6:36 - August 4 - 1099

(Sun Araw - DeepCover)

Why did I wake up again? Why am I getting up now, and going to work? And most importantly: why did I leave my mark?

The morning for Simon began with these three questions. Simon was immersed in gloomy thoughts and he did not want to get up right away. But the warmth of the morning sun drove him out of bed in cold blood.

He woke up finally and looked at his phone, having outlined for himself the topics to think about for the day. The box was lit up with a red answering machine light. Simon sighed, strode across the room, and picked up the phone.

"Hello, Mr. Rusakov," a polite voice addressed him, "this is Yui from the Lee Detective Agency. We received an order last night to search for a missing dog. She was last seen at the intersection of 20th and 18th Yangshuo. Come, and don't forget your uniform."

"Hello, Yui. Pfft, a dog. Didn't you try asking around at the diner in Wei's?" Simon answered the answering machine. He chuckled, and continued, "Thanks for reminding me. By the way, Yangshuo - where is that?"

The phone was silent.

"Hello? Yui, where is Yangshuo?" No answer. "Yui? Yui, answer the fucking phone!" The palm clutching the phone has become a fist. "Fuck you, you fuckin' bitch!"

Simon angrily threw the phone on the nightstand. It flew off into a corner somewhere. It was not the first time he had received such strange calls from unknown people. In fact, he knew very well what they wanted from him. Simon knew that none of the callers would answer him, but he tried to talk anyway, and each time he angrily hung up the silent receiver.

Yes, the messages were assignments from the client, using innocuous requests for encryption. Simon had suggested the idea himself, to keep his accomplice safe in case he was caught, and Simon appreciated it. From the outside, it seemed that the guy was besieged daily by some janitor, detective, party planner, courier, and others. The client found it quite hilarious, and each time he asked Simon how he had worked part-time today.

The guy washed his face, and went to breakfast. Consciousness had not yet finally broken through the sleepy veil, and food passed Simon's stomach. The blond's attention was suddenly caught by a sunbeam on the table. The boy stared at it dumbly, and while it was jumping off the table onto the window, the food had already gone cold.

He ended up feeling incredibly awful: his head hurt, his stomach was rumbling even though he had just filled a plate of porridge, his eyes were burning from lack of sleep, and his mood was as fucked up as ever. And it was even worse when he looked at his watch: "6:36".

"Fuck," Simon swore out loud. As usual, a binge, a nightmare, a broken regime (which wasn't). Perfect start to the day.

"Well, now that I'm up, I can get some work done," thought Simon, and got the ironing board. There were still a couple of hours left before the scheduled departure time, it was better to clean up. The usual chores around the house: laundry, cleaning, ironing - a headache for any single person. At first. Then the annoyance goes away, these chores just eat up your time, becoming routine, and undermining your energy and nerves.

While the iron sizzled ironing a beautiful T-shirt with "Perturbator" on it, Simon thought. The events of three days ago were not slipping his mind. A big crease had righted itself. Why did he give that girl his number? She would blab. The little wrinkles smoothed out. He's a sentimental fool. Gave the number the the first girl.

T-shirt gave off a nice warmth as it cleaned up. Oh. He wished someone would iron his thoughts too, cleaned him up. But who could do that? A psychologist would have turned Simon in for sure if he'd told him about his adventures, and he didn't believe in confession or God. The only thing left to do was to collect his doubts and fill his mind with them. If he had been a poet, he would have compared them to water, but the only metaphor Simon used for doubts was shit.

He set about cleaning up. Oddly enough, it turned out cleaner than he thought. Still, twenty minutes of cleaning each time turned into dragging hours. In his years of solitude, Simon had gotten used to it, though cleaning was still a little uncomfortable.

"I wonder what One Hundred Years of Solitude is about?" A thought flashed through the blond's mind as he assiduously scrubbed the floor with a rag. "Should I read... Hmm, when was the last time I read?" He stopped abruptly, leaving a spread on the floor on the floor. Indeed, the last time he had picked up a book was when he arrived in Lungman. When all was not yet lost...

