The boy woke up with a sharp pain and dizziness in his head. His vision spun for a moment before he looked around. In the chair beside his bed, Dmitry was asleep, his head leaning against the backrest.
Hunger struck him. On the small table next to the bed, a few dishes were neatly arranged. A faint smile appeared on the boy's face when he saw his favorite fruit—an orange. With excitement, he peeled it and ate it. Afterward, he devoured the warm porridge provided and downed the milk until it was gone.
Dmitry slowly stirred awake, his eyes catching sight of the boy eating heartily. A thin smile curved his lips. He remembered that the orange came from his own garden—and its fertilizer was no ordinary soil, but the brains of his dead test subjects.
Dmitry closed his eyes again, letting his thoughts sink. What will become of this lobotomy project? he wondered. Will this child grow into a brilliant doctor like me… or nothing more than a killing machine?
After finishing his meal, the boy drifted back to sleep. Dmitry rose from his chair and studied the data of past subjects. Most of them had ended up dull-witted, and many had died. Yet this time, his heart swelled with excitement. This subject was different. Alexander—this boy—possessed potential none of the others had. All previous subjects had been adults, but this time, it was a child. Dmitry was convinced the result would be unlike anything before.
The day went on. In the afternoon, Dmitry busied himself with other surgeries, then visited the children's ward where young cancer patients stayed. Once his duties were finished, he returned to Alexander's room for a check-up.
"Alex, don't you ever get bored here?" Dmitry asked while jotting down notes.
"Of course I get bored," the boy replied innocently. "But I want to get better. And you're a good doctor."
A smile crept onto Dmitry's face. "Of course. But I just realized… I never asked your name."
"I'm Alexander," the boy said.
"Well then, Alex. You must grow up to be a good boy." Dmitry patted his shoulder lightly, then left the room.
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As dusk settled into night, Dmitry went home—a place where he could leave behind the chaos of experiments and share his burdens with his wife, Erina.
He and Erina had never been able to have children. Her womb had been removed in a desperate attempt to save her life from a grave illness. Yet their love never wavered. Dmitry only loved her more, even though he knew she was often frail.
When he arrived home, he found Erina already asleep. Her pale face looked peaceful, her small body lying weakly on the bed. Dmitry stood by her side, tears slipping down his cheeks unnoticed.
"Why must you suffer such a cruel life, Erina…" he whispered.
He went to bathe, and when he emerged, Erina had awakened and was setting out his clothes. With a gentle voice, she asked, "Have you eaten yet?"
Dmitry smiled. "No, I haven't, Erina."
Erina knew well that Dmitry always cherished her cooking above any other food. He would rather forgo other meals just to taste her dishes. That night, she prepared warm croquettes—made of soft potatoes filled with chicken.
When the meal was finished, they returned to bed. Dmitry wrapped his arms around Erina tightly and whispered softly, "Good night, Erina…"
That night ended with Dmitry holding the woman he loved most, as if to shield her from the darkness of the world outside.
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