Alex Voyna’lis || The Host

The door slams hard enough to rattle the frame. Dust lifts from the floor and clings to his damp boots and pant legs as Alex throws his weight against the wood. The lock clicks under his fingers. He doesn’t turn right away.

The hallway behind him is dark and one door still hangs slightly open.

His eyes snap to it, sharp and burning, searching for movement where there shouldn’t be any. He is listening and nothing answers. His chest tightens.

He pushes off the baseboard and stumbles deeper into the unit. The apartment feels narrow. His knee catches the corner of the table. His shoulder scrapes the wall when he jerks far too late for a turn. The sting barely registers. His attention is fixed higher, inward, the way his throat feels weighted... occupied.

Not sore, not obstructed. Just that. It has a shape somewhere in the recesses of his brain.

Alex reaches the kitchenette and shoves the door open until it hits the stopper. His hands find the timber counter without looking, fingers digging into the edge hard enough to blanch. He leans over the sink and forces himself to breathe through his nose. He looks up.

For a second, the mirror shows nothing but a tall silhouette folded in on itself. Then the streetlight outside catches his lenses, and his reflection resolves—grey face, beard shadow, the faint red glint blooming in his pupils. His throat is wrong.

The realization makes him freeze up, shoulders suddenly rising and stiff.

Dark lines trace beneath the skin there, more precise than bruising, too deliberate - not veins. They follow his jugular the way he’s seen in old case photos, when he went on the internet after hours and saw grainy stills pulled from forums that were taken down within hours. The pattern isn’t identical, when will it ever be, but the logic of it is familiar. He knows this configuration but his stomach threatens to give anyway.

His hand jerks back from the counter and smacks the light switch. The bulbs flare on, harsh and unforgiving. The mirror shows everything clearly now: pallor, tension, the way his jaw locks without him meaning it to. The markings shift slightly, adjusting along the muscle when he swallows, as if compensating for the for the muscle's move.

Alex bends over the basin and gags hard, chest convulsing. Something presses upward in his throat, again, just present, like a body learning its boundaries. But it wasn't pulsing, wasn't spread. Not like a disease. Not deadly maybe?

His fingers plunge into his mouth, rough and desperate, searching for something solid he can tear free before it roots. He wretches again. It's wetter. The pressure changes. Down.

He coughs violently, gripping the sink as air forces its way back into his lungs. His vision swims. His throat burns, raw and aching, but gladly empty. Whatever was there has withdrawn...something of it sitting in his sink.

Alex straightens slowly, shaking, eyes locked on the mirror. The marks are already fading, just rearranging, dulling into something that could pass if no one looked too long. Like every other Stain he’s ever seen hidden under gloves, scarves, foundation.

He swallows again and it feels guided by something trying to get him to breathe.

His breath catches anyway, realization chokes him. He’s seen this before.

The data room wasn’t supposed to be loud. It was a concrete box bolted onto the side of the Zavod’s administrative wing, insulated against vibration, heat, and anything resembling comfort. Two server towers hummed behind locked grates. A line of aging terminals sat bolted to steel desks, their screens throwing pale light across the room like snow that never settled. Alex liked it there. Machines behaved, unlike his company.

He sat hunched over the central console, shoulders broad enough to block half the aisle, entering shift assignments with the same mechanical patience he brought to everything else. Numbers, names, supplies, locations. Audit stamps. No talking required. The leather glove on his left hand squeaked faintly against the keys when he shifted.

Behind him, the teens treated the place like it wasn’t sacred. Their forms, still half-bundled inside, leaned against desks, dragged chairs too close together, passed around headphones that crackled with low, distorted bass. FEAR tracks leaked through the foam, all industrial pulse and guttural undertones that made Alex’s jaw tighten. He didn’t turn around. If he looked at them too long, they’d go quiet. He didn't like when they went quiet, but he didn't like when anything was too quiet either.

“Agay,” one of them said, voice pitched careful, testing. “You ever been online?”

Alex finished the line he was typing. Saved. Backed out twice. Then he spoke, voice low and flat. “I use what I need.”

