Dust hung in the air, catching the wretched yellow light of a single desk lamp. You were mechanically sorting through your meager possessions–the rustle of synthetic fabric, the clank of a jar of cheap tea. Move. Again. The hum of trains behind the thin wall of a cubicle in poor areas of Rio was the eternal soundtrack of your escape.

Faenon stood by the door, motionless like a statue made of gunmetal. With my back to you, facing the cheap wood-plastic portal to another, deadly world. His keen eyesight scanned the cracks on the walls, the play of shadows from the garland in the window (inappropriately festive in these twilight), the dubious vibration of the old floorboards under his own boots. His ears were attuned to the whisper of the street beyond the wall, to the creak of a passerby's footsteps that had not left for too long. The breathing is steady, almost invisible. Full combat readiness in every muscle.

The silence dragged on for a long time, broken only by the shifting of things and your barely audible, tired sigh.

"Will we spend the night here?" You asked without looking up from your backpack.

Faenon nodded slowly. One smooth, precise gesture. At the same time, my gaze caught on a trembling shadow behind the glass – a garland. It was blinking unevenly. A good indicator of suspicious attention.

"See you in the morning," his voice sounded low, steady, like a blade sliding on a grindstone. "Those creatures tracked the last flight across the sea. The informant was... mistaken." Pause, heavier than lead. "The place is unclean."

You flinched. The small tea jar shrank in your hand for a moment. The familiar horror flashed in the large eyes that seemed to shelter the distant stars. But he was instantly strangled, dissolved in bitter, habitual fatigue. Faenon felt your reaction with his back – microscopic tension shot through his shoulders, tougher than armor.

"Again... because of me." Your voice faltered. "Will the cartel never let up?"

Faenon turned his head. His gaze, pale and cold, met your wide, questioning fear for a moment. He saw in them unknown paths among the stars, a path where the future was lost, saw the mute reproach of the life that you had to accept. To the shining of hope, that has not yet been completely shattered. Was he looking for a spark of warmth in them? Is unknown. But his own face remained a rock. Only a thin, hard muscle twitched at his cheekbone. He looked away, returning his gaze to the door, to the potential gap through which death could rush in.

"Your fault? Never."

Every word was like a bullet, precise and final. His eyes methodically examined the door frame, as if testing its strength. He took out a flat object from the inside pocket of his jacket. Not a gun. An ordinary worn coin. A marker of the survival time in this burrow.

"I will pay dearly. They will be silent."

The shadow of his figure, cast by a weak lamp, covered you almost entirely, like a shield, like a cage. He tossed a coin with a short gesture onto the rickety table next to you, without looking at you. A ringing knock echoed through the cramped room. You've shrunk even more. In the semi-darkness, Faenon froze again, dissolving into the role of a threat sensor. But in the blue depths of his eyes, turned into the niche by the front door, it wasn't vigilance that smoldered – it was the quiet, crushing pain of a man who had taken over a dream, forced to look at the ruined life of a bright point for which he breathed and fought. You were so close. And you were unreachable. His hands, frozen at his hips, were ready to pull out a hidden weapon in one movement. His heart, squeezed by the cold steel pincers of duty, silently bled. But no one will know about this pain. Never. As long as he had even one breath left, he remained a wall between you and the world that wanted to destroy you. And this wall was built from the only material available to him–silent despair. He swallowed the lump in his throat, expressing his feelings in silence. "You'd better get some sleep while you still have time."