Headquarters
---
Approximately half an hour later, they reached their destination. The heroes had to wait another agonizing hour before being granted entry to the office.
The door closed behind them with a hollow thud. The Prophet entered first, followed by Niya, who kept nervously adjusting her glasses. Her vision was fine—she just wore them at HQ to look smarter.
The office was spacious but devoid of pomp. High ceilings, walls paneled in dark oak, heavy curtains muting the sunlight. A flag and emblem hung on the wall. In the corner: an unassuming safe, flanked by cabinets of meticulously aligned folders. The air smelled of paper dust, varnished wood, and a faint whiff of cheap cologne.
Behind a massive yet understated desk sat the Boss.
Plump, with a double chin and rosy cheeks, he looked like a benevolent Soviet-era bureaucrat—if not for his cold, dissecting gaze. His jacket strained slightly at the belly, his tie neatly but carelessly loosened. In one hand: a pen. In the other: a mug of long-cold tea. At the desk's edge: an ashtray with a half-smoked Belomorkanal.
"Sit," he grunted without looking up, already buried in paperwork. His voice held neither threat nor warmth.
"Ozerskaya!"
"Yes!" She shot up from her chair.
"Explain something to me. How the hell did you level a house?"
"My fault!" she barked, snapping to attention.
"I didn't ask for guilt. I asked how."
"Sorry—" Her voice cracked, shrinking to a whisper. Her fingers clenched, palms slick with cold sweat betraying her fear. She looked away, as if bracing for condemnation, then stammered: "There... there was a fight."
A leaden pause. The air thickened with unspoken dread.
"He—the enemy—" Her voice broke, words like fire in her throat, "—shattered the support beams. Everything collapsed at once."
Shadows of the past flickered in her eyes. She swallowed hard, fighting a tremor.
"If we'd been just a minute faster... but now—"
"HAHAHA!" The Prophet's laughter exploded. "You and your dramatics," he wheezed, wiping tears. "Oh god—" He caught his breath. "Don't put that crap in the report."
"Prophet!" Niya whined.
"Enough!" The Boss slammed a hand on the desk. "And you—where were you?"
"Chasing the second target," the Prophet replied evenly.
The Boss's fist hit the desk again. "Where is he?"
"He... got away. But I memorized his description: roughly 180 cm, eyes—"
"Stop." The Boss cut him off. "Save it for the final report."
"Understood." The Prophet propped his head on his fist.
"Ozerskaya!"
"Yes!"
"What's with the kid you brought?" He wiped his brow.
"She's an orphan..." Niya's voice wavered, eyes glistening. "I heard noise in the ruins and went to check. And... found her."
At that moment, the door creaked open. A small head with snow-white bob-cut hair peeked in. Lera's doll-like red eyes scanned the office with curiosity.
"Niya, why are your eyeliner wings so even?" Her chirpy voice cut through the tension. She tilted her head, bangs spilling over her forehead.
"Lera, not now—" Niya gestured for calm, but the girl already marched in, her patent-leather Mary Janes clicking.
"But I'm big now!" Lera pouted, adjusting the blue collar of her white dress. Black ribbon straps, tied in bows at her shoulders, had slipped askew. "Look!" She pulled a crumpled notebook from her pocket, filled with square-shaped cat doodles. "I can even count!"
The Prophet snorted. "How many birds outside?"
"Three! No, four!.." Lera pressed against the window, scarlet eyes squinting in concentration.
The Boss studied her, then turned to Niya:
"What's your plan for her?" His tone was calm. "You know you can't give her the attention she needs..."
"I know..." Niya inhaled sharply—then unleashed words like a dam breaking:
"But I swear to you: Lera will know unconditional love, even if I have to tear the world apart to show her! Her pain will be my pain. Her fears, mine. Every lonely night, I'll be there—not with empty words, but with arms tight enough to crush her anxieties to dust. I'll teach her heart to believe she's the most precious thing in this life. I'll repeat it until it's seared into her soul in fire: You are loved. You are wanted. You are my joy. If she needs dawn after a storm, I'll be that quiet light. If she needs a hurricane to smash her barriers, I'll become it. I won't let her doubt—not for a second—that she deserves every beautiful thing this world holds. Because her smile is my oxygen. Her laugh is my symphony!"
Silence.
Their shock hit like a gunshot—sudden, paralyzing.
The Boss froze mid-reach, fingers twitching near his lit cigarette. His eyes, lazy and disinterested seconds ago, bulged with disbelief.
The Prophet jerked upright, chair screeching. His expression: pure what-the-actual-fuck, as if the Niya he knew had been replaced.
The air turned viscous, charged like pre-thunder tension.
"Prophet," the Boss finally said, stunned.
