Always Visible: The Movie

The city train station at seven in the morning is a symphony of chaos, played by an orchestra of horns, footsteps and the endless noise of voices. The station building is a massive, dusty monster, more reminiscent of a temple, only here instead of believers there are travelers, and instead of incense there is the smell of coffee and cheap pies.

Workers, not yet fully awake, walk in a line, as if on a conveyor belt. Their faces are dull, as if polished by a cold wind; their eyes are searching for an answer to the question of why the day off is still so far away. Students - awkward and with torn backpacks - are grouped at newspaper stands, trying to snatch hot tea before the commuter train. Here and there you can see seasoned traders in wrinkled jackets and with briefcases that have long since lost their form, but have not lost their purpose.

The landscape is completed by grannies in worn-out down jackets, like street generals armed with packages with mysterious contents. Some are already arguing, some are dozing, leaning on cold benches, and some are looking at the world through a thick veil of cigarette smoke.

And suddenly the noise of the station died away. Even the horn of the old truck loaded with potatoes stopped mid-sound, as if the air itself had suddenly stopped transmitting sound vibrations for a second. And all this because HE had stepped out of the third carriage of the commuter train.

THE HERO OF OUR TIME.

Tall, with short black hair, like a movie star on a black-and-white poster. His young face was perfectly smooth, without a hint of fatigue, as if the world had not yet managed to leave its marks on it. You wouldn't give him a day over nineteen, but he carried himself as if he had already conquered three continents and was about to conquer a fourth.

He wore an immaculate suit, midnight black and so perfectly tailored that every thread seemed to have been sewn in with a prayer. His white shirt was flawless, without a tie—something about the deliberate minimalism was defiant. On his right hand, a pair of thin but confident cufflinks gleamed.

He leaped from the carriage with the rapidity of a young man who had not yet learned to slow down for the sake of peace. But then, as soon as he stepped onto the platform, he froze, as if re-learning gravity. His gaze slid over the crowd, cold and full of contempt.

These workers with their wrinkled jackets, students in torn jeans, grandmothers with endless bags - it was as if he was assessing everyone, involuntarily comparing them to himself. And, of course, no one would have survived this silent judgment.

In his left hand he held a leather folder. Not just a folder, but an accessory that screamed status, ambition and taste. If he held it higher, you could see the morning light reflected in it.

Having finished his contemptuous review, he lifted his head slightly, as if challenging not only this dusty platform but the world itself. As if to say that he was here, and that alone was enough to change everything. Then he moved forward, with confident, precise steps that brooked no hesitation or fuss.

He entered the station building, and even the air inside seemed to have changed—drier, cooler, like a museum where relics are kept under glass. The long corridor before him stretched out like a deserted carpet of tiles, on which there was not a single person. His footsteps echoed loudly in the silence, turning into a melody, as if each sound had been planned in advance.

As if he were in no hurry, he walked forward without looking back, and each step he took seemed to draw a line separating "then" from "now". The smooth leather folder in his hand looked as if it contained not papers, but answers to questions that no one had yet thought to ask.

Reaching the end of the corridor, he entered a spacious waiting room. The smell of coffee and station dust mingled with the quiet hum of conversations and the rustle of newspapers. But his appearance immediately created a pause. People - workers, students, and grandmothers - looked at him, trying to understand who this young man was, who seemed to have control over time itself.

He stopped in the middle of the room, as if in the center of an invisible stage. He took out a watch from his inside pocket, small but perfectly shiny, with a grace that marked him out as not just a man, but a dandy. His hand moved smoothly, like an actor in a perfectly staged play.

Checking the time—as if deciding how much longer he would allow this place to detain him—he smoothly put the watch back and moved forward again.

His destination was clear: the escalator. As he approached it, he paused for a moment, as if letting everyone know that the next moment would be worthy of a monument. Then he stepped smoothly onto the moving step and began his descent.

He stood up straight, with a light, unperturbed pride, looking down on everyone - not because of his height, but because of some inner superiority. His eyes seemed to say: "Look and remember! You are lucky to be witnesses!" The crowd below may not have understood why, but no one could look away.

When he reached the end of the escalator, his steps became even more springy, but still unhurried. He crossed the hall of the station, not paying the slightest attention to the people around him, as if they were just decorations on his way. The doors of the building swung open before him, releasing him onto the streets of the city.

