The night had grown quiet by the time he stepped onto the balcony.
The air was colder than he expected. It carried that empty stillness that cities sometimes have after midnight, when even the distant traffic begins to fade and the world feels strangely paused.
He leaned his elbows on the metal railing and lit a cigarette.
The small flame from the lighter briefly illuminated his face—short brown hair, tired blue eyes with dark circles beneath them, a nose a little too large for his face, and the kind of calm expression people often mistook for serenity.
The flame disappeared.
Only the orange tip of the cigarette remained glowing in the darkness.
He inhaled slowly.
Smoke filled his lungs, then left his mouth in a thin stream that drifted into the cold air.
Above him, the moon hung quietly in the sky.
He stared at it for a long time.
Eventually he slid down the wall beside the balcony door and sat on the floor, his back resting against the cold concrete.
The cigarette rested loosely between his fingers.
For a moment he said nothing.
Then, in a soft voice—almost like a child speaking to himself—he whispered,
"Do you think… it's nice up there?"
He tilted his head slightly, still looking at the moon.
"I mean… on the moon."
His tone had the kind of curiosity that children have when they ask questions no one ever answers.
"There's no one there."
He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand.
"No noise… no people… no stupid conversations…"
He squinted slightly.
"Maybe it's peaceful."
The smoke from the cigarette curled upward slowly.
"If you lived on the moon," he continued quietly, "you'd be alone all the time."
He thought about that.
"Maybe that's not so bad."
The words came out softly, like he was testing them.
His gaze stayed fixed on the pale circle in the sky.
And then his thoughts drifted somewhere else.
The cigarette burned slowly between his fingers as he stared upward, lost inside his own mind. The world around him faded—the cold air, the balcony, the distant buildings.
His grip loosened slightly.
The cigarette slipped.
The burning tip touched the skin between his fingers.
"—AH, FUCK!"
He jumped suddenly, shaking his hand.
"Shit—!"
He blew air quickly onto the red spot on his skin.
"Ah—damn it…"
He kept blowing on it for a few seconds, his face twisting slightly in irritation.
Eventually the pain faded into a dull sting.
He looked at the cigarette now lying on the balcony floor.
For a moment he simply stared at it.
Then he sighed.
The small spark of curiosity he had felt a few minutes earlier disappeared.
"Whatever…"
He crushed the cigarette under his shoe and stood up slowly.
The balcony door slid open with a soft scraping sound as he stepped back inside.
The apartment was quiet.
Too quiet.
He walked into the living room and dropped himself onto the couch. The cushions sank slightly under his weight.
His hand reached for the remote control on the table.
He turned on the television.
Bright colors filled the dark room as the screen flickered through channels.
Voices.
Music.
Laughter from some comedy show.
A dramatic soundtrack from a series.
He watched for a few seconds.
Then he frowned.
He switched channels again.
Another show.
Another exaggerated voice.
Another fake laugh.
He stared at the screen with an expression of mild disgust.
"...All these series suck," he muttered.
He clicked through a few more channels.
Nothing changed.
Same empty feeling.
Same noise.
After a while he simply placed the remote back on the table.
The television kept playing behind him as he stood up.
He stretched slightly, rubbed his eyes, and walked toward his bedroom.
"Whatever."
He turned off the light and collapsed onto the bed.
The mattress creaked softly under him.
Within minutes, his breathing slowed.
For a while, he slept.
—
Then suddenly—
His eyes opened.
He sat up abruptly.
"…Shit."
The thought hit him all at once.
"The assignment."
He swung his legs out of the bed immediately and ran out of the room.
The apartment was dark except for the faint glow from the streetlights outside.
He hurried into a small room that served as his study.
A desk stood near the window, cluttered with notebooks and loose papers.
He dropped into the chair, grabbed a pen, and pulled a blank sheet toward him.
For a moment he stared at it.
Then he began writing.
The pen moved quickly across the page.
When he finally stopped, a single word stood there in bold letters.
Rise.
He leaned back slightly and looked at what he had written.
His fingers slowly moved to his cheek.
He touched it absentmindedly.
Then—
A voice.
Sharp.
Cold.
Unkind.
"Shut up, you half-wit. You know it too. Mom hates us. I don't see why you keep defending her."
The room remained silent.
No one else was there.
The boy didn't look surprised.
He simply sighed softly.
"…Now that I've cut my hair," he murmured, almost thoughtfully, "we kind of look alike."
He leaned forward again, resting his elbows on the desk.
His eyes wandered around the room as he began speaking again.
This time slower.
More thoughtful.
"You know… brothers are supposed to be something different."
He tapped the pen against the desk.
"They're supposed to be… examples."
He searched for the right words.
"Like… a second father, almost."
His voice remained calm.
"But not in the strict way."
He looked down at his hands.
"They're supposed to be someone you admire."
A faint smile appeared, though it carried no real joy.
"They teach you things."
"How to talk to people."
"How to defend yourself."
"How to live."
His fingers traced the edge of the paper slowly.
"And at the same time…"
He paused.
"They're supposed to be your best friend."
Someone you could laugh with.
Someone who shows you the world isn't so heavy.
His voice grew quieter.
"But sometimes…"
He stopped again.
His eyes drifted toward the window.
"…sometimes that doesn't happen."
The silence in the room deepened.
Then, far away—
A siren.
It cut through the night faintly.
Another one followed, louder this time.
Police.
Or maybe an ambulance.
The sound echoed through the empty streets.
The boy listened to it without moving.
The flashing blue reflections briefly appeared on the walls through the window.
The sirens slowly faded into the distance.
His shoulders sagged slightly.
"…Why does everything happen to me?"
The words came out almost automatically.
Not angry.
Just tired.
He stared at the desk a few seconds longer.
Then he stood up.
Without turning off the light, he walked back to his bedroom.
He lay down on the bed again.
This time he didn't move.
His eyes closed slowly.
And eventually, with the quiet of the night surrounding him, he fell asleep.