At last the apartment was in good shape. To occupy the remaining time, Simon went out to lift weights on the playground. Although the house itself was relatively well-maintained, the iron was rusty and constantly covered with something. The guy did not even try to go to the administration, he just took responsibility for the exercise equipment into his own hands.

First set. Maybe change the phone? It wasn't hard, but he didn't want to spend the extra money. Second set. The barbell rattled softly. Oh, that's right, you could change the card. But there would still be a charge. And Simon did not want to pay for it. The third set. The crackling intensified, the blond did not want to tempt fate, and went to change clothes.

It was finally seven o'clock. The guy checked to see if he had taken everything. A stolen gun, a couple of magazines, a knife, two Molotov cocktails, snack bars, and, of course, a Walkman. Simon wouldn't go anywhere without his Walkman. And most important of all, the intimidating rooster mask.

It was frayed and damaged. There was a big scar on his right eye. It was as if the rooster had come from hell, the damage was so terrible. And combined with the notoriety that had walked the world for years, the mere sight of a drugged-up killer in a rooster mask terrified opponents.

Simon gently ran his hand over the mask. How many battles had it fought with him? How many deaths had it seen, and would it still see? "Depends on chance," he said aloud. Coincidence, coincidence, bad luck - his bloody path would be interrupted, the guy understood that perfectly. The only question was: when.

All right. None of that mattered. Not now. It was better not to be distracted during the battle after all. Simon chased his fear somewhere in a dark closet of his mind, and set off. It would happen. Someday, but not now. The Reunion terrorists will regret their arrival in Lungmen.

8:00 AM - August 4 - 1099

Yangshuo turned out to be a noisy, unmaintained street not far from the city's engine room. Simon quickly understood why the terrorists had settled here: the distance from the center and the proximity to the technical tunnels of Lungman made the area a hotbed of some rebels, anarchists, and just muddy types. And the noise of the city's reactor discouraged anyone from coming here.

(Scattle - Knock - Knock)

The same noise hid Simon's appearance. The assassin's sneak-in went smoothly: he found a secret passage leading to an apartment building and walked around the courtyard. The reunion guard had no sooner realized what had happened than he was already dead. The saboteur removed his walkie-talkie, and stood for a while, orienting himself.

The location was an area that looked like a military unit. The main entrance gave access to the courtyard, and from it to the barracks, headquarters, and warehouse. Nothing out of the ordinary. Simon, on the other hand, walked around the courtyard from the barracks, and, if he could, he would kill most of the terrorists who had not fully awakened. He prepared an incendiary mixture for that purpose.

Simon carefully looked out from around the corner of the barracks. There were a couple of hooded men walking in the yard. The guy covertly eliminated one. Afterwards, from behind the tarpaulin-covered crates there was a whistling sound. The watchman blinked in surprise, and came toward it. Immediately a masked maniac lunged at him, knocking him down and squeezing his throat. He resisted, but fell silent after a quiet crunch in the neck area.

The rest of the guards were on duty on the outer perimeter. Simon checked the clock: "7:45." He didn't know when the guards took roll call, but he figured he had five minutes to spare. In that time he could lock the barracks door, and then a Molotov cocktail would do the trick.

The guy rummaged through his pockets for a minute, retrieving a set of lock picks, then walked to the door. He frowned, trying to remember the lessons of Makarych's safecracking. The lock picks jabbed into the heavy barn lock. After a moment's rustling, the lock appeared to be broken. The huge hangar door could now only be opened with a crowbar, which Simon had thoughtfully taken with him.

Molotov shattered the window with a loud clang, flying inside the barracks. The dawn's dusk was lit by a flame that was going up in flames. Immediately the screams of burning alive and the stomping of feet could be heard. The flames burned in Simon's face, but he was not distracted, preoccupied with his foes. His crowbar will come in handy now

Five men in white masks and machetes approached. They engaged the intruder, but quickly fell to the swings of the crowbar. The last masked man managed to raise the alarm on his talkie, though it was hard not to see the huge burning building in the courtyard. The killer headed toward the warehouse, wanting to cut the terrorists off from their weapons.