And here he stopped again. He took a deep breath, as if absorbing the noise and smell and energy of the street. The chaos of the cars, the shouts of the vendors and the honking of the trams came crashing down on him, but he did not flinch. He stood there, right in the middle of it all, a challenge to the city itself, a living embodiment of audacity and confidence.

His path led to the bus stop. Walking along the sidewalk, he was once again the center of attention. Each step was perfectly measured, each fold of his suit emphasized his impeccability. He moved as if the city belonged to him, and the stop was not just a place where transport arrives, but a point where something great would begin.

When he reached the stop, the bus was already there, as if it had been waiting for him - not for other passengers, not for the schedule, but specifically for him. The bright yellow body of the bus, a little worn by time, seemed to shake nervously, as if it had a presentiment that something out of the ordinary was about to happen.

Without a second's hesitation, he stepped into the salon, not paying the slightest attention to the old ladies who were trying in vain to keep up with him, or the children who, clutching their school bags to their chests, humbly waited their turn. He didn't care. After all, he was cooler than everyone.

As soon as he stepped onto the worn floor of the salon, he cast a quick glance at the seats, but none of them were worthy of his attention. Sit down? Too banal. Too ordinary. He glanced around the space, noticed the handrail, as if made for him, and suddenly with a sharp movement he flew up on his hands, catching hold of it.

The sun! He started making the sun, as if the bus handrail were his personal horizontal bar. One - and his perfectly fitting suit flies up, revealing a snow-white shirt. Two - the folder clutched in his elbow doesn't even move, demonstrating the level of his control. The passengers froze, watching this silent performance. Some openly snorted, some opened their mouths in amazement, and the old ladies whispered, look at the youth, no shame at all! But he didn't care.

He completed his maneuvers with a graceful jump, dropped smoothly to the floor of the bus, and adjusted his jacket. Not a drop of sweat, not a single missed movement. He did all this as if he were preparing for a press conference or a meeting with investors, and not using public transportation as a sports ground.

The bus, as if sensing a special mission, stopped with a light, almost reverent creak. The doors opened, and he stepped off, unhurriedly as always. His step was light but confident, as if the asphalt itself was becoming softer under his feet.

He paused for a second at the edge of the sidewalk, glanced at the bus, chuckled contemptuously - either expressing his opinion of the old transport, or of society in general. Then he moved forward, straight towards the ten-story buildings rising in the distance.

The courtyard, surrounded by grey giants, was empty. No running children, no grandmothers on benches, no random passers-by. Only he and the stone giants, standing like sentries, guarding this young step into the unknown.

The high-rises, shabby from time and rain, rose around him like rocky mountains. Each of these houses, with peeling paint on the balconies and cracks in the concrete, looked down on him. But this did not diminish him; on the contrary, it made him even bigger. He was a knight, cutting through the silence of the concrete gorge with his grace and audacity.

His perfectly tailored suit contrasted with the rough urban landscape, as if he were an outsider in this dusty world, but not an accidental one. Each step he took was like the tread of a hero who follows his destiny.

Approaching the entrance, he stopped in front of a massive metal door that had clearly not been touched by a locksmith's hand for many years. The rust around the handle resembled scars left by time, and the door looked as if it could withstand a siege by a small detachment.

He took hold of the heavy handle and pulled. The door did not budge. His gaze darkened, and a faint pain appeared on his face, as if the very fact of resistance to this crude thing was a personal insult. How dare this damned piece of iron resist him, the one who walked forward without looking back?

Gritting his teeth, he pulled harder. The creak of metal echoed through the quiet courtyard like a groan of defeat. The door finally gave in, reluctantly opening the way. He pushed it open, stepping inside, but before disappearing into its dark opening, he cast a cold, contemptuous glance over his shoulder.

That look said a lot. That no rusty door, no obstacle in his path would stop him. But it also warned him that he would remember this.

The door closed behind him with a dull clang, and the courtyard fell silent again, as if calming down after meeting someone who could make even metal obey.

The entrance was dark, broken only by the dim light of a single bulb. The staircase, peeling, cracked and stained with time, stretched upward, as if inviting him to a test. But he was in no hurry.

From the very first step, his gait changed, becoming slow, almost ceremonial. Each of his movements was precise, calculated, as if he was not simply climbing, but conquering the summit of Everest. The staircase, which for others was just a set of steps, for him became a pedestal - a confirmation of his greatness.

