A sharp object is flying towards me.

Reflexively, I dodge it. The object—a screw—hits the floor with a clang. I turn around and a piece of cloth plops on my face. As the cloth slithers down my face, I take a good look at the cowering shadow in the corner.

“D-don’t come closer!” The unknown stranger grabs everything he can get his hands on and hurls them at me. Screwdrivers, old batteries, even a fistful of dust! Luckily, his movements are slow and the force he applies is feeble. I dodge some, I parry some. But they just keep coming. Yeah, probably wasn’t the best idea to have him lying next to a gigantic pile of trash.

“Stop it!” I shout but soon grasp that telling him to stop is like telling my foe to not light me on fire as they’re pouring gasoline on me.

Before the stranger can throw any other object at me, I leap at him and grab his wrist.

“Sorry to interrupt your sleep, but I’m sure you had a darn good one already.” I glower at him, “You’ve got some explaining to do, buddy.” The moment I caught him snuggling in the corner, unconscious, I knew he wasn’t just anyone. The light shade of champagne blonde fabric tumbles over his shoulders, back, and arms, and brushes on the ground as he sits down. It obstructs most of his face, just like the first time I met him, but I didn’t even brush his hair aside to check his facial features. The carelessness should’ve cost me a big one. I can’t believe I still make such a rookie mistake after all these years.

“G-get away!” He screams.

“Hey, that’s kinda rude. You know I’m the one who brought you here, right? I could’ve just left you to die from hypothermia—”

He tries to slap me, but again, I parry. I tried dealing with him the peaceful way, but now he’s starting to get on my nerves.

“I. TOLD. YOU. TO. STOP! You want me to knock you out right here, eh? Fucking idiot!”

Little feisty boy here sure doesn’t like confrontation. Contrary to his earlier belligerent attitude, he panics and repeats himself like a broken phonograph.

“P-please . . . please . . . Don’t hurt me . . . I’m sorry . . .”

His shivering body bounces like a spring when I press my face even further. His left hand tries to cover his face. His voice is still quivering, but upon hearing him clearer, there’s one more thing I realize.

His quivering voice reminds one of a Chukotka passerine bird—melodious, soothing, and extinct in Ural since the war. We are taught to intimidate our enemies, so cursing and taunting with grating voices is our forte, not pleading for our lives.

“Then, can you just calm the fuck down? You want me to whip you until you’re crippled?”

“Are . . . are . . . are you trying to kill me?”

“Not yet.”

“Then . . . please give me space.”

“You think you can make demands? Stop throwing things.” I tower over him until my silhouette swallows him. “What’s your name?”

“I-I don’t know.”

“Don’t give me that crap. Name. Now.”

He shrinks himself into a corner, shivering as he bites his lips.

I grab his wrist and pulls him away from the corner. “I don’t have time for bullshit. Name.”

“I’ve told you . . . I don’t remember.”

I throw a punch on the wall, a patch of lime falling on his head. “You think I’m a fucking idiot? I’ve saved your damn ass. Now you do what I say—”

The dude bursts into tears.

I freeze on the spot. What the literal fuck? Is he crying? I’ve never seen a man cry before. If a dude hits me with a baseball bat, I know what to do. If a dude fires a gun at me, I know what to do. What the hell do I do now?

His whimpers grow more and more pitiful. I never faced an enemy who collapses into sobs, weeping, and wailing as he’s doing.

I let go of his hand. “Calm down.”

He still trembles in fear, but the whimpers seem to have simmered.

I lower my voice. “Calm? Good. Now let’s talk business—”

As the tip of my hand glides through his bangs, I pull back. Unreal, unreal, unreal! This confirmed it. This can’t be hair; it’s way too soft! Without thinking, I touch the crown of my head, remind myself of how badly damaged my hair has become. With great thanks to the marvelous and delicate weather of dear Great Russia, the little hair I have left has become as stiff as thorns and will be sure to shed itself as soon as it grows another centimeter.

So a hairstyle like his is not possible. This person is messing with me. A person who cries like an idiot AND grows long hair? This is not a real person! His whimpers are toxins and his hair is poison! I’m not touching it. Not! Touching! It!

I keep touching it. I can’t help it. It’s smooth. It’s soft. It’s silky. The texture gets greasy towards the tip of the hair, but it still feels a hundred times better than it should. It’s like his hair has just gotten a good wash a few days ago.

Did snow not ever fall on his head at all? What about rain? What about wind? Unless this man hasn’t been outside all his life and had the luxury to wash his hair every day, this should not be possible. Is he a high-level governmental officer? The Supreme Leader’s direct heir? Only those people get that kind of treatment.

The man seems just as confused as I am. He lifts his head up, dewy-eyed. And now, I am reminded of why I didn’t tuck his hair out of the way while he was unconscious. I took a peek at him and freaked out.

He’s more charming than anything I’ve ever seen in my entire life.

