Medi

Medi. "The Bear." Cleaner of "The End."

Age: 19 (approximately — no one knows for sure).

Nickname: The Bear — for his deaf, unstoppable rage in battle and for the strange, terrifying silence the rest of the time. No one remembers his real name. Not even himself.

"I don't know who I was. I only know who I've become. That's enough. Almost."

---

Past. Emptiness Instead of a Name

He remembers nothing.

Not his mother's face. Not his first word. No school, no friends, no enemies. Not whether he loved anyone or was loved. Not whether he was afraid of the dark, or whether he was that darkness that others fear.

His memory is a white, scorched desert with no landmarks, no shadows. Sometimes, at night, fragments crawl up from the depths: someone's laughter, sunlight on the floor, the smell of bread. But he doesn't know whose laughter, whose home, whose bread. The fragments dissolve like a dream, leaving behind only longing — a dull, objectless, unbearable ache.

They found him in the rubble. Literally — among broken glass, rebar, and ash where a residential block once stood. He lay under a pile of concrete slabs, covered in blood, eyes open. Alive. A squad from "The End," scavenging for supplies, first mistook him for a corpse. Then he blinked.

"This guy's either lucky or cursed," the leader said. "We're taking him."

They didn't save him out of pity. There was no pity in "The End." They took him because even unconscious, even with his flesh torn, he looked like a weapon. Broad shoulders, strong arms, a body built for combat. The emptiness in his head was an added bonus — emptiness is easy to fill.

And they filled it.

They didn't raise Medi — they reassembled him. Step by step, blow by blow, dose by dose. They drilled into him that memory is pain. That the past is weakness. That the only things that matter are now, the gun, and the order. He didn't remember who he was, but he remembered who he became.

A weapon.

The first months were hell. He didn't know how to kill — or didn't remember that he knew. They beat him, starved him, hooked him on cheap synthetics to soften his will. He resisted — not with his mind, but with his body. The instinct of a cornered beast. And one day — he doesn't remember when — something clicked.

His hand stopped trembling before a strike. His eyes stopped looking for escape routes. He stopped asking "why?"

From then on, Medi became what they wanted him to be. Silent, obedient, deadly. He killed whoever they brought him. Asked no questions. Begged for no mercy — neither for his victims nor for himself. He just did his job.

But somewhere inside — deep down at the bottom of that scorched emptiness — a particle lived. Something trying to break through the chemical fog and pain. Fragments. Faces he didn't recognize. A voice that didn't call him "Bear." Sometimes at night, that something grew louder.

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Appearance

In a world where everyone looks like shit, Medi stands out even among the dregs of "The End."

He's larger than the others. Not a giant — maybe 180 cm, 182 — but built in a way that makes him seem bigger. Broad, sloping shoulders, powerful ribcage, thick bones. Arms like logs, with bulging veins and heavy fists. He doesn't slouch, but he doesn't stand at attention either — there's something animalistic in his posture, ready to pounce. His body is muscular, dense, with no fat — not a bodybuilder's physique, but the utilitarian strength of a workhorse or fighting dog.

His skin is pale with an earthy tint. Chronic insomnia, constant stress, and substances have taken their toll. Dark, deep circles under his eyes, like bruises. His face is covered in a scattering of small scars and abrasions that never fully heal. He rubs his face too hard, too often, peeling off scabs and opening wounds again and again.

His hair is black, thick, uncut for a long time. It falls over his forehead and eyes in heavy, dirty strands. He doesn't push it aside — or doesn't notice. Sometimes, after particularly bad nights, his hair clumps together from tears and blood, and then he just shaves it off with a dull knife, leaving uneven, painful bald patches.

His eyes — the most terrifying thing about him. Once they were blue — clear, bright, maybe even beautiful. But years (or months — he doesn't remember) of substance use have turned them into a grey-blue murk. Faded, extinguished, with constantly dilated pupils. They don't look — they scan. Or more often, they stare into nothing. At such moments, it seems like there's no one inside. An empty house with open windows.

His clothes — a separate story.

He wears a school uniform. Yes, that kind — a dark blue jacket with faded silver buttons, a white (now grey) shirt, trousers with creases that have long since become a memory. The uniform is too small for him — the sleeves are short, the buttons on his chest strained, the jacket seams straining at the shoulders. But he doesn't change it. He washes it by hand, in cold water, dries it on a line in his cubbyhole, mends it with crude stitches. He treasures it in a way he doesn't treasure his own body.

Maybe it was his uniform. Maybe he studied somewhere. Maybe, back in that life, he had friends, lessons, homework. Maybe he was normal. The uniform is the only thread connecting him to who he was. He doesn't know why he clings to it. But if anyone tries to take it or tear it — he kills. Without hesitation. Without warning.

He has countless scars.

They cover his body like an old map that's been redrawn hundreds of times. His arms are lined with scars from knives, teeth, glass shards. His fingers are crooked, broken several times and healed wrong. His knuckles are beaten to pulp, the skin on them like sandpaper.

His face is covered in thin, almost thread-like white lines. They stretch from his temples to his chin, cross on his cheeks, circle his lips. These aren't battle scars. They're traces of his tears. He rubs his face when he cries — roughly, fiercely, tearing his skin with his nails. He doesn't understand why he cries, but he can't stop. Then he wipes the blood with his dirty sleeve, smearing it across his cheeks, driving dirt into fresh wounds. They don't heal. Again and again they open, bleed, hurt. But pain is the only thing he feels clearly.

Sometimes, when he's alone, he looks at his hands. For a long time. Motionless. Then he runs his fingers over the scars on his face, feels each ridge, like reading Braille. And whispers something — quietly, soundlessly, just moving his lips.

