"What is hell? I maintain that it is the suffering of being unable to love."
—Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Idiot

The thunder of artillery roared outside, the entire town reduced to ruins and desolation. In the dim shelter of a basement, Mia pulled out a slightly soiled piece of bread, brushing it clean with a few quick taps. Just as she raised it to her lips, the deafening rumble of tanks rolled overhead. She burrowed deeper into a pile of cardboard boxes, silently praying to remain unseen.

As the sound of boots faded, Mia cautiously lifted a few boxes. A sharp clack sent chills down her spine. Beside her, a pair of piercing eyes glinted through the slits of a military mask, the rest of the face concealed by specialized gear. Her face drained to a ghostly pallor, and she instinctively turned to dive back into her cardboard refuge.

The soldier, part of a reconnaissance team scouring the area, noted that this civilian zone should have been evacuated long ago. He studied the frail girl before him—her arms streaked with dirt, her frame so emaciated it seemed she hadn't eaten properly in weeks.

After a brief radio exchange with his commander, he spoke in a low voice: "Девочка, пойдем со мной, здесь опасно." (Little girl, come with me. It's dangerous here.)

But at his words, Mia's face paled further, her lips trembling with incoherent murmurs before falling silent.

This was no ordinary sweep—it was a Russian special operation on western soil, under Tsaritsa's orders to seize the autonomous warm-water coast by any means necessary. Yet everyone knew Pierro, The Jester, was the true "First Harbinger," orchestrating the Ice Queen's will from the shadows.

"Commander, this is the girl I reported," the young soldier said, gripping Mia's bony arm as he led her forward. Her face was ashen, one hand clutching the uneaten bread like a lifeline. The commander frowned, his gaze softening at the sight of the terrified child, who looked barely fifteen or sixteen. Her deep-set eyes and arched brows hinted at Middle Eastern heritage, not Russian.

"Верни ее в область логистики. Это место собирается бомбить." (Take her to logistics. This area's about to be bombed.)

Mia was hustled onto a transport truck alongside wounded soldiers. The men glanced at her, some reminded of sisters or daughters back home. Seeing her clutch the stale bread as if it were treasure, one soldier handed her a packet of soft buttered rolls—double the sugar, double the calories, a rare treat. Mia swallowed hard, eyeing her dry loaf before hesitantly accepting the new offering with trembling hands.

The soldier, despite his bandaged leg, flashed a kind smile. He pulled out a pack of raisin biscuits, sharing them with his comrades. They gathered around, sipping protein-powder milk mixed with cold water, savoring it like the finest delicacy. "Eat up, kid," one said. "At the relief camp, there'll be gulyash—Russian stew."

"Oh, that stuff's heavenly. I dream of it every night at the front," another chimed in.

"Yep, dip some black bread in that sauce, and it's paradise," another added, their eyes gleaming as they waxed poetic about tender beef drowned in rich potato gravy.

"A girl was found in a warehouse in the evacuated town," a soldier reported.

"Abandoned or lost?" the logistics commander asked, peering through a window at the wounded soldiers receiving fresh bandages and steaming bowls of stew.

Mia sat nearby, staring hungrily at their plates, swallowing hard but saying nothing. A logistics soldier ladled a bowl for her, eyeing her frail wrists. Muttering under his breath, he added an extra heap of meat to a side plate.

Mia's eyes widened at the generous portion, the aroma of beef and sauce melting on her tongue. She ate voraciously, as if she could devour the entire pot in one go.

"Haha, look at her go! Want some pirozhki—fried buns with meat and veggies?"

Mia blinked, shyly extending her tray. She wolfed down three massive buns, then gulped two mugs of milk the soldiers offered.

After a bath and borrowed clothes from the nurses, she curled up in a narrow corner and fell asleep.

All day, Mia barely spoke. The nurses crowded around, asking questions, but she answered sparingly:

Name: Mia

Surname: Unknown

Hometown: Unclear

Family: Lost or gone

"She's just a kid!" the head nurse protested, arms crossed, shielding Mia alongside the doctors. But the logistics commander remained firm—someone with an unclear background couldn't roam freely in a warzone. Not until her identity was verified.