He still held the leather folder in his hands. It lay on his palm with the same grace with which a royal scepter lies in the hand of a monarch. Even when he raised it, it did not move, remaining an integral part of his image.

He did not touch the railing. It would have been too ordinary for him, too easy. His hands remained free, only the slight movement of his shoulders betrayed the effort required by the climb. But he climbed with such ease, as if all these floors were nothing compared to the peaks he was accustomed to conquering.

Each step echoed in the silence of the entrance, like the rhythm of a majestic march. His dark suit shimmered in the dim light, emphasizing his silhouette against the shabby walls.

Floor after floor, he climbed higher, neither speeding up nor slowing down. Even the stairs themselves seemed to improve under his feet, as if they were aware of who was walking on them. And then, finally, he reached the top floor.

Pausing for a moment, he raised his gaze to the ceiling, as if congratulating himself on completing this symbolic ascent. Not a drop of fatigue, only impeccable posture and the same confidence in his eyes.

Then he slowly, with apparent care, lowered the leather folder onto the cold, cracked stone floor. The gesture was majestic and at the same time tense, as if he were laying on the altar not just an object, but something sacred and weighty.

For a few seconds he simply stood there, looking at her. His chest rose and fell, his breath seemed to have stopped. Then, without touching the folder, he moved his hands strangely in the air above her. His fingers moved smoothly, as if drawing invisible signs or making passes, as if he were trying to assert his rightness or hold something powerful inside.

There was something magical, otherworldly about these movements. As if he was afraid that if the world saw the contents of this folder, something irreparable would happen. Perhaps the world would collapse, the cracks in the floor would open, and this staircase, these walls, this city, everything would be destroyed.

For a moment he froze, his hands stopped in midair. His eyes narrowed and his lips trembled, as if he wanted to say something but couldn't. As if the folder itself was waiting for him not just to move, but to make a decision.

Finally, after standing over the folder for a few moments, as if pondering it, he picked it up decisively and, in one smooth movement, opened it. Inside, as expected, lay not some banal papers or documents, but something much more significant - symbols of power and audacity.

The first thing he pulled out was a pair of sunglasses. He put them on slowly, with pathos, as if the whole world was about to see his true self. The glasses, black, with wide temples, sat perfectly on his face, hiding his eyes, but at the same time adding even more mystery to his appearance. He looked like a man who knew that he didn't need to show everything that was hidden inside to be sure of his victory.

But his ceremony did not end there. He carefully removed the second item, a silver pistol. The metal surface glittered in the dim light, reflecting his silhouette. He held the pistol not as a weapon for combat, but as part of his aura, as an extension of his own power. With this pistol, he was not just a man, he was a bearer of fate, ready to take any consequences.

His fingers, graceful and sure, reloaded the pistol with pathos. Every gesture was filled with meaning, and even the sound of the cartridge sliding into place seemed like a musical note in this drama. A light click of the bolt - and the pistol was ready, like a weapon for the greatest act.

His gaze, hidden behind his glasses, was cold, but confident. He reloaded the pistol with such dignity, as if the whole process was part of his public performance. The glasses on his face and the pistol in his hands became his own icon, a symbol of the fact that he was the center of the universe, ready to rule and change the world as he saw fit.

No one would have dared interrupt him as he held the silver pistol in one hand and carefully pulled a bunch of keys from his pocket with the other. The keys jingled like iron as they hovered on his fingers like symbols of access. His movements were smooth, almost ritualistic, and each key in his hands seemed significant, like part of some grand design.

He walked to the door, slowly, feeling the space around him tighten, as if this entire scene had been predicted and he was simply following his script. He inserted the key into the lock with as much care as if the lock itself were an obstacle he could easily overcome. The door creaked open, and he stepped into the hallway.

The floor was carpeted and the walls were covered in dark wood, giving the room a sense of privacy and seclusion. His gaze was immediately drawn to the large mirror that covered the entire wall, its surface seeming to pull him along, reflecting not only the image but also the depth of the moment itself. He paused for a moment, looking at his reflection, as if checking his essence against what he saw in the mirror.

Without blinking, he turned and raised the pistol in both hands, as if it were not a weapon but a ritual staff. His body leaned forward slightly, and every step he took was full of intent, as if he were ready to stalk not just a target but himself, hunting for something that lurked in the shadows.