"Yeah, Lyokha?" The Prophet matched his tone.
"...Nothing." The Boss's shock melted into a smile. "Ozerskaya."
"Yes."
"You've been overdue for leave." He steepled his fingers.
"Yes."
"Do I need to spell it out?" He sighed. "Take two weeks. Show Lera the city. Prophet'll cover your reports with Konovalova."
"But—"
"No buts! Tomorrow at noon, you're filing leave paperwork." He turned to the Prophet. "And you're handling her debrief."
"But—!" The Prophet protested.
"No. Buts."
"Th-thank you!" Niya vibrated with joy. "Bleh!" She stuck her tongue out at the Prophet, grabbed Lera's hand, and bolted.
"Like a damn toddler," the Boss muttered.
The door clicked shut. The office plunged into silence, broken only by antique clock ticks.
"Prophet," the Boss finally said, rubbing his temples. "I barely see Niya, and when I do, we don't... talk. Why's she so attached to that kid? She's usually a brick wall with strangers. Did she see herself in her? Or is it just... the kid's helplessness? I've never seen her like this."
"Childhood." The Prophet dragged the word out. "Hers was... fucked. My guess? She sees little-Niya in Lera—same white hair, same naive eyes before the world stomped them out." He paused. "Her dad got shanked for his mnemocrystal on his way home. Mom was... neglectful before, but after? Drank cheap vodka, fucked randos in front of her while Niya sat in the corner. Then... the incident broke her for good."
"What incident?"
The Prophet's gaze darkened. "Lyokha..." He tilted his head, shadows swallowing his eyes. "Haven't you dug enough for one day?"
The Boss looked away, throat bobbing. "Yeah. Sorry. I... overstepped."
A sudden bang on the door shattered the moment.
"Enter!" The Boss's demeanor snapped back to neutral.
The door flew open. Adelina Konovalova strode in—tall, clad in black, her ink-dark hair in a messy bun with two loose strands. Blood-red eyes locked onto the Boss, then lit up at the Prophet.
"Lyosha, you busy—? OH!" She squealed, launching at the Prophet. "Four days! I missed you!" She nuzzled his cheek, inhaling like his scent was oxygen.
He hugged back, tension dissolving. "Yeah, Adela. Missed you too."
"So you're Konovalova!" The Boss smirked. "Mission go well?"
"Flawless! Zero casualties! Well... except the target." She winked. "His ability was neat—reflects attacks at double power. Catch? Only the pain bounces back. Felt like my bones were spaghetti after." She rolled her shoulders. "But he was weak. I could've soloed it. Nelly got wasted on backup."
Words spilled out, like she feared being interrupted.
"Christ, Konovalova, I forgot how much you talk," the Boss groaned, but his lips twitched. "My head... Just—the crystal. Short version."
"Kkh... Crystal's in the box." She placed a small case on the desk. Inside, a mnemocrystal pulsed dully.
"Prophet..." the Boss began.
"No." The Prophet's tone was final. "Send it to Investigations. Let them dig through his worldview."
"Prophet." The Boss's teeth ground.
"What? I told you—I'm not spelunking in every rando's psyche! It splits my skull!"
The Boss exhaled through his nose. "Fine. At least deliver the damn thing?"
"No."
"Why the fuck not?!"
"Because it's your job, Lyokha." The Prophet crossed his arms. "Sort it yourself."
The Boss's fingers drummed the desk. "I... can't go there right now."
Silence. The Prophet narrowed his eyes. "How much?"
"What?"
"How much "SCF"A do you owe Nika?"
The Boss swallowed. "Not scraps... Mid-grade. Five mid-grades."
"Ah. Five "MCF", then." The Prophet fished out a handful of mnemocrystal shards and tossed them on the desk. "Keep it." He leaned in, whispering: "Look, I gotta go. Promised Niya bar-hopping tonight. Reports tomorrow?"
The Boss snorted, grinning. "Bastard. Fine. Take Adelina too."
"Deal. And... thanks." The Prophet flashed a rare smile, heading for the door. "Adelina! Coming?"
"Yes!" She bounded after him.
The door slammed. The Boss was alone again, the clock's ticking his only company.
---
The Corridor of Reflections
---
Stepping out of the office, the Prophet paused for a moment, taking in the quiet scene before him. In the soft light streaming through the tall windows, Niya and Lera sat on an intricately carved wooden bench, hunched over an unusual book. Their fingers traced the raised illustrations carefully, their animated whispers punctuated by laughter or surprised gasps.
A little further away, near the wide windowsill, Nellie stood motionless. Leaning against the sill, she seemed completely detached, her gaze fixed on the endless sky beyond the glass where clouds drifted lazily. There was a faint melancholy in her posture, as if she were pondering something distant and important, something inaccessible to the others.
