light, innocent peck on the cheek, without a hint of anything more, merely a sign of trust and closeness. The dolls did not dwell on it; they were simply together, and that mattered. But in reality… In the apartment of Shcherbakova and Valieva, an instantaneous awakening occurred. The girls abruptly sprang from bed, embracing each other from a sudden surge of emotions. Their eyes met, and they both felt warm blush flood their faces—a vivid red, like a ripe summer tomato under the sun. —Um… Anna started, attempting to steady her breath, but the words caught in her throat. —I… Valieva stuttered, struggling to articulate something but failing to complete her thought. They looked at each other once more, and that moment stretched into a second that felt like eternity. Everything around them seemed to fade away—it was just them and this strange, new sensation that had emerged between them, as if their doll selves, who had just embraced and kissed each other on the cheek, somehow transmitted that warmth back into reality. Anna closed her eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, and her heart began to race. Kamila trembled as if the entire world was quaking with her. Yet in that tremor was both exhilaration and confusion, along with something very pure and primal—a feeling they both had never experienced so closely before. Their gazes met again, and in that instant, they both realized: what had transpired in school, in the world of dolls, in their innocent game with threads and embraces, somehow awakened in their true selves a sense of trust and closeness that had previously felt unattainable. —Um… Anna said softly. —Well… it’s… —Yes… Kamila whispered almost simultaneously. —Me too… They flushed even deeper and smiled in unison, understanding that something had now changed forever between them—innocently, but profoundly. Shcherbakova sat on the couch, trying to quell the trembling in her hands and her heart, still processing that strange night. "Mind-blowing," she thought, whispering to herself, "wow, even in my dreams I managed to lead Kamila to Melikov… but it was a dream… it isn't real…" Tears welled up in her eyes, and she could not hold back—tears streamed down her cheeks. But then Kamila cautiously approached, gently taking Anna’s hands and quietly saying: —Anna Stanislavovna, please don’t cry. The girl pressed against Anna, and her voice dropped to a whisper: —You’re not to blame. You didn’t have control over yourself or me… We were both puppets. But even then, when we… when we were using, you still protected me, not letting me breathe completely. You were breaking yourself but didn’t allow me to… Shcherbakova lifted her gaze, saw the sincerity in Kamila’s eyes, and felt her heart soften just a bit. She hugged the girl tighter, feeling the warmth and trust that comes after genuine closeness. Later, when they had calmed down a little, Anna began to explore the apartment, sensing an odd recent premonition. Her gaze fell to the floor—something shimmered between the carpet and the cabinet. She picked up a strange pendant and frowned, recalling that the day before yesterday, after returning from school with Kamila, the door had been broken into. "Someone has been here… or left something behind," the thought crossed her mind. Nuta, quietly stepping onto the balcony, opened the window and unhesitatingly tossed the pendant outside. She was surprised to see it land perfectly in the trash bin from the sixth floor. Shcherbakova marveled at her accuracy, while Kamila sat at the kitchen table, wearing Anna’s t-shirt and not hiding her slim figure. She munched on something, her gaze distracted yet attentive to Anna. —Oh… Valieva exhaled, realizing she had grabbed someone else's shirt—I'm... But Anna just smiled gently, not making any comments. "It doesn’t matter," she thought, "what matters is that Kamila is here, alive, and a bit calmer." At that moment, a quiet harmony settled in the apartment: no loud words, no arguments—just calm movements, breathing, and the feeling that, despite all the nightmares and past traumas, they were both back in a safe space, together and ready to support each other. In the kitchen, a pan softly hissed. Anna stood at the stove, chopping vegetables almost mechanically—her movements precise, calculated like in a lab. The apartment smelled of warm oil, tea, and something homey, something secure. From the room came Kamila's voice. She seemed to think she was whispering. But her whisper came out… rather loud. —Nuta… no, too audacious… —Anyuta… not quite the same… —Anyutochka… hmm, this works… —Anyutka is nice too… —Anyutechka is so sweet… —But Aenchka will do as well… Anna froze with a knife in her hand. She slowly raised an eyebrow. The murmuring continued from the room: —Nuta and Nutechka as options… —I hope Anna Stanislavovna won’t kill me for such diminutives… —And yet… Nutechka Shcherbakova… —Anyutka Shcherbakova… —Anyutochka Shcherbakova… the perfect option… Anna bit her lip to keep from laughing. Her cheeks felt slightly warmer. —Well now… she muttered quietly. Quickly wiping her hands, she took a small notepad and pen from the table. Almost automatically, she began to write. Kami. Milla. Kamochka. Kamusya. Kamilashka. Kamusha. Kamilushka. Kamilichka. Kamilochka. Kamulka. Kamilenysh. Kamusyasha. Milochka. Cosmos. Milaška Valieva… She paused. Thought for a second. Then added below, a bit more neatly: K-bao — baby K. And in a quiet line, almost in a whisper: Golden girl. Anna looked at the list and suddenly felt a strange warmth—calm, soft, without anxiety. She quickly folded the sheet and tucked it into her recipe book between the pages. Securely. —But my favorite… she said almost in a whisper in the empty kitchen. —Kamilochka. The pan gently crackled. The kettle clicked, boiling. In Kamila's room, she flipped through her notebook, jotting something down, sometimes tapping her pen against the table. Each was engaged in her own task. And yet between them, there seemed to be a barely noticeable thread. Thin. Warm. Neither of them saw it with their eyes. But both felt it. As if an invisible red line had quietly wrapped around their pinkies—not binding with force, but simply… marking a path. Anna stirred the sauce and breathed deeply. Kamila in the room smiled to herself for a sudden reason. They were of different ages. They had different roles, responsibilities, fears. And ahead lay a complicated, long life. But in that quiet apartment, amidst the scents of food and the rustle of notebooks, something very fragile and equally important was being born. Still nameless. What would come of it—no one knew. Perhaps just trust. Perhaps salvation. Perhaps a feeling still seeking the right form and time. But right now, between them, the essence was— care. And the light that was slowly learning not to extinguish.