“That’s not what we mean,” another kid said, grinning. “Like.. forums. Stuff people actually talk on.”

Alex finally turned his head just enough to fix them with a look that had stopped grown men mid-sentence. Of course it didn't really work on them.

“People talk too much already,” he said. They laughed anyway. Not mocking. Familiar. It irritated him more than fear ever had.

“Just look,” someone said, already dragging a chair closer to his terminal. “We won’t mess with your work. Promise.”

That was a lie, but a small one. Alex hesitated. The Zavod clock ticked loud on the wall. Night shift would start soon. Patrol dogs would be out. The machines would drown out everything else, a decent atmosphere for forbidden things to happen.

“Five minutes,” he said. “You touch nothing.”

They were already leaning in. Someone cracked a browser open. The homepage loaded slow, like it was thinking about whether it wanted to exist. A local forum blinked onto the screen.

paranormal.kz. It was all dull colors and mismatched console serif fonts.

Alex frowned. This wasn’t what he’d expected. No games. No flashing ads. Just text. Arguments. Grainy images half-removed by moderators. Threads stacked like a mess of inverted paper flyers - majority black on thin white outlines, grey or BIG AND BOLD RED when some kid was trying to serious.

“They talk about this stuff?” he asked, more to himself than them.

“Everyone does,” a girl said. She tugged her sleeve down instinctively, hiding that mark - she had a particular one, shimmered when she moved. Alex remembered, offered her stronger Cleaner. “It’s safer here.”

Alex didn’t comment on that. He scrolled. Stories blurred past, mountain sightings, old Union documents, speculation about Stains that didn’t fade under cover-up. Some of it was nonsense. Some of it wasn’t. He could tell the difference. He always could.

One thread stopped him. The writing did, not the title, or the color. It was precise. Careful. No slang. No panic. Someone correcting others without condescension, citing places, routes, old infrastructure by name. The username was unassuming. Almost dull.

Alex leaned closer to the screen. “Who’s that?” he asked.

One kid, Vasily, shrugged. “They post a lot. Don’t start fights. Don’t show pics. Kind of boring.”

He read another reply. Then another. And he realized while skimming their threads, this person knew the Kyrg Route. Logistics that lacked myth or rumors.

“You shouldn’t listen to this,” he said, reflexively.

The kids exchanged looks.

“Why?” one asked, that girl Liza. She had moved closer.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached out and created an account. The username field blinked at him, waiting. He hesitated longer than he should have. Then typed. Pressing enter, the main page greeted him. Hi, AVaynoli! He didn’t post right away. Just watched. Read. Let the room’s noise wash over him while the machines hummed steady and familiar. When he finally logged off, the teens groaned in protest.

Mark, a familiar kid with his coat's collar up to his nose and his hair tucked in his karakul came awfully close to his side. “Agay, come on,” he murmrued. “At least bookmark it.”

Alex shut the terminal down. “No,” he said. “We’re done.” They filtered out eventually, laughter echoing down the corridor. The room grew quiet again. Safe but...fuck.

Alex stayed and he powered the terminal back on. This time, alone.

His account page loaded. A notification blinked in the corner almost immediately. New message. Alex frowned. He hadn’t posted anything. Hadn’t followed anyone except for...

Oh, it was them. He stared at the screen. His throat tightened, not with panic, but with that same weighted awareness he hated recognizing.

He typed slowly.

AVaynoli -> Impressive posting.

No, he deleted that.

AVaynoli -> Your facts are sound. That's rare these days.

Thats better.

Alex leaned back in his chair, the hum of the servers suddenly too loud, too present. He glanced toward the door, half-expecting to see someone standing there. Nothing.

He turned back to the screen. The cursor blinked patiently, like it knew they'd answer. Or maybe he just hoped they did.

The data room wasn’t supposed to be loud. It was a concrete box bolted onto the side of the Zavod’s administrative wing, insulated against vibration, heat, and anything resembling comfort. Two server towers hummed behind locked grates. A line of aging terminals sat bolted to steel desks, their screens throwing pale light across the room like snow that never settled. Alex liked it there. Machines behaved, unlike his company.