Slowly, like a predator, he began to move forward. Each of his movements was measured, but at the same time full of hidden menace. He was a hunter, and perhaps now, in this wood-paneled corridor, his prey was a step away from him. The dark wood, as if alive, enveloped him, hiding everything around him, and the mirror continued to reflect his silhouette, emphasizing his confidence and steadfastness.

He walked slowly, but suddenly, halfway to the end of the hallway, his body suddenly tensed up, like a string about to break. He seemed to flinch, instantly straightening his shoulders and looking toward the door with the peephole, which suddenly seemed dangerous to him, like an enemy hiding behind fragile glass.

There was no hesitation, no hesitation. He cocked the gun instantly, his hand seeming to bring it to his eyes without requiring a command. The peephole was too close, too vulnerable to be alive in his world. In one sharp movement, almost without noticing the effort, he fired. The sound of the shot tore through the silence, deafening everything around him. The glass of the peephole cracked and shattered, like a small mirror being crushed by the force of the shot.

He didn't slow down, didn't hold his gaze. Without any emotion, he simply turned away, as if this moment didn't deserve attention. But on his face, hidden behind his glasses, a bloodthirsty smile appeared - barely noticeable, but it had everything. It was not the smile of a satisfied killer, but only of someone who enjoys the game, the power, the demonstration of his own superiority.

His gaze was cold, but there was a fire in it. He walked to the next door, his steps making a light sound on the carpet, but the silence around him was so thick that every movement seemed muffled. He stopped in front of the door, and for a moment he seemed to think. A slight hesitation flickered in his gaze, but it was so restrained that hardly anyone could notice it. It was not weakness, but rather a pause - as if he sensed something important behind that door.

He slowed his steps, as if preparing for something decisive, and stood in front of the door. With one hand, he pulled a bunch of keys from his pocket, as if this was more than just a doorway, perhaps even a test to pass. His fingers slid smoothly over the keys until he selected the one that would open this door. All the while, the gun in his other hand remained motionless, just like his gaze—confident, but with a touch of intense concentration.

He inserted the key into the lock, and the door gave way with a characteristic click. He was in no hurry to open it, as if pondering what this opening concealed behind it. Perhaps there were new trials behind the door, perhaps what he was looking for. But his entire posture said that nothing would stop him.

Quietly, without the slightest noise, the door opened, and he seemed to be transformed in that moment. His confident gait, his cold determination, all disappeared, giving way to something entirely new. He suddenly, with a furious cry, burst forward, but the very words that escaped his lips were devoid of meaning. The phrases fell from his lips like meaningless screams, echoing around the room. The words did not matter, just as the entire reality around him did not matter - what mattered was the moment itself, the moment of the great breakdown.

He waved his hand with the pistol, as if trying to warn someone invisible not to dare to interfere with his movement. The pistol, glittering in his hand, became part of his gesture, part of this performance that he himself was playing out. His body tensed, and with a powerful jerk he jumped over the threshold.

His movement was almost theatrical - he spun in the air like an experienced acrobat, and, landing, he opened both hands, holding a pistol in each of them, like duplicate weapons of victory. His whole figure was full of pathos, like a hero who had just overcome obstacles and was now entering the room, ready not just to change the course of events, but to turn them in his favor.

His face was adorned with a dark grin. It wasn't just a grin - it was a feeling that he was in control of everything that was happening. He was like a shadow that bursts into the bright light, as if invincible. And every step, every movement was filled with confidence in his own exclusivity. The room, which he now filled with his presence, was filled with typical student carelessness: books and papers were strewn on the floor, empty pizza boxes, piles of clothes, scattered socks and sweaters. There was no harmony here - only disorder, which seemed unable to disturb his confidence. This chaos was only a reminder that someone does not want or cannot bring order to their life.

But he didn't care. He walked, not paying attention to all these signs of imperfection, just continuing his way through this world filled with other people's worries, to perform his act, which was much more important than everything else.

And suddenly, from the end of the corridor, a silhouette appeared. A bandit. He was young, and his blue sweatpants and jacket seemed too bright for this setting. He wore a mask that hid his features, and in his hands was a huge knife that seemed ready to cut the air. He took a few quick steps forward, as if preparing to attack. His eyes sparkled under the mask, and the knife gleamed, reflecting the dim light of the lamp.

But his attempt to attack was never realized. The very second he took the first step, the hero abruptly raised his pistol. The sound of the shot tore through space. The bandit did not even have time to make a single move, as the bullet had already pierced him, and he fell to the floor without the slightest sound, like a silently falling stone.

