Matias set course for the police outpost near Helios-6's third moon and skimmed his mail. Officially, he was still in the Armed Forces, so his ID went unquestioned—no scans, no delays. His mother had told him other pilots were constantly harassed. The more daredevils the police caught, the more seemed to multiply. A sign of resilience, maybe. Or of failed prevention. Either way, it was another reason he was here.

  The outpost was a vertical fifty-six-mile structure—no decorations, no ads, just stacked cylindrical modules welded to a giant warhead with airlock tubes on the sides. It probably added little functionality, but someone clearly had a vision. On approach, he handed control to the autopilot and opened his mail.

  "Mat, Harry's gone on another bender. Alpha's issued a repeat order," wrote his old friend Edgar Wols. "Farewell party tomorrow—don't miss it…"

  "Matias, it's Mom. Why aren't you answering? What's wrong? I'm worried, son—don't disappear. Is everything okay?"

  "Matias, it's Mom again. What's going on? Why are you silent? The girls say they're talking to you. Am I unworthy of hearing from my own son? Answer me!"

  "Corporation 'For All Occasions' notifies of insurance activation for the following year for a Type-D vessel with serial number…"

  "SynchInsurance notifies of privileged contract renewal for service provision…"

  "Matias, it's Mom again. What's going on? Why are you silent? The girls say they're talking to you. Am I unworthy of hearing from my own son? Answer me!"

  "Mat, now I understand I was wrong. Where to serve and whether to serve at all is a personal choice of every Alliance citizen. I'm not a fanatic! Perhaps it was you who presented your desire to leave in such a way that it looked like betrayal and capitulation, unpatriotic and petty! Don't blame me for the reaction you yourself provoked! I admit, perhaps my reaction was overly emotional. And everything I said… I don't really think that. And about you synchs being soulless killers without moral compasses—that was in the heat of the moment. Yes, I'm a woman and prone to generalizations. You must forgive me for that. You will forgive me, won't you? I need you, Mat. I miss you. Still yours, Ilina."

  "To all crew! Training flight this Wednesday is canceled due to the unplanned absence of Lieutenant Matias Amatin and the dismissal of Lieutenant Harry Stone. Alpha will send a separate notification of the next training flight."

  "You've become rather careless with your duties, Mat," wrote Captain Suene Chronos. "Notice of your absence should have come from you. I shouldn't have to pester Alpha or comrades to figure out where you've vanished. Your rank entails certain responsibilities, failure of which threatens… you know, in general. I don't want to lose you. So is it true? They pinned Emerson's death on you and are planning to send you to civilian life? I await an immediate report with explanations of your status and location. Don't let me down, Mat."

  The list of unread correspondence hadn't yet reached its end, unlike his route. Closing his mail, Matias commanded the descent into the dock. He still had forty minutes until the interview. Amatin opened his mail and wrote several letters. To his mother—a short letter asking forgiveness for his silence and assuring her everything was fine. Then to Edgar, saying he'd had to fly deep into the region for an interview on Alpha's orders. Then came a letter to his captain:

  To Captain Suene Chronos

  Report of Intentions

  Lieutenant Matias Amatin

  Confidential.

  Suene, I didn't inform you because I was sure command or Alpha would. The official request has been in my mail for three days. You, as commander, should have received a copy. Check your mail, maybe you missed it. Answering your questions: yes, I was accused of General Emerson's death. I attended his funeral this morning and squirmed under the gazes of his relatives. That was kind of our command. After that, I flew to Colonel Jane and dropped by an outpost on the region's border to see my sister on the way. There, right in a cafe, Emerson's son slit my throat. Apparently, he followed me right after the funeral. That was doubly kind. Now I'm writing this from the station where the interview is scheduled. No uniform. The dress uniform remained soaked in blood on the corpse, the regular one is on the ship at that same station, no time to go back. The fact that I'll come to this meeting in civilian clothes is triply kind. Hope I've explained everything.

  Fly safe.

  With deepest respect,

  Matias Amatin.