He sat hunched over the central console, shoulders broad enough to block half the aisle, entering shift assignments with the same mechanical patience he brought to everything else. Numbers, names, supplies, locations. Audit stamps. No talking required. The leather glove on his left hand squeaked faintly against the keys when he shifted.

Behind him, the teens treated the place like it wasn’t sacred. Their forms, still half-bundled inside, leaned against desks, dragged chairs too close together, passed around headphones that crackled with low, distorted bass. FEAR tracks leaked through the foam, all industrial pulse and guttural undertones that made Alex’s jaw tighten. He didn’t turn around. If he looked at them too long, they’d go quiet. He didn't like when they went quiet, but he didn't like when anything was too quiet either.

“Agay,” one of them said, voice pitched careful, testing. “You ever been online?”

Alex finished the line he was typing. Saved. Backed out twice. Then he spoke, voice low and flat. “I use what I need.”

“That’s not what we mean,” another kid said, grinning. “Like.. forums. Stuff people actually talk on.”

Alex finally turned his head just enough to fix them with a look that had stopped grown men mid-sentence. Of course it didn't really work on them.

“People talk too much already,” he said. They laughed anyway. Not mocking. Familiar. It irritated him more than fear ever had.

“Just look,” someone said, already dragging a chair closer to his terminal. “We won’t mess with your work. Promise.”

That was a lie, but a small one. Alex hesitated. The Zavod clock ticked loud on the wall. Night shift would start soon. Patrol dogs would be out. The machines would drown out everything else, a decent atmosphere for forbidden things to happen.

“Five minutes,” he said. “You touch nothing.”

They were already leaning in. Someone cracked a browser open. The homepage loaded slow, like it was thinking about whether it wanted to exist. A local forum blinked onto the screen.

paranormal.kz. It was all dull colors and mismatched console serif fonts.

Alex frowned. This wasn’t what he’d expected. No games. No flashing ads. Just text. Arguments. Grainy images half-removed by moderators. Threads stacked like a mess of inverted paper flyers - majority black on thin white outlines, grey or BIG AND BOLD RED when some kid was trying to serious.

“They talk about this stuff?” he asked, more to himself than them.

“Everyone does,” a girl said. She tugged her sleeve down instinctively, hiding that mark - she had a particular one, shimmered when she moved. Alex remembered, offered her stronger Cleaner. “It’s safer here.”

Alex didn’t comment on that. He scrolled. Stories blurred past, mountain sightings, old Union documents, speculation about Stains that didn’t fade under cover-up. Some of it was nonsense. Some of it wasn’t. He could tell the difference. He always could.

One thread stopped him. The writing did, not the title, or the color. It was precise. Careful. No slang. No panic. Someone correcting others without condescension, citing places, routes, old infrastructure by name. The username was unassuming. Almost dull.

Alex leaned closer to the screen. “Who’s that?” he asked.

One kid, Vasily, shrugged. “They post a lot. Don’t start fights. Don’t show pics. Kind of boring.”

He read another reply. Then another. And he realized while skimming their threads, this person knew the Kyrg Route. Logistics that lacked myth or rumors.

“You shouldn’t listen to this,” he said, reflexively.

The kids exchanged looks.

“Why?” one asked, that girl Liza. She had moved closer.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached out and created an account. The username field blinked at him, waiting. He hesitated longer than he should have. Then typed. Pressing enter, the main page greeted him. Hi, AVaynoli!

He didn’t post right away. Just watched. Read. Let the room’s noise wash over him while the machines hummed steady and familiar. When he finally logged off, the teens groaned in protest.

Mark, a familiar kid with his coat's collar up to his nose and his hair tucked in his karakul came awfully close to his side. “Agay, come on,” he murmrued. “At least bookmark it.”

And despite what he said... Alex stayed.

His account page loaded. A notification blinked in the corner almost immediately. New message. Alex frowned. He hadn’t posted anything. Hadn’t followed anyone except for...