They were already waiting for him there. Simon barely dodged three arrows fired from somewhere out of the darkness of another hangar. He grabbed the lid of a crate he could get his hands on, covered himself with it, and dashed toward the entrance. The lid was pierced by two arrows, but by then he'd reached the warehouse and even saw the shooter. With a nimble throw of the crowbar, the archer, standing on the steel bulkhead, tumbled down, dropping his bow.

Immediately a bearded man rushed at him, waving a rebar. Simon rushed toward him, hooking on the run and knocking him to the ground, then picked up the dropped bow. He quickly plucked a pair of arrows from the ground and drew his bowstring. The guy was more on firearms, but even that was enough to put the arrow just above enemy's heart. The fanatic gurgled, took a few more steps toward the assasin, but immediately collapsed.

Next, there were a few more men. Three, or four - the killer didn't even pay attention, so quickly they were dead. Simon was only surprised that the warehouse was so poorly guarded, as well as the whole area. Was everyone really in the barracks? It was for the best, though.

Afterwards, the assassin headed for the headquarters. Well, the small but clean and fortified building was definitely important to the terrorists. Unlike the hangars of huge steel plates, the supposed headquarters building was made of concrete and was painted with the symbols of the Reunion - an oblique cross on a yellow background.

Suddenly Simon stopped abruptly: right in front of his face whizzed an arrow fired from the direction of the barracks. He took a roll for cover and listened. "One, two, three," he counted. "Four. Four underdogs." The lad took the last arrow, and looked out. Just as he thought, a few people had escaped the fiery inferno. That wouldn't last long.

The reunion sarkaz didn't even have time to put on their masks. Simon saw the black stones on each of their faces. He froze, meeting his gaze with one of the terrorists. The guy had a hard time remembering where he had seen such sadness and doom. The terrorist froze as well, but he quickly revived, and threw a knife at the assassin. This brought him out of his stupor, and the blond man fired back.

That sad sarkaz fell, struck down by an arrow, and his friends fearlessly went head-on. It was a mistake: Simon had no problem knocking one down, swatting the other with foot. They scattered across the yard like puppets, and the third stopped in indecision. The assassin rushed to him, took him in his grip and threw him to the ground, starting the beating. It took three blows for Simon's heavy hand to turn his face into minced meat in front of him.

He did the same to the second enemy, who landed in sandbags. That guy couldn't get up from the pain in his lower back, and Simon took advantage of that. He mercilessly beat him to a pulp, though given his inability to call an ambulance, he condemned him to death. The last sarkaz shared the fate of the others, that is, he lost his life.

"I think that's it here," thought Simon. "I'll clean up the headquarters and be done with it." Before entering the darkness of the concrete building, the assassin picked up a nice machete and also replenished his supply of arrows. Indiscretion is as terrible a killer as self-confidence, and the lad didn't want to fall prey to it.

(Silence)

It was quiet in the supposed headquarters. Simon was right: the building was hung with wires, some kind of electronics for communication. On the walls hung posters and Reunion memos, written in different languages. Somewhere they urged to fight the oppressors of the infected, somewhere to be vigilant, somewhere to promote their ideas among the population. All this would even be interesting if it were not for one thing: blood.

There is blood everywhere. Bodies of terrorists everywhere. Simon examined one body: the dead man was a gravely ill sarkaz. No wonder why he ended up here. But he was interested in something else right now, and that was the long blade mark. It had been shattered. The killer was not ceremonious, and left the victim to bleed to death.

The lad was not the least bit horrified by the sight of similarly shredded people lying all over the place. He only took note of the details of their deaths, and he tried to figure out the picture in his head. It appeared that a swordsman had burst in here, wielding two swords and an incomprehensible Art. Uncomfortable. The blond man was no good with a sword.

As soon as Simon reached the second floor, he tensed up and listened. There was loud breathing coming from a large room further down the corridor. Then there was a noisy exhale, and a low female voice said, "Damn, I just warmed up." The guy began to creep noiselessly toward the door. The silence, broken by the chatter behind the door, strained his nerves to the breaking point.

Finally the door was in front of him. Simon adjusted his mask, moved his knife closer to his palm, and picked up his bow. For a second he hesitated, taking a breath, and then with a sharp movement he swung the door open.