There was no scream, no struggle. It all happened in an instant, and all that was left was his lifeless body, which silently touched the floor. The hero did not even deign to look at the fallen bandit. He collapsed on the floor, but for him it was all the same, as if in front of him was not a person, but an insignificant creature - a pitiful flea, not worth his attention. The bandit lost his significance even before the bullet pierced his body. The hero calmly walked around him, as if he were walking around dirty shoes that fell on the carpet. Without the slightest hesitation, he continued on his way.

He reached the room his opponent had just left. He stopped at the threshold, slowly looking around the room with a look full of indifference. It was a standard room - a standard student mess, an old sofa, a table with a pile of books and empty bottles, a TV that had not been turned on for a long time. None of this could detain him. He was not here for anything that could surprise or interest him.

He looked around the room, but his gaze was empty and indifferent, as if he saw not a room, but only an extension of an empty corridor. Nothing of value. Nothing that could make him linger. He already knew that everything here was irrelevant to his goal.

With that look of silent contempt, he turned away and walked down the corridor again, as if his steps were part of an inevitable journey he was making through this disordered world. Moving to the opposite end, he came to another door. It led to a room where his opponent was probably, once living his banal student life, spending nights at the computer or absorbing sleep, hoping for a future that he never got.

The hero opened the door, not noticing how the handle trembled faintly under his fingers. Inside was a typical student nook - a bed littered with clothes and empty cups, a table covered with mugs with the remains of coffee, and an old computer that was probably connected to the Internet only when necessary. The walls were covered with posters, and on the floor - another layer of the same chaos that reigned in the rest of the apartment. All this created a feeling of something temporary and insignificant.

He looked around the room, and as expected, there was nothing interesting there. It was just another hall of abandoned hopes.

With a sigh—almost a kind of contemptuous resignation—he turned away and walked back into the hallway. He still had the gun in his hands. He held it now as if it were not just a weapon but an extension of himself, his view of the world, and he aimed it like a seasoned first-person shooter. The gun seemed an integral part of his body, and each step he took was so sure-footed it rivaled the movement of a perfectly timed game.

He walked on, his expression cold, but suddenly slowed down. In front of him stood an ordinary toilet door, unremarkable, no different from the other doors in the apartment. But something about that moment made him wary, as if everything around him had suddenly frozen. He paused for a moment, and his gaze slid over the door, then back to it.

Without a sound, without any unnecessary movements, he turned his head slightly, and his hand with the gun quickly took the right position, aiming straight at the door. He wasn't sure what exactly could have alerted him, but his intuition, his sixth sense, told him that not everything here was as it should be. This wasn't just a toilet. This was a place where they could be waiting.

The gun, like an extension of his own body, was pointed straight at the door, his hand holding the weapon firmly, without the slightest tremor. He couldn't say why, but right here, right at this moment, he felt like his life might depend on how quickly he reacted. Maybe there, behind that door, an enemy was waiting for him. Or something else.

He stood there, motionless, in absolute silence, ready for any movement that might come. His tension grew with each passing moment, but there was no fear, no doubt. It was like a game - he knew that if there was danger here, he would overcome it, as he overcomes each level.

The silence he had been holding so confidently was suddenly broken by the creaking of the door. It began to open slowly, as if no hand had touched it, and it itself was under the influence of some hidden forces. At first, there was only a thick cloud of darkness in the doorway - eerie, viscous, like the night itself, which was creeping in, hiding everything behind it. The darkness seemed to absorb the light, and it seemed to the hero that the whole world behind the door was flooded with this darkness, and there was no place for anything living in it.

But then, from that eerie shadow, slowly and deliberately, as if with the utmost caution, a silhouette emerged. At first, just a shadow, but then, with each step, it became more and more distinct. And then he appeared. The bandit.

A young man, with golden hair cut short and wrapped under a cloak, giving him an even more sullen appearance. He was dressed in a shirt with military colors, which only increased the feeling that this was not a man standing before the hero, but something more - something sinister and inescapable. His face was emotionless. It was smooth, without a single wrinkle, as if he were pulled out of marble, but the expression in his eyes was empty, indifferent, like a messenger of death. The bandit was not a living person at this moment. He was a force that had come to fulfill its mission.