  Having written an attachment to the letter with a dry and impersonal explanation of the reasons for his absence, Matias sent the message. The captain's threats and concern didn't worry him much. Suene was a good friend of his. When he first entered service, she was also a couple of ranks higher and distinguished by genuine demands on herself and strictness toward others. For a petite Asian woman who looked nothing like a battle-axe, she had to work twice as hard as anyone else. They'd spent six years building mutual respect—saving each other in space and on the ground. That kind of friendship didn't end with service. If anything, leaving could strengthen it.

  Matias was already leaving the ship when a new message arrived. A message, not a letter: that's how Alpha notified of urgent matters. With slight anxiety, he identified the sender: his command. The message itself was addressed to Colonel Jane and came to him as a blind copy. Clenching his jaw, Matias opened the text. Another setup would be overkill, even for them.

  The tension drained from his face. He smiled. The letter was florid, almost ceremonial, but the message was clear: command praised him and recommended him for rehabilitation—or, if that was inapplicable, for admission to the police ranks—with lifelong retention of his army rank.

  Matias easily found the office of Colonel Jane, with whom he had an interview scheduled, and, knocking on the door, entered.

  "Matias Amatin?" inquired the cadet at the desk before him, apparently performing secretarial duties.

  "That's correct," Mat confirmed.

  "Colonel Sabrina-Lee Jane is ready to receive you. Go in."

  "Sabrina?" Matias thought. "So, it's a woman?"

  Colonel Jane's office faced the airlocks. Light from approaching ships slid along the walls like a disco—or an arena. It should have been distracting. It wasn't. Nothing could distract from the woman behind the desk. Neat black hair, severe makeup, the austerity of her uniform—none of it diminished her breathtaking beauty. Matias stopped breathing.

  "Come in, Lieutenant. Have a seat, please," she said monotonously, without a single emotion, a hint of politeness—like a learned form of impersonal greeting. The next comment almost flushed Matias's face crimson: "A decision hasn't been made yet, and you've already taken off your uniform."

  Mat sat on the hard chair opposite her desk. Its non-ergonomic design made leaning back against it impossible. However, Matias hadn't planned on relaxing in this office.

  "I just received a recommendation letter from your command. Wait a minute, let me finish reading," she returned her gaze to the text on the screen projection before her but almost immediately addressed him again: "Relax, Matias. As much as one can relax on this chair."

  Matias waited, watching the barely trembling gaze opposite him as she read.

  "Judging by Alpha's comment and this letter, you yourself want to transfer to the police. Why?"

  "The police under Alpha's leadership—impartial, honest, logical. That matches my character. The army's contract-based. I want to serve citizens and state, not corporations."

  "Why not special forces?"

  "Same reasons."

  "You didn't get along with command, don't want to get dirty. Clear," Sabrina nodded.

  Matias's heart gave a heavy thump in his chest. He had interpreted his own motives somewhat differently, but looking into the eyes opposite, he understood the colonel had crystallized the truth and was absolutely right.

  "Why did you choose service in the Alliance army at all? What do you want?"

  "Dreamed of being a military pilot since childhood. From seaman, all six years…"

  "I've read your file, Matias," Sabrina interrupted. "Don't let the leisurely dialogue mislead you. We have no more than sixteen minutes left."

  "I've already said. I wanted to serve, and everything suited me. But in recent years, service increasingly resembles a farce; the army fulfills corporate contracts like some contractor with heavy weapons. In the long term, with no external threats, everything will remain the same, and I, as a cog in this machine, have completely lost my purpose. I want meaning, clear rules and rights, protection from incompetence. I want to have a clear understanding of why I'm sitting at the helm, what my target is guilty of, why I'm opening fire, and who will benefit from my actions."

  "I don't want to believe that in eight years you still haven't understood the difference between 'service' and 'self-indulgence.' If you're incapable of unquestioning obedience to orders, was it worth enlisting at all? Here's what I understand: with General Emerson's death, you can't advance in the space forces now, and, having some remnants of a sense of duty, or perhaps illusions of honor, you decided to switch to a similar organization where prospects aren't tarnished and leadership isn't blinkered. And that's all clear."