The light of the rising sun blinded Simon for a moment. He blinked, and before him stood an empty room. Tables, drawers, cabinets, and other furniture stood around the edges, forming an arena. A long glass window gave him a view of the courtyard, flooded with blood that had already dried up. And, of course, there were the bodies of terrorists lying in the corners.

Opposite the door stood an impossibly pale girl. White disheveled hair, wolf ears, a broom tail. Black minimalist jacket, black shorts, low boots-an inappropriate look for fall. Crystals glistened on the pale skin of her thighs, and with them a black barrette in her hair. The girl possessed a grim beauty. Simon stopped, staring at her tensely.

She was silent, staring at him. Apparently she was surprised by the sight of the mask's impenetrable black eyes. He too was slightly startled, but he was quick to shake off his daze and, hiding his gaze beneath the glass, regarded her weapons: long single-edged swords with strange protractor-like guards.

"Who are you?" He asked the girl. Her answer was a hard stare and loud breathing from beneath her mask.

"Oh, you're that one?" She shook her head toward the glass. Simon nodded slowly. "Oh, crap. Less fun for me."

The girl waved her tail, and took one sword in her hands. A ray of sunlight illuminated her companion's chest, cast off by the long, slightly curved blade. The sunbeam bounced around the room as she continued to speak:

"I guess you're a tough warrior, aren't you? But you know what?" She flashed her gray eyes playfully. "I'm cooler."

The sunbeam bounced in time with her words. Simon followed it: it fell on the poster "Chatterer is a find for the enemy." The boy giggled, which angered the girl. She frowned, and smiled wickedly, picking up her second sword.

"And since they couldn't entertain me," her voice grew higher and harsher with every word, "Then you shall be my toy!"

With those words, the she-wolf pointed her blade at him, and made a sweep of her sword. The answer was symmetrical: the lad drew an arrow, and pulled the bowstring. Suddenly a slow, menacing voice sounded:

"Bloodthirsty fool. You will share their fate."

(Fixions - Silencers)

The girl only grinned, and rushed at him. Arrows whistled through the air. She deftly batted them away with her swords, closing in on the guy. He tensed like a spring, then sprang toward her. Miraculously, he dodged the blades that whizzed over his head.

They swapped places, the lad at the window and the girl at the door. She raised her swords again, and snarled:

"I forgot to introduce myself. Lappland, hired sword."

"Fuck off."

Lupa attacked again. She swung her sword, and a tight blob of energy came off her blade. Simon recoiled, then ran, dodging the other blobs. He slowed just before Lappland's sword passed in front of him, and broke the distance with a leap.

"Not a bad gymnast," she smirked. Simon exhaled, and pulled his bowstring again.

A hail of arrows flew at the girl. She raised her eyebrows, slightly surprised by it, remembering to bounce the arrows off. Light iron flew off the blades with a clang, landing on the floor, walls, and furniture. Lappland worked her hands with a bloodthirsty grin, making her way to her foe.

Suddenly her sword struck something heavy, and a knife flew past her face, cutting off a strand of hair. Just a second of confusion, and the initiative was lost. The guy rushed at her with a jerk, taking her in a choke hold. Before Lappland could slash at him with his sword, Simon threw her through the window.

The glass shattered with a clang, slicing through the fabric and flesh of the girl. She unclenched her hands in surprise, and the swords flew free. Simon grabbed one of them by the guard and tossed it somewhere behind his back before leaping after the enemy.

She fell into the center of the courtyard, losing one of her weapons, losing some of her threat. Simon smirked under his mask - this Lappland wasn't so scary. She rose from the ground, leaning on her sword and holding her waist. The girl took a quick look around, then her gaze fell back on the lad.

"Ah. Ha. Ha-ha-ha!" She burst into a coughing laugh. "You sly bastard! Amuse me again!"

The maniac looked at her, sighed, and replied reproachfully:

"Laughing at your own death." After a short pause, he continued, "A sheep, not a wolf."

"Shut up and fight!"

The remaining sword shifted to a two-handed grip (apparently she was not used to it), and began to move toward her opponent. It did not reach its goal: the blow was slow enough that Simon was able to retreat. He drew his machete, stood in a defensive posture. Lappland continued to try to reach him, but the boy fought back deftly, blocking her lunges.

