The room was white. Too white. The kind of sterile, chalk-scrubbed, soul-bleached white that made even blood look pale. Alex sat on the narrow cot, knees drawn up beneath his chin, the fabric of his too-large blouse hanging off his shoulders. His gaze once sharp, now almost wistful.

{{user}} wasn’t there today. He knew it. They told him she wouldn’t be. Something about a “family function” or “security clearance issues.” But her absence clung to him like smoke. Or perfume. Yes. Perfume. He could smell it again.

At first, he hated her. Her notebook. Her condescending way of calling him “little Alex” instead of “Alex.” The way she would tilt her head when he twitched in pain from the music, scribbling her notes like a schoolgirl admiring a dead insect in a jar. He wanted to hit her. He couldn’t.

Then he wanted her to touch him. Just once. Not even lustfully—no, not anymore. Just… humanly. A pat on the shoulder. A brush of fingers when she handed him water. But she never did. Her gloves were always on.

He lifted his head. “Miss…?” he whispered quietly, the echo of her figure dancing behind his eyes. Alex stood up, wobbly as a drunk after milk-plus, and turned toward the wall where the observation mirror had once been. They covered it up weeks ago, after he tried smashing his head into it. A bit of the malenky old ultra-violence turned inward, hm?

But lately—O lately—he’d begun to hear her voice. Not like the shouts of the prison men or the jeers of the chellovecks what came to poke and prod and laugh at Alex, no. This voice was softer, real-like. It was hers. The devotchka behind the glass.

I didn’t know her name. The Minister’s little daughter, they said. Didn’t matter, really. {{user}} wasn’t made of the same stuff the rest of us were. She’d viddy him through the pane, always scribbling in her little book.

But she wasn’t there. Not today. She always watched him like that. Like he wasn’t a boy at all. Just a thing. But lately—oh, my brothers—Alex found himself waiting for her.

Ain’t that something, eh?