The corridor's silence, broken only by the rustling of pages and the occasional remark from the girls, created a serene atmosphere. The Prophet didn't disturb them, allowing the moment to preserve its effortless harmony.
"Look, Niya! A dragon!" Lera nearly bounced off the bench in excitement.
Niya sat beside her, slightly hunched over the pages. Her left hand was tightly bandaged—a fresh wound, recently paid for with a missing finger. She smiled at Lera's enthusiasm, but exhaustion lingered in her eyes.
"Yeah, a dragon," she nodded.
"Did a dragon bite your finger off too?" Lera suddenly reached for Niya's bandaged palm but froze, remembering the strict rule not to touch the wrappings.
"No," Niya covered her hand. "That was done by a... not very nice person."
At the window, Nellie—who had been silently watching the clouds—turned her head. "Lera, don't be tactless."
"But I'm curious!" The girl pouted. "Niya's strong! How could anyone beat her?"
The Prophet, unable to hold back, stepped closer:
"Even the strong get hurt, little bird. They just have the strength to endure it."
Lera thought for a moment, then suddenly dug into her dress pocket and pulled out a crumpled candy.
"Here! Andrei gave this to me. But you're hurt, so... you can have mine."
Niya laughed. "Thanks," she took the candy with her uninjured hand, unwrapped it, and then deftly slipped it back into Lera's pocket. "But you should save it. In case you ever get hurt."
"Oh!" Lera giggled. "So now I'm your backup healer?"
Nellie shook her head, but the corners of her lips twitched into a smile.
The Prophet watched them, warmth spreading in his chest. Yes, Niya had lost a finger. But here and now—in this quiet corner, surrounded by laughter and a child's generosity—the wound seemed a little less searing.
Lera was already nose-deep in the book again, muttering:
"Okay, fine, the dragon didn't do it. Maybe it was a troll? They like chewing on... stuff..."
Niya snorted and gently poked her on the head.
"Shut up, brat."
But the bandages on her hand no longer looked like a grim reminder. Now, they were just a dressing—one of many.
Yet Niya knew: even if she revealed the truth, no one would give her back her finger. Because in this world, nothing sticks back together for good—not bones, not trust.
"Prophet!" Niya called out, a sly grin on her face. "When are you taking us to the bar?"
"Right now. Grab Lera and Adelina and head there. Nellie and I will catch up."
Nellie turned her head slightly toward the Prophet. Her blue eyes, streaked with red, still seemed to look through him—into some distant haze only she could perceive.
"Are you sure you want to leave me with you?" Her voice was quiet but laced with faint amusement. "Or are you just afraid I'll trip over the doorstep and crack my head open again?"
The Prophet smirked. "If that were true, I'd ban you from missions. No, I just want to talk. Without Adelina's questions or Niya's snark."
Nellie slowly ran her fingers along the edge of the windowsill, as if testing its texture. "Talk, then. But please, none of your 'darkness before dawn' riddles."
"What if I told you darkness is dawn for those who can't see it?"
She sighed.
"And there it is."
The Prophet laughed but quickly got to the point.
"How are you?"
Nellie stilled. Her lips trembled slightly, but her voice was steady when she answered:
"The clouds are slow today. Heavy. Means rain tonight."
"Didn't know the blind could see clouds," he teased.
"You're such a pest," she replied with a faint smile.
Silence. Somewhere in the distance, Niya's laughter echoed—probably already dragging Lera and Adelina to the bar, too impatient to wait.
The Prophet leaned against the wall beside Nellie.
"You could've gone with them. But you stayed. Why?"
She finally turned away from the window and looked at him—not with her eyes, but with the tilt of her head, as if sensing his presence in space.
"Because you wanted to talk. And I... I've gotten used to listening."
"And what do you hear right now?"
Her pale fingers tightened on the windowsill.
"That you're afraid. Not for them—for me. And you shouldn't be."
The Prophet opened his mouth to argue, but Nellie was already pushing off from the window and taking a confident step forward—not a trace of hesitation in her movements, as if she had memorized every centimeter of this hallway.
"Let's go. Or Niya will drink all the beer before we get there."
She walked past him without brushing against a single object, without stumbling, without faltering.
The Prophet watched her go and thought that maybe Nellie saw far more than all of them combined—just differently.
"Yeah, let's go," he finally said, catching up to her. "But if there is a troll in the bar, I'm throwing you at it first."
Nellie smirked.
"It won't see me in the dark."
And they walked toward the sound of laughter.
---
Crystal Fragment Classification System:
The terms SCF, MCF, and LCF designate categories of crystal fragments based on their size:
SCF - Small Crystal Fragment
MCF - Medium Crystal Fragment
LCF - Large Crystal Fragment.