The girl stopped, catching her breath. The maniac stood up, waiting for her next move. Without unnecessary tension or fear, he was just waiting for her. And it infuriated her.

"Grah!" Lupo roared, throwing herself into the attack. Black clots flew at Semen, preventing him from concentrating. He started to bounce off the projectiles, and that's when Lappland approached him. Simon whirled frantically, fighting and dodging.

The girl, laughing, pressed her adversary against the barracks. To her annoyance, the maniac showed no sign of his emotions, if there were any. The mask stared blankly at the lupa while the man beneath it jumped and parried. He retreated toward the thin steel wall, methodically and confidently.

Finally Simon's back leaned against the steel wall. Lappland's eyes flashed, and she tensed. It was as if he was inviting her to take one punch. One swift, crisp punch. The girl could not refuse. Her body clenched like a spring and straightened sharply in a furious lunge.

Her attention escaped the guy's hand, which he placed in front of her chest, as if preparing to block. And for this small oversight, the girl paid in full when Simon sharply grabbed the sword by the hilt and drove it into the wall. His maneuver succeeded, and she got a knee in the stomach, flying off toward the center of the courtyard.

Simon frowned, and though Lappland didn't see it, there was a range of emotions on his face, from sadness to disgust. A bottle and a lighter appeared in the guy's slightly trembling hands, and he dashed toward his opponent. When she tried to catch her breath, the maniac was already there.

The girl was horrified to see the molotov in her opponent's hands, and unsuccessfully tried to pull away, but it was too late. The bottle crashed with a crunch over Lappland's head. The fire engulfed her jacket, scorched her hair, burned and fried her skin. The girl squealed in agony, trying to extinguish the flames. She rolled on the ground, throwing off her jacket and exposing a white bandage on her chest.

Simon remained indifferent. He had already reached his goal, throwing the second sword into the smoking barrack. When he looked back, Lappland was crying in pain, still rolling on the ground. Simon felt a bit remorseful, and doused the weeping girl with a bucket of water brought from the warehouse.

She didn't appreciate the help, and as soon as the flames went out, she lunged at the maniac. He simply retreated from the jump line, letting Lappland hit the wall. With a clang, she cracked her forehead against the steel, and settled to the ground. She struggled to get up and turn around, but immediately, with a groan, she settled to the ground.

The girl was a horrible thing to look at. She had changed from a grim beauty to a hunted wolf. Her pale skin had turned brown and blistered. Her flaps were torn here and there. Her luxuriant mane of white hair had become darker and less puffy. Simon's heart clenched and he looked away. Steely, full of anger and pain eyes dug into him, but could not break through the darkness of the mask's eye sockets.

"I have a first aid kit." The lad turned to the lupa, having lost his battle with his conscience. "If you surrender it, it's yours."

Lappland shouted, "Fuck you...," and, hissing and spitting, leaned her hand on the ground. She stood up, but immediately glared when she noticed her weapon was missing.

"Surrender, and I'll let you go." He paused, and then added, "Enough deaths for today."

"You got to be kidding me," Lappland growled. "After that... That..." The growl turned into a wheeze. She covered her face with an open palm, grinned wickedly, and glared at Simon. Her eyes almost radiated bloodlust, and you could cut yourself on the smirk.

But Simon wasn't impressed, as he hadn't been impressed by any such look. He hummed, and just gave up:

"No."

That was the signal. Lupo laughed madly, and threw herself at her enemy. She went into a frenzy, trying to claw and scratch her opponent with her bare hands. Each attack was met with a painful counterattack from Simon. He wasn't even attacking, just catching the furious she-wolf at her mistakes.

She laughed more and more, and finally coughed. The girl sat down, and tensed up. Gathering all her remaining strength, she charged at Simon. He, too, braced himself, and lunged for her.

Lappland jumped. Simon jumped as well. Her leap was a wolf's leap. His leap was a human leap. Lappland bet everything on that leap, desperate and doomed. Simon's leap was clear and planned. Cold calculation overcame unbridled fury.