  Matias swallowed and tried to object:

  "I never had problems with obedience…"

  "Are you aware that if the decision to accept you into the police is positive, your income will decrease? There might be less stress here, but the rules are stricter. At the same time, you are a synch, immortal, chosen, a professional pilot with military training. Why are you choosing service again instead of striving to earn from your immortality?"

  "It matches my character. I don't know what else I could do besides serve."

  "Want me to list options? Half a dozen come to mind immediately."

  "Thank you, Colonel. I'm not here for that."

  "Alright. How does your family feel about what's happening? Obviously, even without this incident, you were considering switching law enforcement agencies and must have consulted with someone."

  "I don't need my family's approval, Colonel," Matias thought she wanted to provoke him and see his reaction. Of course, his actual thought sounded like, "I'm not five years old, I'm a big boy now," but he kept himself in check. Her expressive eyes awaited continuation.

  "But those family members whose opinions matter to me—approve."

  "So you do listen to someone," a shadow of a smile appeared on her face for the first time. "I was beginning to think things were already too bad. And who are these family members?"

  "My younger sister. The older of the two."

  Matias absolutely didn't understand this expression on her face. Sabrina tilted her head slightly and narrowed her eyes. At the same time, her lips twitched—something flickered there. Disgust? Contempt? Hard to read.

  "Well, we still have nine minutes. Tell me about your loved ones."

  She didn't understand what my respect for Athra's opinion might mean and wanted to confirm her guesses, whatever they were. Of course, she doesn't care about my loved ones. The colonel is trying to understand what I value in people, why I respect and listen to them. And also… apparently wants to make sure I'm not… a pervert, Matias pondered.

  "My father is a hereditary miner, a devoted Alliance citizen, and a worthy man. My mother is a talented businesswoman, a very energetic and erudite woman. I'm the eldest child. My first sister is named Athra; she has two degrees in design and production capacity provision and graduated with honors from the Unified University of the AC. Athra possesses an inquisitive, unsurpassed mind. My younger sister is named Una…"

  "You forgot to mention the year of psychocorrection. Such terms are given to unstable elements of society, including those who have shown unjustified conscious aggression. Unless it's a prison sentence. And that's precisely the person, the only person, whose opinion matters to you?"

  Mat closed his eyes. His heart was pounding heavily in his chest, begging to be released from the stifling body. He drew up his legs and realized it looked like a desire to flee. Gathering his last strength to straighten his stiff back, he heard the clicks of his joints. The colonel's lips twitched:

  "Continue, Lieutenant."

  "My younger sister…" he choked and coughed, "Una studies sociology and historical forecasting, will graduate soon," he added, swallowing. "She carelessly stands out with radical, sometimes frankly extremist views, which is typical for her age and circle, and I hope that will change soon."

  Matias fell silent. When the pause dragged on, Sabrina understood he had finished the story.

  "You're not making my task easier, Matias. Did you name all the people close to you? Forgot no one?"

  "You want to hear about my love affairs?"

  "There," the colonel nodded with satisfaction. "That answer is sufficient."

  "But I didn't answer," Mat objected.

  "Do you think so?" Sabrina shifted her gaze to the screen and back to her interlocutor's eyes. "We have five minutes left, so I'll allow myself to explain. A settled, mature man would have begun his story with a woman who is not his mother. And it doesn't matter what his file says about his marital status. Is that obvious?"

  "Quite."

  "A man in love, valuing his relationship and the woman chosen for it, wouldn't throw out a phrase like 'my love affairs.' Agreed?"

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  "Agreed."

  "Yet it's quite obvious that they, these 'love affairs,' are present in your life. But with whom? With women whose opinions don't matter to you in serious life changes? After all, you mentioned only your sister when I asked about approval. So you either choose women so poorly that it might directly indicate you don't understand people, or you intentionally avoid building close relationships based on trust and devotion. From your story about your family, your file, work experience and rank, as well as the recommendation letter from your command, I can conclude the first version is mistaken. You understand people fairly well. Certainly not poorly enough to not realize that a particular woman is only suitable as a temporary mistress. Hence, the second option comes into play. You're not seeking close relationships and avoid feelings. Are you emotionally crippled, Matias?"

