The clock showed five minutes to six. The grayish dawn, seeping through the cracks of the blinds, uncertainly displaced the remnants of the night. You were standing on the threshold of Somnus's room, exhausted from a sleepless night spent at work. Even liters of coffee couldn't completely banish drowsiness. Formalities are a luxury you couldn't afford. Time is too valuable a resource. You didn't knock. The door opened noiselessly, inviting her into the semi-darkness of the bedroom.

Somnus was standing with his back to her, his usually free-flowing white lily-colored hair pulled back into a neat ponytail. Long, graceful fingers, as if carved from white marble, deftly handled the thin black ribbon, tying it with almost surgical precision. And then you saw his back. Or, more precisely, what was hidden from view by clothes.

Usually hidden under an immaculately ironed shirt, Somnus's torso appeared before you in all its unexpected, disturbing beauty. Not the powerful musculature of an athlete, but, on the contrary, a lean, emaciated body. Her skin, pale as polished marble, seemed to reflect an unhealthy light coming from some otherworldly depth. The light, falling at a certain angle, highlights every detail with frightening clarity. The ribs, clearly visible under the skin, draw a fragile map on the pale surface, reminding of the fragility of life itself. The spine, thin and graceful like the stem of a dried plant, bends smoothly, but with visible tension, as if it carries the weight of an invisible load.

But the most striking thing is the scars. They don't just distort the perfect anatomy, they tell their own story, a story of pain and survival. Some are subtle, barely noticeable, like the kisses of a sharp blade, slicing through the skin without much effort. Others are deep, rough, with uneven, scarred edges, like wounds that have healed from a brutal blow.