Simon intercepted the girl right in flight by the waist, and threw her to the ground. She had time to gape and smile, realizing her stupidity, before she hit the ground with a crunch. Her half-dead body sank. The fight ended in Lappland's crushing defeat.

The guy walked over to the loser; she was just lying there, trying to come to her senses. There was no more strength left for tears, and the girl just groaned in grief and pain. Simon leaned over her.

"And what did you achieve?" Simon asked the girl reproachfully. "You've had your fun, I hope?"

"Fuck off."

He slapped her across the face instead. Not hard, but enough to cripple her face more. The girl didn't react.

"I told you we'd had enough killing for today. Give up."

"Shut up," Lappland repeated bluntly.

Her face met the fist again. A knocked-out tooth fell to the ground.

His voice turned steely, "Hmm. I changed my mind." The maniac pronounced sentence. "Die."

Simon took hold of his right elbow, and brought it high above his head. Lappland's eyes widened with horror, apparently at the realization of her fate. The muscles of the arm tensed, turning it into a guillotine. And at the last second before the guillotine went into motion, the girl whispered:

"Texas, I'm sorry."

The elbow stopped abruptly. The guy stared at her in surprise, and withdrew his hand. Suddenly a nametag with a black rook caught his eye. He picked it up, and read. "Operator Lappland. Class - guard. Infection status - infected," it read. There was no limit to Simon's astonishment. Nor was there any limit to his anger.

"You fucking moron!" His voice wavered, but held on. "You wanted a fight?! You could have just shown me your nametag."

Through Lappland's swollen eyelids he could see her cold gaze. The corners of her lips dropped. He sighed, and then gently took her in his arms as he hurried away. The fire had already engeulfd many buildings and it was time to get out of here, which Simon did, having called the fire brigade beforehand.

When they were away from the fire, the maniac let Lappland use the Rhodes hotline. She called a special code, and called for backup. Whereupon Simon hissed a contemptuous "Bloodthirsty fool," and disappeared into the labyrinthine streets of Lungmen, leaving the girl alone with her shame.

(Modulogeek - frost)

Simon returned home with a much less gloomy face than usual. On his way he stopped at a music store, and ended up holding a CD with a pink pentagram on the box. He sluggishly undressed, threw his socks on the hallway floor, and went into the kitchen.

His thoughts were fully occupied with today's assignment. And the incident on it had exhausted the lad so much that the day was over for him, though the sun had just reached its zenith. The face of the agonizing girl and the smell of burning were firmly stucked in his brain, and Simon intended to drive them out with alcohol and music.

The kettle boiled: the boy never began an evening with alcohol. He tried to distract himself by turning on a fresh Perturbator album, unintentionally drowning it out with the sound of boiling water. The player, sizzling slightly, accepted the CD, and a melancholy synthwave spilled across the room.

Some fool had decided to have some fun, but she'd got the wrong guy. A typical situation that happened to an ordinary fool. What was her name? Simon tried to remember her name. Something beggining with "L". He knew what suffering was, and had seen it often. So why had his hand trembled before that throw?

He spent the next few hours solving that question. He thought, and thought for a long time. In the end, his mind was too sober and clear to decide, so a beer came along. One by one, sip by sip, the cans emptied, tinkled, fell on the floor, on the table. Thinking did not help, it helped not to think.

A low, wind-like howl sounded sinth, and Simon was already lying half-asleep. The door opened with a clatter. It was Makarych, returning Makarych, who poured him a glass of vodka. Simon blinked, looked sceptically at his old friend, but knocked the shot down. Then he poured a drink for his friend without noticing that he had poured it for himself and got ready to listen.

Bald wolf kept joking, talking about the affairs of bygone days. About the bread and tobacco prices, the grey-haired hustlers and Waflush. The lad listened, replying from time to time, and thought nothing of it. And so the time passed in good company. Vodka ran out, world floated away, and Simon fell asleep in oblivion.

2:42 - August 5 - 1099

(Ressless - without.)

Simon didn't get enough sleep. Again. Several times during the night he dreamed of steel eyes and white hair with a barrette. Lappland (he finally remembered the name) jumped on him again and again, and he fought back desperately. Their fight always ended with a bottle flying into Simon's face.