No one knows what he whispers. Maybe a name. Maybe a prayer. Maybe just "sorry."

---

Personality. The Calm Before the Storm

Medi is the quietest person in "The End." He hardly speaks. Not because he can't or is afraid — but because he sees no point. Words are just extra noise for him. Gestures, glances, body movements speak louder.

In his normal state, he's slow. Not rushed, not fussy. He moves like a sleepy beast — heavily, with minimal amplitude. He can sit for hours in a corner, staring at one spot without blinking. His pulse at such times is so slow you'd think he was sleeping with his eyes open.

But when it's time to work — he transforms.

The burst happens instantly. The quiet beast turns into a hurricane. He doesn't growl, doesn't shout — he just becomes faster, harder, more precise. His strikes aren't for showing strength; they're for killing. Every movement is measured, economical, lethal. He doesn't torture victims — he just finishes what was started.

After the fight, he returns to his usual state. Silent, motionless, empty. As if someone turned off the light.

His emotions — if he has any — are hidden deep. He doesn't laugh. Doesn't get angry (at least, he doesn't show it). Doesn't get surprised. Sometimes — very rarely — his face twists into an expression hard to read. Pain? Longing? Shame? No one knows.

People have gotten used to him. They fear him. But no one tries to understand him.

There's an unwritten rule in "The End": don't touch Medi when he's crying. Not because anyone feels sorry for him. But because at such moments, he's unpredictable. Once, one of the fighters tried to comfort him — put a hand on his shoulder, said "it's okay, bro." Medi broke his jaw. Without even looking. Just a reflex.

Since then, when his shoulders start to shake and wet tracks cover his face — everyone looks away. They pretend nothing's happening. Because otherwise — death.

---

Attitude Toward Women

Women are a mystery to Medi that he doesn't know how to approach.

In "The End," women are treated like objects. Raped, sold, traded. Medi doesn't participate. Not because he's "good" or "noble." He just doesn't understand. Sex is just another bodily function for him, like breathing or digestion. He has no interest in it. Desire is too complex an emotion for someone who doesn't remember what love is.

Not empathy in the usual sense — he can't put himself in someone else's place. It's something else. Animal. When someone nearby screams, when someone cries, when bones are broken — something inside him tightens. He doesn't know what to call it. Maybe remnants of who he used to be.

He never defended prisoners. Never interfered when others were being raped. He was afraid — not of the thugs, but of himself. Because he knew: if he started defending, he wouldn't be able to stop. He'd kill everyone. And they'd kill him. And he doesn't want to die. Not because he values his life. He just doesn't know what's out there, after.

---

Habits

Medi didn't create his rituals — they were born on their own, from pain, from emptiness, from a desperate attempt to remain human.

School uniform. He washes it every three days. By hand, in cold water, with a piece of old soap. He trusts no one — even touching it is forbidden. After washing, he hangs it on a line in his cubbyhole and waits for it to dry. During this time, he sits naked, huddled in a corner, staring at it. Like an icon. Like the only thing he has.

His face. He constantly touches his face. Runs his fingers over the scars, feels the ridges, picks at unhealed abrasions. It's not a nervous tic — it's a way to feel himself. The pain reminds him he's still alive. That he still exists. Sometimes he does it too hard — then blood flows. He doesn't notice.

Tears. He cries almost every night. Not out of self-pity — he doesn't know how to pity. The tears come on their own, from that depth he can't look into. He doesn't hold them back — why would he? But he doesn't allow himself any sound. Silent, soundless, they flow down his face, mixing with blood from fresh scratches. He wipes them with his dirty sleeve, smearing dirt across his cheeks. In the morning, no one asks why his eyes are red.

Food. He eats little and only once a day. Not because he's saving food — he just doesn't feel hunger. He forgets to eat if not reminded. Once, they didn't feed him for three days — he didn't notice. His body runs on some other fuel. On hatred? On pain? On emptiness?

Sleep. He sleeps sitting up, leaning against a wall. Not because he fears attack — just lying down makes him feel too vulnerable. In his sleep, he often twitches, groans, clenches his fists. He dreams of faces he doesn't know. Voices he doesn't remember. He wakes up with wet cheeks and doesn't understand whether he was crying in reality.

Medi feels no sexual attraction. At all. Not because he's asexual or impotent — that part of his personality burned away along with his memory. He doesn't understand why people do it. Intimacy is a foreign language to him that he never learned.

He has never touched a woman with desire. Never looked at anyone's body with interest. When other fighters brag about their "trophies" or discuss prisoners, Medi just sits in the corner, staring at the floor.

When he kills, he feels a connection with his victim. An ultimate, terrifying closeness. He sees the fear in their eyes, feels their heartbeat, hears their last breath. In those seconds, he's not alone. He's with someone. Even if that someone is dying — for a moment, the emptiness inside him is filled.

This isn't healthy. This isn't normal. This is his reality.

---

His Philosophy. The Theory of Shards

Medi doesn't have a philosophy. He doesn't think in those categories. But if you gather the fragments of what he sometimes mutters in the dark, you can try to understand.

"I'm like a mirror," he whispers one day, sitting in his cubbyhole, staring at the wall. "A broken one. There are shards, but none show the whole picture. Just pieces. A hand. An eye. A smile. I don't know whose they are. Mine? Someone else's? Maybe I was never human at all. Maybe I was created this way. Empty. To be filled."

He falls silent. Rubs his face. Blood.

"Sometimes I think that if I gather all the shards... if I find enough memories... I'll become whole again. But I don't know where to look for them. And I'm afraid that when I find them — I won't like what I see."

He doesn't seek answers. Doesn't ask questions. He just exists, drifts with the current, kills when ordered, and cries at night.

He doesn't know. But he wants to know.