And in both hands, clutching them tightly, he held a gigantic knife. A blade, cold and shiny, as if it could cut through the air and leave emptiness behind. His steps were confident, as if he feared nothing, and the death that was in his hands walked beside him, without requiring justification. And when he stepped out enough for his figure to become clear, his marble face, devoid of emotion, instantly collided with a reality that had not entered into his calculations. But before he could even take a step, a sharp, muffled shot rang out.

The moment the bullet pierced the air, the bandit's face changed, and the change was instantaneous. His eyes widened in surprise, and his mouth hung open in silent amazement, as if he could not believe that he was being met not only by darkness, but also by his own death. It was an expression of utter unpreparedness, as if his plan, his presence, and his confidence in victory had suddenly collapsed like a house of cards.

He froze for a moment, as if caught in a trap, and at the same moment his body suddenly jumped. It was not a fall - it was a final act of resistance, a final moment of struggle, when instincts, still trying to react, could no longer change anything. He fell on his side, and in his hands, despite everything, the knife continued to squeeze. His eyes closed, and it was not just the closing of his eyes - it was an admission that his path was finished.

The hero, still holding the pistol in both hands, stood there as if in no hurry, paying no attention to the fallen enemy who had so recently tried to stand between him and his goal. He felt no satisfaction, no pride, only cold contempt for what was left of his adversary.

With a small, almost imperceptible sigh, he finally deigned to lower his gaze to the body lying before him. It was as if he were granting the fallen enemy one last favor - to look at him, but only because it was necessary to complete the picture. There was no interest in his eyes, no regret, only indifference. He looked at him as a man might look at a toy that had been defeated, destined never to recover.

Putting the gun back in the holster, the hero exhaled quickly and heavily, as if throwing off some heavy weight. The mask of cold, emotionless intelligence flew off his face, and he seemed to feel the tension release him. However, it was not a moment of relief, but rather a nervous realization that nothing mattered anymore.

He leaned over the bandit's body, spat quickly, almost mechanically, in his face with obvious contempt. A vicious, quick gesture, as if trying to get rid of all this without stopping, without giving himself time to think. A momentary rage flashed in his eyes, which did not even have time to linger. He tore himself away from the body and turned sharply toward the door.

His steps became quick, nervous, as if he were ready to leave this place at any moment, without looking back. He did not want to stop, did not want to waste a second thinking. His gait was awkward, almost hurried, like that of a man who had played his role for too long and now did not know what to do with himself. It was all absurd, clumsy, as if he were trying to get rid of it all without stopping, without giving himself a chance to catch his breath.

The hero quickly opened the door and went out onto the landing, and was about to close it behind him when something suddenly snapped inside him. He stopped, and for a second the whole world around him seemed to freeze. A strange thought ran through his head, haunting him. He suddenly changed his mind.

With determination, as if he realized that he couldn't leave like that, he pulled the handle again and swung the door open. As he walked back into the room, he stood on the threshold, looking at the bandit's dead body, which now seemed somehow absurd, or maybe even funny.

His face was contorted with anger, and there was a strange fire in his eyes. He began to stamp his feet, swinging his body violently, as if trying to drive away the demonstration of his victory. Strange, meaningless curses burst from his chest - angry, inarticulate sounds that had neither form nor purpose except to pour out all the pent-up rage. He waved his arms as if trying to taunt his body, challenging it to a final battle that no longer had any meaning.

The corpse before him, though an empty object, had become something important to him. He mocked it, stamped his feet, shouting curses, as if its death still demanded a final word, a final cruel joke. This moment, filled with paradoxical rage and anxiety, was the strangest thing in his behavior - he simply did not know how to get rid of this feeling that everything was not over.

Having finished this strange ritual of insults, the hero finally stopped. His breathing was heavy, and it seemed that each breath compressed the space around him. He looked at the dead body, as if he still could not tear himself away from this strange spectacle that he himself had staged. His hands continued to shake nervously, and his eyes still burned with hatred, as if he was looking for something in this moment that he could not find.

With disgust, as if he didn't want to touch that place again, he suddenly reached out and grabbed the door handle. He pulled it and closed the door so hard that the sharp, loud slam made the walls vibrate. It was a sound that cut through the silence like a blow, as if it was finally putting an end to this strange act. And when the door slammed shut, the apartment was completely dark.

The darkness was not just the absence of light, it was heavy as a coffin. It swallowed everything, leaving only a cold, alien residue of presence. There was no longer any sound or movement in the room.

All that remained was absolute void.