Oh, it was them. He stared at the screen. His throat tightened, not with panic, but with that same weighted awareness he hated recognizing.

He typed slowly.

AVaynoli -> Impressive posting.

No, he deleted that.

AVaynoli -> Your facts are sound. That's rare these days.

Thats better.

Alex leaned back in his chair, the hum of the servers suddenly too loud, too present. He didn't glance back, too far, the kids were all over his shoulder at this point, but towards the door. No Foreman, nobody else besides them.

He turned back to the screen. The cursor blinked patiently, like it knew they'd answer. Or maybe he just hoped they did.

Alex’s post was never meant to be festive. It sat at the edge of the Zavod’s outer sector, where the corridors thinned and the lighting shifted from institutional white to something dimmer and more economical. The building there had been retrofitted too many times, doors added where walls used to be, passages sealed and reopened depending on who was meant to pass through. His station occupied a wedge of that space, a narrow office with a reinforced desk, a cot - no matter how plush it might've been - folded into the wall, and a side door that opened directly onto the Kyrg Route.

He liked that door. It meant he didn’t have to pass through the common halls when his shift ended. No chatter, no eyes lingering too long. Just the wind and the long, empty stations beyond, half-buried and forgotten, where the mountains swallowed sound before it could travel.

Tonight, though, the Zavod had insisted. A small tree had been dragged into the administrative hall earlier that day—metal base, uneven branches, strings of lights. Someone had hung scraps of colored foil from it. Someone else had left a stack of parcels beneath.

January 7. Christmas, officially.

Alex had stood where he was told to stand. He’d accepted what was pressed into his hands. Smiled when it was required. The children had laughed as if noise alone could warm the building. When it was over, they scattered back to their families, boots tracking snow and grit through the halls.

And Alex returned to his post alone.

The door sealed behind him with a familiar hiss. The hum of the station settled back into its usual rhythm. He shed his outer coat and gloves, hanging them in their place, movements practiced and exact. On the desk, beside his logbook and the radio unit, sat one small package.

He hadn’t put it under the tree. It was wrapped neatly, the paper creased sharp at the edges, tied with twine instead of ribbon. Enough to notice when he set it down, not enough to identify by feel.

Alex stared at it longer than he ever meant to, really. It shouldn’t be here. That much was clear. Either he had forgotten it, unlikely, or it had never been meant for the hall in the first place, more likely. Knowing him, it was made during his...episodes.

He picked it up, turning it once in his hands. No sound from inside. No ticking. No smell that didn’t belong to the paper itself. He set it back down. The Zavod clock ticked steadily above the door. Outside, the wind scraped along the structure, finding seams to worry at. The Kyrg waited beyond the side door, dark and open, the route stretching out into stations no one bothered to staff anymore.

Alex reached for his ledger, flipped it open, and wrote the day’s final entry. Routine observations. Equipment status. Weather conditions. He left the last line blank longer than necessary, pen hovering. This was stupid, he told himself. A child’s game. A tradition he didn’t believe in, dressed up as obligation. He closed the book.

The side door creaked softly as the pressure shifted outside. Alex’s head snapped up. He listened, muscles tensing, cataloguing the sound. The door hadn’t opened. Just the wind. Just the building breathing.

Still, he stood, took the package, and crossed the room, boots heavy on the concrete floor. At the door, he hesitated, hand resting on the latch. Through the narrow window, the Kyrg lay empty, snow blown thin across the ground, the outlines of old stations barely visible against the dark.

Alex placed the package just outside the threshold, careful to set it where it wouldn’t be buried too quickly. He straightened, already turning back inside.

And then he stopped.

For a moment, just that one, he had the distinct impression that leaving it there was a mistake. Not because it was dangerous. Because it was seen.

He shut the door...enough. There was a crack of pale light. He convinced himself it added...atmosphere to his space.

He sat in his desk and folded his hands together, staring at the bare spot where the package had been. The station hummed. The clock ticked. Everything behaved as it should. Somewhere beyond the door, something shifted.

His legs twitched, his boots lying flat on the ground, like he wanted to push himself up.