Just then, a high-ranking Harbinger was due to arrive. A VPK-3927 Volk screeched to a halt at the logistics hub. A figure stepped out, clad in a long officer's coat with a thin black fur collar, epaulettes glinting blindingly. A crow-shaped mask obscured his face, and a cascade of medals gleamed with intimidating authority.

"Слава Второму Исполнителю, Господину Дотторе!" (Glory to the Second Harbinger, Lord Dottore!)

The commander's voice boomed like thunder, followed by synchronized salutes. Dottore raised a brow, striding past the ranks into the facility. The auxiliary research wing and prisoner holding area were sealed off.

Soldiers and wounded were restricted, conversations hushed. Even in summer, Dottore's presence chilled the air like a snowstorm.

Mia's cell held only a thin blanket. The nurses slipped food to her through the guards, but during interrogations, her answers stalled at "I don't know" or "I don't remember." Dottore passed the holding cells, where captured mercenaries and enemy soldiers cursed loudly. But in the brightest cell near the entrance, he saw a tiny figure curled in a blanket.

"This one's a mercenary?" His voice was low, eyes fixed on Mia, huddled in the corner.

"Sir Dottore, according to scouts, her name is Mia, found in a warehouse in a town evacuated a week ago. Due to her unclear origins, we've classified her as a potential suspect."

Dottore tilted his head, rubbing his chin with a strange smile. "Open the door."

The lock clanked, and Dottore stepped inside, hands clasped behind his back.

"Я — Дотторе. Некоторые называют меня учёным. Большинство — молчат навсегда." (I am Dottore. Some call me a scientist. Most... stay silent forever.)

His smile gleamed with intrigue. "From now on, you follow me." He gestured for the commander to take Mia along. Though no one knew what the Second Harbinger intended, those he singled out rarely met a kind fate.

The nurses gasped in panic but, gripped by fear of Dottore, dared not protest. They watched as Mia, naive and trembling, was pulled by his gloved hand onto the vehicle.

Mia stared out the window as the logistics hub faded into the distance. Dottore leaned back, dozing, his chest rising evenly as the truck rattled over rough roads.

After a while, thinking him fast asleep, Mia cautiously leaned forward, lowering her head to glimpse Dottore's face. The angle was too dark. Biting her lip, she carefully lifted the crow mask. Silver-mint hair fell softly, framing a pale face with dark circles under vivid red eyes, blazing like ocotillo blooms. As she moved to replace the mask, those eyes opened slowly, radiant and mesmerizing.

Mia froze, unaware that Dottore's hand had already seized her wrist.

"تبدو كافية؟" (Seen enough?) he said in Arabic.

She nodded faintly, trying to pull back, but his grip tightened, pulling her closer.

"Not quite Russian, are you, little one?" His smirk carried a cunning glint. He'd tested her—perhaps an immigrant, or worse, a spy.

Though weary, the soldiers had thoroughly checked Mia before bringing her aboard—no weapons, no makeshift devices. Her bone structure had intrigued him from the start. Mia swallowed hard as Dottore's hand traced her waist, sliding lower, lingering with a low chuckle.

"Know why I'm taking you?"

She shook her head, her body tensing as his touch persisted unabashedly.

"It's... familiar, yet strange. Like fate, understand?" Mia shook her head frantically, squirming to escape his grasp.

"Enough. You'll run errands for me. Agreed?"

It wasn't a question—his decision was final, his arm locking around her small frame, unyielding. Even if she were a spy, keeping her close would reveal her moves. Out on the frontlines, those hungry soldiers, starved for a woman's presence, would tear a delicate flower like her to shreds.

"Mia... a fine name. But from now on, they'll call you Mia Dottorova." He patted her, making her flinch, her throat dancing with nervous energy. The truck finally stopped, the door opened, revealing Dottore—maskless, red eyes blazing, pale as a vampire—leading a terrified girl, his mask dangling in his hand.

