The soldier was engrossed in his threats to the girl, laughing arrogantly, unaware of anything behind him.
But Koran... had arrived.
The knife felt as light as a feather, and all the forces of the earth seemed concentrated in his small wrist.
Then...
He stabbed.
Without hesitation, without a scream, without even a deep breath.
He plunged it into the soldier's back, slowly at first, then all at once, until the blade sank into flesh, as if the body were splitting open.
The soldier's scream came suddenly, sharp, loud, but it didn't move Koran.
He could no longer hear anything.
He could only see the face of "his mother" crying, screaming, disappearing from him once again.
< (If I let... not again!)
He pulled out the knife; blood splattered on his face, warm, sticky, but he no longer felt disgust.
Then another stab.
And another scream.
The soldier flailed, trying to push him away, to beg, but Koran wasn't there... he was no longer there.
< (Every time... every time they take her from me)...
Stab:
< (Every time they tell me: "Wait, be patient, don't interfere"...)
Stab:
< (I'm done waiting)...
Stab:
< (I just... want her to stay!)
Stab:
< (Mother...)
He repeated the word with each thrust, his whisper growing more broken, like a small child repeating his call for his absent mother in the night.
< "Mother... mother... mother..."
And the body beneath his hands began to cool; the soldier's screams turned to groans, then to silence.
But Koran didn't stop.
Even when the blade hit hard bone, even when blood filled his eyes, even when his strength failed and his hand shook.
< (I don't want him to rise again... I don't want him to take her from me.)
He panted, his breath ragged, his eyes wide as if he had seen a hell not written in any book.
He didn't stop until he realized the only sound left... was his own.
Then, the knife fell from his hand, and he stood trembling, staring at the blood staining everything—the ground, his clothes, his fingers.
His eyes refused to believe what he had done.
But when he turned to see her...
He didn't see his mother.
It was a little girl, pale-faced, crying and screaming:
- "Monster... he's a monster!!"
His heart froze.
His eyes widened further, and he began to see clearly... no, not the clarity of sight, but the clarity of tragedy.
- (She's not my mother...)
A headache crept into his mind slowly, and he collapsed onto his knees.
He saw his hands, gleaming with blood, as if covered in red mud.
Only then...
He remembered.
< (Mother... mother is dead... I... I was there.)
Everything returned like a slap to his face.
The sound of the gunshot, the blood flowing from her chest, her eyes fading slowly.
He remembered her scent, the warmth of her hand, her last whispers.
He remembered everything.
And suddenly...
He vomited.
He knelt there, vomiting, trembling, crying, moaning, like a ghost wandering amid the ruins.
I killed. (I...)
He could no longer even scream.
Everything in him was shaking...
A small child, lost, surrounded by death and madness.
Koran was still drowning in the blood, the remains.
His eyes were empty, staring into the void...
Life had withdrawn from his body, leaving behind the shell of a broken child.
His breath was slow, shaky, as if he had even lost the instinct to breathe.
Heavy footsteps cut through the silence.
Two voices approached, their steps steady, devoid of hesitation.
"He's there," said one, his voice rough but cold, as if commenting on an ordinary scene.
They stopped in front of him.
Looked at him as if he were a strange animal found in the desert.
The other said, in a mocking, sarcastic tone:
"Hmm, look at him... young, but he managed to kill one of us with such violence?"
The other laughed a short, cold laugh:
"At least he's not as cowardly as the rest of these civilians."
One of them bent slightly, staring into Koran's eyes.
"He's already broken... good. The best kind of soldier is one who has nothing left to lose."
Then he turned to his companion and said calmly:
"Let's take him to the shelter."
There was no mercy in their tone, not even cruelty.
They spoke as if moving a piece of worn-out furniture.
Without any resistance, one of them grabbed Koran's arm, lifting him off the ground like a limp doll.
The broken body offered no resistance.
The child no longer screamed, no longer cried; he only stared at something unseen, his eyes drowned in darkness.
As they dragged him away, blood dripped from his convulsing fingers, and the sky dripped cold gray ash, covering the entire scene in a suffocating haze.
And so, on that night when everything fell apart, in that city that no longer knew the difference between killer and victim...
Koran was taken.
And disappeared into the bowels of the night, dragged without a name, without an identity, without a soul.
Just like a small stone, thrown into the depths of a bottomless well.