Hidden beneath waves of disheveled hair strands is milky white skin, with hints of pink on his plump cheeks. His eyes are a sharp and icy azure, perplexedly staring into me with the slightest of somnolence in them. The pale curve of his slender neck and the way his hair drapes down his back give me an impression as though I’m holding a liquefying ice cube. You hold it a little tight, it melts in your hand.

He has a certain indefinable sparkle to him. It might be pure and unmingled. It might be alluring and sensual. I can’t tell them apart.

His pale lips quiver, forming shivering words I had neither anticipated nor prepared for.

“You’re patting me . . .”

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

I promptly withdraw. “I don’t do patting. Your hair’s patting my hand.” What the fuck was I doing? I wasn’t myself.

Fuck, Alexei, you’re a soldier. Don’t make him think he can get comfortable. Go on the offensive.

But I can’t. Not when he’s crying.

I take off my military coat and hold it in front of him. “Take this,” I say.

“W-what?”

“I’m not the one who’s quivering like a sewer rat inside a kitty litter box. Take the coat.”

He glances at me with the most typical distrusting expression I’ve seen. His hand extends to reach for the coat but quickly pulls back. I roll my eyes. Why the hell is this person wary of me? I should be wary of him. I don’t have a clue who he is. I don’t even know if he’s a Russian at all. He speaks Russian, sure, but Russians don’t look like this.

“Whatever,” I throw the coat on the floor, take a step back, giving my rifle a shake so he knows he’s not off the hook. “Just pick it up if you want it. Are you Mongol? I heard Mongols grow their hair out.”

“No. I have never met a Mongol.”

“But you know who they are.”

He grows silent. He picks up the coat, gluing his eyes on the folds of the fabric, his fingers run along the sleeves like an inquisitive teenager.

His shivering has stopped. He’s getting comfortable, and it’s my damn fault I can’t overpower him with fear. I need to get him to talk, and either I punch the words out of him, or I can negotiate. Like a coward. A diplomat. A Finn. Not a Russian soldier.

I raise my fist. He covers his face with his hands, and I’m reminded of the sound of his sobs.

I sigh. “Don’t move.” Then I move toward the shelf and grab a piece of bread.

Fuck, Alexei. You should’ve been Finnish.

I break the bread in half. “Are you hungry?” I walk over to him, holding out one half. He still has his hands in front of his face, but I can hear him swallowing his own saliva.

“It isn’t poisoned.” I bite on my piece of bread and chew. He peers at me from the gap between his arms before lowering them. He stares at the bread for another while before extending his hands. They shake as I place the bread on his palms.

“T-thank you.” He gives me a small nod.

I’ve given him half my portion for the entire day, so he better return the gesture. Food doesn’t grow on trees. Not here.

He gobbles the food as if he hasn’t had any in a million years. Arms crossed, I lean back on the shelf opposite him and observe in silence until he puts the final bite into his mouth. He devours everything.

“Now that we have broken the ice, let’s talk business,” I speak up. “You realize this is a military base, right?” He gawks at me, eyes wide open as if I’ve just told him something batshit insane. Nevertheless, I continue. “Do I look like Ivan the Fool? Do you think I’m going to believe someone is just magically going to appear in the middle of a war zone? You’re an intruder. I’m going to ask you a few questions, and you’re going to answer. If not, I’ll hand you over to my superior. And he won’t be as nice as I am.”

I reckon he’s never nodded faster than he did. Good, at least he has common sense.

“Since you won’t tell me your name, let’s start with where you come from. I strongly encourage you to contribute to this conversation.” I grab my rifle again.

“I don’t come from here.”

“I said contribute. That means you tell me things I don’t know. Where exactly did you come from? Perm? Ufa?” Perm means he’s more likely to be an ally. Ufa, otherwise.

“Neither.”

“Then where?”

He bites his lower lips as he gives a barely audible answer. “Vyraj.”

“Come again? Louder.”

“Vyraj.”

“That’s not a place on the Russian map.”

“It isn’t.”

I land a punch on the surface of the table. The shelf rumbles as it threatens to fall apart. “You think I’m ignorant and easy to fool, don’t you? Vyraj is a make-believe safe haven in Slavic mythology. I read more books than you think. You think you can pull a name outta your ass and get away with it?”

He swallows hard. “I am too scared of you to lie.”

“Say the fucking truth. It’s that simple.”

“I have told you—”

“This is my last warning. You know if it was anybody else, they could’ve just shot you in the head, right? I only brought you back because . . .” That’s when it hits me. I have no idea why I brought him back here. Was it because of his silly hair? Was it because he’s amiable? I really need to stop thinking about how alluring he is. He’s not even that fascinating! Right, right! I see hair, eyes, and eyelashes all the damn time! He can’t be that different! “Ahem . . . How did you get inside this fort?”

He pauses for a short while before answering, “I ran.”

