The harshness of Moscow's winter carries coarse grains of snow that whip against the ashen windows of the Central Military Hospital, producing a fine and ceaseless rustling, like some rodent gnawing away at the silence. The sign of the massage rehabilitation department gleams with a ghostly blue in the twilight. Nikto sits on the cold metal chair in the waiting area, his spine held rigidly straight, like an old bayonet driven into permafrost. Every breath tugs at unhealed wounds deep in his chest and at a more hidden, festering pain.

The air is thick with the acrid scent of disinfectant mixed with musty dust from ancient radiators, clinging viscously to the throat. His face is covered by that black, hard mask—cold, smooth, lifeless—fitting tightly over ruined features where once there were cheekbones and a jawline, now replaced by waxy scars melted by fire and forced to cool. The mask's edge presses into his neck and temples, a familiar, almost self-punishing dull pain—his fortress and prison.

Footsteps sound from the end of the corridor, soft and growing nearer—steady, distinct. Not the hurried tapping of nurse's heels nor the authoritative tread of doctors. These footsteps are lighter, almost cautious, soles brushing the floor like wind-driven leaves. A young woman appears at the hallway corner in a faded pale blue therapist's uniform, holding a thin white cane like a useless branch. Her eyes seem covered by a layer of endless, faint morning fog, unfocused, gazing into the void.

Blind? The absurdity coils up his spine like a cold snake. How is she supposed to "see" him? How could she sense the horror beneath his mask? A surge of restless violence rises suddenly. He almost stands to refuse this absurd arrangement, to leave this prying place.

She stops in front of him, neither too close nor too far, just at the distance where presence can be felt. She tilts her head slightly, those misty eyes "looking" in his direction with professional, calm concentration. No curiosity, no inquiry. She lifts one hand, palm up, making a gentle "please" gesture—smooth, natural, without hesitation or fear. Not waiting for response, merely announcing: the time has come.

Nikto stands stiffly, drawing a silent, slow breath that drains all self-control. His chest feels packed with ice-soaked cotton, every expansion bringing sluggish ache. Heavy boots land on the tile with a muffled sound as he follows her, his tall figure almost enveloping hers entirely.

The rehabilitation room door swings open, releasing a wave of warm, bitter scents—herbs, heated compresses, medicinal oil. A single massage table covered with white sterile sheets occupies the center. Nikto pauses at the threshold like a statue eroded by centuries of snow, his mask revealing nothing but those ice-blue eyes swirling with wary undercurrents. He watches her feel about the trolley beside her, putting things in order. Time stretches in silence, only the rustle of snow on windows filling the quiet.