At Area D—Snezhnaya Special Research Institute—Dottore dragged Mia inside, ordering a female officer, a high-ranking logistics manager, to provide her a room and essentials. Mia, painfully thin, was fitted for the smallest uniform. Her first tasks: washing beakers, pipettes, and droppers, then delivering blood and plasma samples across the facility.

At day's end, Mia was summoned to B6, Dottore's private office. He handed her a children's book, testing her Russian. She understood basic conversation but struggled with slang. Though Dottore could speak Arabic, he didn't always give clear orders, leaving her to figure out what to do or learn.

A children's book was given to her, to be mastered in a week. From that day, her wall was plastered with notes of Russian vocabulary and conjugations.

Dottore would appear unannounced, quizzing her orally. "Introduce yourself. Simple, clear."

"— Привет. Меня зовут Миа. Я живу в Снежной. Я работаю в лаборатории.

(Hello. I'm Mia. I live in Snezhnaya. I work in a lab.)

Господин Дотторе — мой начальник. Он умный, строгий и очень занятой.

(Mr. Dottore is my boss. He's smart, strict, and very busy.)

Я часто вижу его утром. Он приходит рано и говорит: 'Работай — или уходи.'

(I often see him in the morning. He comes early and says, 'Work—or leave.')

Его лаборатория — холодная, тихая, но очень интересная.

(His lab is cold, quiet, but very interesting.)

Я думаю, что он гениальный, но... немного страшный."

(I think he's a genius, but... a bit scary.)

"Hmm... passable," Dottore muttered, nodding. "Better than a month ago."

Leaning against a steel table, he continued, "Decline 'apple' as an adjective."

"яблочный."

"And 'peach'?"

"персиковый."

"Microscope?"

Mia shook her head.

"микроскопический. Keep studying." He left like a cold wind.

On the second of each month, staff got an extra day off. Unaware, Mia wandered to the lab, finding it empty except for patrolling guards. She called the female officer, only to hear: "Please leave a message. We'll respond after the holiday." "Huh?"

Dottore, there to grab supplies, opened a fridge as Mia emerged from an adjacent room. "No day off?"

"I... didn't know," she mumbled, blushing. Dottore wore no uniform or lab coat, just a turtleneck, thick pants, and house slippers, having rushed down for a new experiment.

"Come here," he beckoned, gesturing her closer.

"Look." He dripped blue liquid onto a slide, placing it under a microscope. His hand rested lightly on her back as she peered in. Tiny organisms divided in the green solution, shifting to pink.

"It's..."

"Beautiful? Dazzling? Glorious?" Dottore chuckled, tracing a circle on her back. She shivered—his hand was surprisingly warm. The last time he'd grabbed her, that warmth had caught her off guard, stirring an unexpected trust.

"As a boy, I first saw this tiny world through a microscope—single-celled life dancing. I called it the dance of life," he said, lost in rare nostalgia.

Mia, a blank slate, seemed teachable. Perhaps her eyes, like his own long ago, held that same innocent solitude—a wanderer, far from home, barely fluent, suspected as a spy.

Mia adjusted the lens, watching the solution turn from pink to deep red, the cells halting. "They've reached their limit," he said.

"They're dead?"

"Yes. No more division, no more life."

"Humans are the same—at some point, cells slow, division can't keep up with aging," Dottore said.

"Then we all die," they said in unison.

Dottore smirked, his hand grazing her waist. "Yes, we all die, but if you live brilliantly, your legacy endures immortal with time."

Mia turned, a faint smile lighting her deep eyes. "Why do birds fly?"

Dottore scoffed, folding his arms, gazing at the ceiling. "If they don't, they die," he hummed. "Why crawl with wings?"

Her fingers intertwined, her gaze dreamy. "And humans watch birds, dreaming to rule the sky like them."

"Are you talking about jet planes, helicopters, or ballistic missiles?" His tone mocked, the word 'rule' sparking thoughts of inventions. Humans merely borrowed the sky, never truly owned it.

"Dottore..."

"Hm?"

"You're not..."

"What they say? Cruel, cold, inhumane, the demon doctor?" His words flowed lyrically from smirking lips.

"Well... I don't know." Mia fidgeted, looking away. "You're scary... but approachable."