  Matias flinched. He was already struggling to follow her train of thought, but this question was already too much.

  "Not at all, Colonel Jane."

  "Are you emotionally barren? Perhaps crippled? Even considering that you're a closeted homosexual, I could rephrase the question in favor of men, but something tells me it's deaf there too. Unless, of course, you omitted something in your story…"

  Matias leaned back; his back ached mercilessly. He very much hoped this perceptive woman was simply mocking him, which was significantly more acceptable than her being right. Mat couldn't relax his face.

  A lack of loyalty to gays could well be part of his profile. Due to his overly pretty looks, he had more than once encountered inappropriate attention and had always reacted unequivocally. Having understood in his youth that his soft, diplomatic "no" was almost always perceived as "maybe," he became unequivocally rude and direct. And this was noticed. Could have been mentioned in his profile. And the circumstances of his first death were utterly transparent. The fact that the case was hushed up, with no one sent to a tribunal, certainly didn't mean some grain of truth wasn't reflected in his personal file.

  All his muscles turned to stone. He forced out with difficulty:

  "I'm not… not crippled, Colonel."

  "Then you've either become desperate or already have those feelings and a relationship. And you don't speak, don't even think about them for obvious reasons, which we no longer have time to discuss. Thank you for your visit, Matias. The decision will reach you within twenty-four hours."

  Matias slowly rose and left the office on stiff legs. At some point, he hated himself. Then came the despair of a failure. As he walked down the corridor to the hotel, rage, then despair, then hatred, then despondency replaced each other. But halfway to his room, something shifted. He stopped by a viewport and watched a freighter glide silently into the dock. The precision of its maneuver, the calm authority in its movements—it reminded him of her. Not her cruelty, but her clarity. She hadn't judged him. She'd simply seen him. And in that brutal honesty, there was a strange kind of respect. Maybe even mercy. He exhaled slowly, and the knot in his chest loosened just enough to let air in. For the first time since the interview began, he felt not broken—but known.

  Entering the rented room, he tried to relax and accepted the last in the string of states washing over him like waves—hope.

  The room's furnishings were standard issue: a hard semicircular sofa by a glass table, a wall-sized screen in front of it, a cot in a niche to the right, a shower next to it.

  Undressing, he stood under the warm streams of water and, leaning a hand against the wall, closed his eyes.

  What an interesting job she had! He laughed nervously. She'd laid everything out so clearly, backed every claim with evidence, served him his own truth on a platter. Except the part about him being gay. That wasn't necessary. He wasn't planning to deny it, but hiding it was his right. Just like Athra's right to hide that she was a homophobe, a psychopath, and just as much a killer as he was.

  He couldn't help but admire her. Then, with a surprised smirk, he thought: how could a woman be so beautiful and yet... undesirable? So intelligent, perceptive, calm—and he felt no urge to climb into her bed. Amazing. The water brought him around. His confidence returned. He'd await the decision calmly, accept whatever came. He was a synch. There were always options. But more than that—he agreed with her. She'd pinned his motives exactly. And she hadn't judged him for them. She'd just... seen him. That was wonderful. Sabrina-Lee Jane was wonderful.

  Matias was seized by genuine admiration. He smiled from ear to ear while dressing. Planning to have a bite and, perhaps, drink a shot to new horizons, the lieutenant of the Space Armed Forces of the Alliance of Corporations left the room and went to look for a bar. It was the tenth hour of evening, universal time. All shift workers had already changed shifts. The day shift had ended their workday. The station showed signs of life. Not the kind of liveliness he was used to seeing evenings at his home station, but there were significantly more people in the corridors than almost two hours ago when he arrived.

  The fresh clone felt weightless and clean, and was obviously hungry.

  Seeing the sign "Cafe," Mat grimaced. Memories of dying on the floor of an identically named establishment this morning washed over him in a suffocating wave. It was a terrible way to die: feeling life leaving the body along with the blood, fully experiencing despair, cold, and fear. In space, death was often instantaneous and less agonizing. That was a rather soft death compared to what he had experienced this morning and didn't want to experience again.