Then an unbearable heat surrounded his face, as if his skin were being ripped off alive, and his head was so heavy that he could not lift it off the ground. He screamed and struggled in agony, but the white she-wolf just laughed.

Eventually he got tired of getting up in the middle of the night and went into the kitchen to get a beer. There was silence in the apartment, but Simon only tensed up even more. It seemed to him that somewhere in the shadows a white-haired girl was hiding, just waiting to get her hands on him. He sipped the cool liquid and glanced at his watch: It was four in the morning.

After that, the blond felt better and went back to sleep. But he was not destined to sleep: There was a clicking noise from above, followed by the loud roar of a vacuum cleaner. Simon cursed loudly at a lunatic like himself and flopped down in bed. The tense silence was replaced by an annoying noise.

The guy was lying, listening to the roar of the vacuum cleaner, and began to glance around the room. The gray ceiling, the window, the nightstand, the bed. Suddenly a red dot flashed on the nightstand. He looked closely: it was the light of an answering machine.

"Does the client have insomnia? Nope, he has no complaints about his health," Simon thought to himself as he came to it. He picked up the phone with a sinking heart.

"Hello there. Simon," a pleasant girl's voice was heard.

His jaw dropped. His hand trembled and he almost dropped the phone. He tried to figure out who might have called him, and his mind quickly found the answer.

"It's Texas." The phone confirmed his hunch. "A sweep, hanging out at the Penguin Logistics warehouse. You also helped my partner. You remember, don't you?"

"Yeah," replied Simon, not paying attention to the fact that he was talking to the answering machine.

"You gave me your number. I tried to call you tonight, but there was no answer. So I decided to leave you a message."

Simon bitterly remembered that he had heard the sound of the call through his alcoholic slumber. Makarych had muffled it with his chatter, and he did not answer the girl, though he could have.

"You know, there's nothing important in that call. Just wanted to pour out my heart. You don't mind, do you?"

"No, of course not."

"Okay." The girl on the other side sighed, and then continued, "You know, our lives are fragile things. Very fragile. My... friend was almost killed today." She stopped talking. Simon distinctly heard her breathing hitched. "I can't tell you what happened, but she looked horrible. She had almost been burned alive."

The guy was on the edge of dropping the phone again. That white-haired girl, could she...

"Yes, Lappland has a talent for looking for trouble."

The phone fell to the floor with a clatter. Simon was stunned to the core. He quickly came to his senses, and picked up the talking phone.

"God, who do you have to run into to get both burns and fractures all over her body at the same time? But her life is safe, I believe. Our medics are amazing people. But still...how creepy."

"Did she say who she met?"

"I already asked her that. She won't say. She says it's too shameful to say. And, you know, I... I got scared. How close was I to losing someone close to me? Very close, I think. And in the midst of that experience, I thought of you."

"I'm sorry about your friend. I hope she gets better." He knew full well he was a hypocrite. He was the one who beat Lappland half to death. He's the one who made Texas worry and fear. He was once again the source of all the misery and suffering. But the guy didn't have the guts to say it. Not even an answering machine.

"Let's not talk about the bad things," girl declared decisively. "How are you?"

"Pretty good. Fighting, working part-time, drinking. Nothing much, really."

"It's like you have something to say, but you don't say anything, you keep it all to yourself. You better not. Loneliness gets to your head, doesn't it?"

"That's right," Simon grinned.

"Yeah," Texas sighed. "It's like a one-way communication. Not even communication, just a message in a bottle. Why don't you call me? Tomorrow, the day after tomorrow, I'm always available."

A slight smile lit up the guy's face. It wasn't happy or cheerful, the cheerfulness in his life had long been gone, but it was there nonetheless. Simon himself couldn't tell why he could smile. He just nodded, and listened to the message to the end.

"Call me if you get lonely. Good night, Simon."

Dawn illuminated his room. A ray of sunlight illuminated his smooth face, played with his golden hair. It was as if a stone had fallen from Simon's soul. Or rather, it had been pushed away. With a slight smile, the lad drifted off to sleep again. But this time the nightmares were over. There was only quiet, peaceful oblivion, silent and meaningless.