"I don't curse without reason. If I do, they're truly fools." Mia nodded.

"Decline 'foolish.'"

"Masculine... глупый, feminine глупая."

"'Useless'?"

"Masculine... бесполезный, feminine бесполезная."

"Good. And 'incompetent'?"

"You don't use that one," Mia pouted. "Just the others, yelling at staff."

"Decline it," Dottore growled.

"Um, masculine некомпетентный, feminine некомпетентная..."

Mia washed tools with disinfectant. Dottore lounged on a sofa in the corner, legs propped on a small coffee table, utterly unprofessional. He scrolled through his phone, chuckling at absurd inventions from across the globe, then showed Mia a video of an automatic salad maker that flung bowls at users.

"Can I ask something?"

"Go on."

"That sofa... it doesn't fit the lab. Just curious..."

"Oh, that? Pantalone bought it. He used to come here, whining about the steel chairs, as if this were a royal palace. Infuriating. That afternoon, this arrived. He never sat on it."

"Pantalone? You mean 'Regrator,' the Ninth Harbinger?"

"He'd walk in, complain endlessly, refusing to sit on inox chairs. Thinks this is a palace? Madness. That afternoon, this arrived. But he never sat on it."

"Maybe he bought it for you, Doctor," Mia teased, grinning.

"What?"

"I've noticed you only find Pantalone annoying, not hateful."

"..."

"Like when you curse at staff with those flowery rants: 'Ты глупый или прикидываешься?' (Are you dumb or pretending?)

'Я устал объяснять то, что должен был понять даже ребенок!' (I'm tired of explaining what a child would get!)

'Бесполезный. Я злюсь, когда ты просто дышишь.'" (Useless. I'm mad just watching you breathe.)

Mia mimicked his tirades with perfect inflection, echoing his outburst from three days ago.

Dottore's eyes widened, chest heaving, ears reddening, but his face stayed stern as steel. "They're idiots. Stupid, slow, incompetent. Why HR hires single-celled brains, I'll never know."

Mia reflected—she had no scientific expertise, yet he'd kept her.

"What's on my face?"

"Are you an immigrant? You spoke Arabic..."

"Egyptian. Half-breed. So?"

"Nothing... just, you're amazing, rising high in a foreign land." Mia blushed. "Like a star in an alien sky."

"A star? Hahaha!" He roared with laughter, sprawling on the sofa. "Oh, Mia, comparing me to a star? So romantic." The word 'romantic' dripped with sarcasm.

Mia, hearing his laugh, turned away, her ears burning red.

"Guess my real name," Dottore said, propping his chin, eyes glinting.

"Don't know..." she mumbled, avoiding his gaze.

"Zandik. 'Heretic,'" he said, lifting his hair to reveal a scar on his forehead. "See? Someone stoned me when I fled home."

Mia, surprised, reached out, touching the faint scar, its texture vivid. "Zandik..." she murmured. "A strange name, but special." Her gaze met his eyes. "You have the eyes of ocotillo flowers... I think they're dazzling, radiant..."

Dottore lifted her chin, her trembling lips pausing mid-praise. The lab fell silent, as if time held its breath.

On the table lay an unfinished model of artificial neurons. The air carried ozone, black tea, and something uniquely Mia, indefinable to him.

Mia leaned closer, her hair catching the light like mist. She said nothing. He, who always had words for silence, stayed mute. Strange—for years, he'd mapped neural pathways, chemical reactions, muscle twitches. Yet now, as his hand grazed hers, he knew only softness and an overwhelming calm.

"Are you trembling?" he asked, not for an answer, but to drown his racing heart. Mia only looked at him—not as a patient or colleague, not with awe or fear, but as if seeing the man behind the eternal mask. And then, he kissed her.

The kiss wasn't explosive—no fire, no thunder, just time slowing. Mia closed her eyes, drifting in his stillness. Dottore, who'd scorned emotion as dispensable, shattered silently against the curve of her lips.

Their kiss, like two souls shedding countless masks, needed no more defenses.

Sweet. Gentle. Real. Like his greatest work, completed in silence, needing no proclamation.