  Passing by the cafe, Mat entered the next set of doors under the promising sign "Baramar." Music, smells, and the weight of bad lighting hit him all at once. Of course! Mat remembered. The youth qualifying matches of the Anachron Battles had begun. For the next few months, any dive would play fight recordings over and over on info screens. And the fans of these fights—practically the entire inhabited space. Even politics often took a back seat.

  Ordering dinner, he stared at the projection in the corner. No, he wasn't a fanatical fan, but he didn't mind watching fights sometimes. Never placed bets. Gambling wasn't in his nature at all. About forty, maybe fifty minutes later, having finished dinner, he decided to move to the bar counter. The brutal fights were somewhat tiring, subtly draining energy with emotions directed at empathy. Matias decided to sit with his back to the projection and drink a shot or two as planned, then return to the room and lose himself in slightly tipsy, tired sleep.

  The bar didn't have many free seats. Almost all faces were looking at the corner where the fights were being broadcast. Only a couple of gazes were buried in their own drinks. One of the backs was female, slender, hidden by a white tunic in Eastern traditions. Dark hair was loose and flowed down her back in soft waves. Mat thought there would be nothing objectionable about sitting nearby and draining his glass in pleasant female company, without even talking to her. A few steps away, he stopped abruptly. The woman tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and Matias recognized the profile of Colonel Sabrina-Lee Jane. Not daring to tempt fate, he changed his trajectory and sat almost at the end of the counter, a good ten patrons away from her.

  "A double Inlunian. Two, right away. Not synthetic!" Mat ordered and turned to the hypnotizing projection. Completely green kids were fighting there, who had never performed in a championship and might not even have a chance to get in. And yet their actions were mesmerizing. These were qualifying fights for youth teams. Anachron was being administered, but direct psychic pressure was still prohibited. They competed with raw psychic force, which couldn't even be measured without the drug. Mat didn't understand how it worked, what kind of power it even was. Telepathy or something? Who the hell knows, never been interested. Anyway, one of the guys appeared as a golden giant hamster, the other circled above him as an unknown bird with steel wings and beak. That was besides the physical fight.

  In professional, adult fights, illusions were often absent altogether or resembled something frankly terrifying, gloomily amorphous. The youngsters, however, amused themselves with little animals. Hmm… Mat frowned. And he wasn't even aware what illusions Markus Riviera used, if he used any at all? Though, the guy was more friends with the sisters, and for him remained more like a younger brother than a friend.

  "What was in the head of someone who picked a hamster for Anachron Battles?"

  He flinched, hearing her voice. Cautiously, he shifted his gaze.

  "You wanted to sit nearby but changed your mind when you saw it was me. I don't even know how to assess your action: as cowardice or as honor."

  "As cowardice, Colonel."

  "Here I'm Sabrina, Matias. May I?"

  She waited for an affirmative nod before taking the seat beside him. Matias considered the question rhetorical, thinking that women endowed with power must by definition be domineering (otherwise why would they strive for it?). But Sabrina sincerely and definitely awaited consent, if not an invitation. And so the pause dragged on awkwardly until Matias realized the question wasn't rhetorical and finally managed to nod.

  "So, your opinion?" the colonel-who-was-not-a-colonel-here turned to him.

  "About what?"

  "About the hamster. What can it oppose to any animal from any planet possessing at least some attributes of a predator."

  "I'm not very knowledgeable about hamsters, Sabrina," he tried to wrap up the topic.

  "But you have eyes, don't you? You've been watching their fight for a solid hour. Did not a single thought, not a single conclusion visit your rather fresh brain?"

  "Fresh brain?" he unexpectedly laughed. "Did you guess or find out from Alpha why I showed up in civilian clothes? Or did you mean something more ephemeral than my recent death?"

  "Your death… I can't even smirk contemptuously in your face and throw something like: 'What do you know about death, Matias?!' I watched the morning recording from the cafe and sincerely regret you had to experience that. Let's not tread on fresh wounds. Forgive me."

  "It's alright," Mat smiled magnanimously. His mood, despite the memory of his recent demise, was steadily rising. He didn't feel any of the tension that had bound him in her office, though her manner of communication hadn't changed at all. And the mention of access to information and recordings confirmed his thoughts about service in the police in general. "So what were we talking about? The hamster?"