“How?”

“With my legs.”

“Very funny.” I can’t find it in myself to threaten him, and the conversation isn’t going anywhere. Maybe the best bet is to distract him. Get him to lower his defense. “Say. I’ve never seen such an outfit. I mean the white cloak you’re wearing.”

I point at the umbrella-like white robe he’s wearing. I’ve never seen these garments before in my life, but I have this strange urge to confirm my knowledge of them. I’m certain I’ve read about it.

“Hey. Is this. . . a dress?” I ask.

No reply.

“Poke your head out and answer me. Is this a dress?”

“. . . Yes. It is a dress.”

I proceed to pull the coat out of the way. The man makes no attempt to resist. I take a closer look at his face for a solid while.

His pale, thin lips are placed elegantly above his rounded jawline. Although I don’t intend to, I can’t help myself from staring into his face.

I’ve never felt the urge to stare at a man so badly before. No! This can’t happen.

For a second, I feel disgusted that I even find another man attractive. If it was any other person, I would’ve rammed my own head into a wall until the attraction bleeds away. Not like I despise copulators, but that doesn’t mean I wish to be one.

This person can’t sway me. He’s not that charming, he’s not that charming, he’s not that charming . . .

All of a sudden, he sobs. Drops of water, as if they were marbles, leak through the corners of his eyes and roll down his cheeks, drop by drop. They drop on his dress; they drop on my coat in gloomy, soggy puddles before drying out almost instantly.

What the hell is this? What the hell is he?

“Stop it.”

Of course, he doesn’t stop. He keeps sobbing and hiccupping, making all kinds of noise except uttering actual human words.

“Stop it! I’m dropping my rifle. Look.” I bend down, release my grip on the weapon, and place it on the floor. “I dropped it. Stop . . . crying. I’m sorry.”

“You’re . . . sorry?” His watery eyes widen in surprise, his hiccups still resounding.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, damn it!”

“N-no . . . I’m sorry. N-nobody has ever p-pointed a rifle at me before . . . I shouldn’t have overreacted . . .”

“Okay! Okay! You’re wrong! You’re very wrong! Just stop!”

“Yes . . .” He nods, but sure as hell still keeps on sobbing. He shuts his eyes and—to my confusion—bites his lower lip.

“What are you doing?”

He doesn’t reply. I press him by repeating the question. He looks irked but eventually answers.

“Calming myself down. When I bite my lips, things are less scary . . . I can breathe now.”

“You couldn’t breathe before?” I snort. He doesn’t reply. I take a step back, slumping to the ground as he collects himself.

Great, now we have two cowards in the same room. I can’t believe I’m being this lenient with him. He should’ve at least taken a few blows, and here I am, dropping my weapon so he can waste my precious time wiping tears off his cheeks.

“Is this your first time outside or something?” I ask. It’s meant to be a rhetorical question, but he replies anyway.

“Outside of Vyraj, yes. . .”

So he’s still sticking to this make-believe Vyraj bullshit, huh? “So you’re, like, sheltered from birth inside a textile facility or something? Never seen the sun before? You have ‘scared shitless’ written all over your face.”

“This is my first time in the sun . . .”

“Ever?”

“I would r-r-really appreciate it i-if you stop asking questions.”

Surely he’s lying, right? He said he’s never been held at gunpoint before. Never even seen the outside. Even his accent is weird—telling apart his soft and hard consonants requires much more mental power than what I currently have. This man is full of red flags.

Hold on. What if he is . . . It can’t be! Coincidences like this only happen in fucking novels. This is insanity. No, it can’t be. He can’t be. . .

He could be Mongol. He could be Chinese. Heck, he could even be Finnish, though I won’t be okay with that. But there’s no way, there’s no way in Seven Hells he is . . .

He opens his eyes again, stares at me, blinks a few times, then speaks.

“Why are you staring?”

“Why did your face turn pink?”

“Because you are staring. I am not accustomed to being stared at.”

“Then I better stare a bit more then. Seems to help you achieve thermodynamic equilibrium,” I say with a snort.

One thing is bugging me, however. He has two abnormal muscles protruding from his chest horizontally. It’s like a fat man’s chest, except they don’t sag. I have the impression that those things are harmless, but my sense of survival is screaming inside my head, telling me how grave a mistake I’m making.

I haltingly place my hand on his shoulder. He’s startled but quickly bites his lower lip again.

He’s not carrying grenades on his chest, is he?

They might not be grenades, but worse. They might be a woman’s breasts.

I’m so not mentally ready for more crazy shit today. What if he turns into a metallic humanoid and laser beams the fuck out of me?

“Do you mind?” I lower my voice.

“I do mind. B-but I don’t mind too much! Just a little bit. I do mind, but just a little. Not too much.”

“You don’t have a choice. I need to verify one thing.”

He sniffles and hiccups. “What would it be?”

I point at his chest. “What are those?”