  Sabrina nodded almost imperceptibly, and Matias seriously pondered. Indeed: what could a hamster, even a golden and giant one, oppose to even the weakest predator? This Sabrina sure loved asking tricky questions. He turned thoughtfully to the screen. And indeed, he'd been on the ring for an hour and was still standing!

  "Do you even understand the Anachron Battles? How these clashes work?"

  "Until your question, I was sure I did. Though, honestly, not particularly what happens under the drug."

  "Think. Think, Matias. You're capable of finding the answer; I believe in you."

  And I think I'm falling in love with you, Matias thought and hoped this revelation wasn't reflected in his gaze, so professionally held by her eyes.

  "You're baffling me."

  "You simply don't want to think. I won't accept a refusal to think."

  "Such pressure! I feel like a wretched seaman over the abyss of a failed mission."

  "That's exactly it."

  "Alright, I'll think. How much time do I have?"

  "Until the end of their fight, no more than twenty minutes. You must answer me why the hamster will win in about ten minutes—max."

  "You're so sure he'll win? But how could that happen? Only by a miracle!"

  "Want to bet?"

  "With you?! God forbid! Your insight, logic, intelligence, analytical abilities, everything about you is so perfect that I'm even afraid to breathe nearby, let alone argue!"

  "What did you say?" If her face hadn't remained so stony, Matias would have thought this demand to repeat was real flirting.

  "That you are perfect and cannot be wrong!"

  "Have you had a chance to be convinced of that?"

  "Of course. My shameful interview gives full grounds…"

  "I will leave this place if you speak about service again or mention any of the topics touched upon in the interview."

  He was confused and didn't immediately find his words.

  "Alright… then, maybe we'll have a drink? Do you drink?"

  Either of his sisters would have reacted to such a change of topic with ringing laughter. Even Athra, significantly less emotional than Una, would have understood and played along for form's sake. Mat thought he understood women and, at the very least, could make them laugh. Sabrina's reaction was as follows: the corner of her lips twitched. This infuriated him. The subsequent question betrayed the surging fury both in meaning and tone:

  "Sabrina, do you have some problems expressing emotions?"

  She tilted her head slightly and squinted almost imperceptibly, as she had in the office.

  "I just expressed sincere, justified admiration for you, but now I want to strangle you."

  "That would be amusing." A light, barely perceptible smile played on her beautiful lips.

  He exhaled. Then again. Got a grip on himself.

  "Yes, indeed, that would be amusing. But they definitely wouldn't accept me into the police after that."

  Something clicked. At first, Matias thought she would fulfill her promise to leave if work was mentioned, but no, she remained seated. But something was happening, and he didn't understand what. Her face remained motionless, beautiful and severe, her chest breathed calmly, her palms lay on the bar counter and her knee. And yet he clearly understood that she was laughing. Laughing uproariously somewhere so deep inside herself that it only manifested as a crazy, feverish sparkle in her eyes. He felt the same as when he entered her office. He forgot to breathe.

  "What happened to you, Sabrina?"

  Only after asking this question did he notice that in sympathy and alarm, he had touched her hand on her knee. This impulse was so sincere and pure that the woman undoubtedly living in Sabrina's body didn't react at all, didn't pull her hand away, didn't look sternly and haughtily. She accepted it.

  Her scarlet lips quivered slightly in an unborn smile, and she lowered her gaze.

  "Once, I was a pilot R-synch myself. I worked for the government and flew on military ships, but when the enemy outnumbers you five, even six times, no ship or skill will save you. They ripped us apart and salvaged the remains. Synchronization was deemed partial—sufficient for revival but incomplete, meaning clearly incomplete but sufficient for further existence. This body cannot express emotions. I experience them, but the expression is so weak that usually others don't even notice these negligible manifestations. I am laughing, you noticed that and you are right. I am joking. But no one sees or understands that. Except perhaps you, now."

  She fell silent, looking at his hand covering her palm on her knee.

  "At first, I wanted to redo the synchronization, but no one would guarantee success, and I decided to leave it as is. I'm used to it now. Moreover, this defect helps me in my work more than it hinders. So… you are no less insightful and observant, Matias. Therefore, you can answer the question about the hamster. Time's up."

  He removed his hand from her palm and took the shot glass. He was laughing. Sincerely and calmly, for no particular reason, just the most banal joy overflowing him so much that it came out as laughter.

  "I hope I surprise you, Sabrina."

  "Go ahead, Matias! I'm all attention!"

  "The hamster isn't just coated in gold. It is materially golden—soft metal, sure, but still metal. How's a bird supposed to hurt that? Peck all it wants, it'll just nick the surface. And the hamster… it doesn't fight back much, just keeps standing there, round and shiny. But you watch the crowd—they're not even cheering, they're just… leaning in. Because who doesn't want to protect a golden hamster? It's ridiculous, but true. And that's the thing with Anachron—sympathy becomes power. The more people silently root for the underdog, the heavier its paws get, the slower its opponent moves. I've seen fights like this drag on for hours. No blood, no drama—just exhaustion. And in the end, the one who carries the weight of all those quiet wishes… stands." Matias took a breath, glancing at the screen. "So yeah. The hamster wins. Not because it's strong. Because nobody wants to see it lose."

  Sabrina was silent, looking intently into his eyes. None of his acquaintances, except Athra, were capable of maintaining such prolonged eye contact. He himself struggled not to look away, but the beauty and depth he saw held him with a reliable anchor. Then he heard a sound and didn't immediately understand its source. Her palms were coming together and apart: Sabrina was clapping.

  Matias smiled contentedly. He hadn't felt such pride in a long time. And realizing what had spawned this pride, he laughed outright. Sabrina laughed with him, but only he could see it.

  Will she leave if I say I'm in love? That I'm drowning in her eyes and it's not a banal hyperbole, that it's reality? Will she understand how much I want to be with her and not consider it just another insignificant "love affair" I carelessly mentioned today? And if I leave everything as is, won't she curse my indecisiveness? Won't she consider this unknown, contradictory: sometimes not allowing a full breath, sometimes bursting out as light laughter, all-encompassing pull towards her—merely a desire to possess her beauty, to touch the beautiful, to record as a victory in the journal of other victories? How to explain to an almost stranger, such an extraordinary, strong, supremely magnificent and self-sufficient woman, that I am in her power to such an extent that my tongue goes numb? What tongue, I'm numb from brain to bone. She can't not see what's happening to me. Too attentive and too intelligent. So who should make the first move? And should anyone make it? Wouldn't it be more correct to leave everything as is? Not to disturb this grandiose, sparkling miracle born in my heart, so as not to, God forbid, wound, topple, extinguish it. She is above everything any man, any person can give her. And if I cannot fill her heart with the same thing I feel now myself, do I even have the right to claim a fraction, even an echo of her being?

  Oh God, she will perceive any show of attention from me as an attempt not just to get her into bed, but as leverage to influence her decision about admission to the police. If she thinks that… easier to die again. I won't stoop to provoking such suspicions. And I won't allow her to be offended, even to feel a hint that I could think that of her. I'll leave everything as is. You're already shining for me like a star anyway. And I'll still have time to burn in your flame, but only when we're at least on equal footing and I understand that you see and know how much you mean to me.

  He twirled the empty shot glass in his fingers and sighed.

  "Matias, you went so deep into yourself that you missed the end of the fight," Sabrina quietly noted. Her voice betrayed what he had just feared. Sabrina understood that he desired her. Perhaps, simply wanted her. As a beautiful woman. Or as a beautiful woman who can be influenced. As a woman. Not as a goddess.

  "Did the hamster win?"

  "Of course." She breathed out something that might have been a smile.

  "I will await your decision, Sabrina, regarding the transfer. I remember you promised to leave, but don't worry: I'm leaving myself." He rose. "It was an extraordinary evening. The whole evening: from the moment I entered your office. Even if you deem my vain and mercenary motives coupled with possible perversion unacceptable for a police officer, I will fully approve and humbly accept your decision. You cannot be wrong. That's certain. Good night, Sabrina."

  "Good night, Matias."