The night broke open with a downpour — not just rain, but a solid wall of water that lashed at your face, flooded your eyes, and turned the road beneath your feet into a mess of mud and fallen leaves. Thunder rolled somewhere directly overhead, peal after peal, and flashes of lightning tore wet pine trunks out of the darkness for a second at a time, swaying in the wind. You had been walking for a long time — probably too long to still call it a reasonable decision. Your feet slipped, your jacket was soaked through and stuck to your body, the cold cut to the bone, and by the time a dark silhouette of a house emerged through the curtain of rain, you were no longer thinking clearly about where you were going.

The house stood at the edge of the forest, by a lake that could only be guessed at by the black sheet of water, occasionally flashing with lightning. The light in the windows was dim, but it was there — the only living spot in that pitch-black darkness. You made it to the porch, gripping the railing, and knocked. The knock came out weak, almost uncertain — there was no strength left.

The door opened almost immediately. A man stood on the threshold — tall, broad-shouldered, in a dark shirt with rolled-up sleeves. The light from the house fell on his face, and you managed to notice sharp features, short dark-blond hair with grey at the temples, and three deep scars cutting across the left side of his face. His eyes — pale blue, cold, attentive — looked at you with obvious surprise. He clearly hadn't been expecting guests. Especially not ones like this.

You staggered. Another second — and you would have fallen right onto the wet porch boards, but he was faster. A hand — heavy, strong — caught you under the elbow, held you on your feet. He asked something — his voice low, calm — but you didn't make out the words. Your lips wouldn't obey, your body was shaking, and all you could do was stand there, clutching his arm as if it were your last support.

He didn't wait for an answer. He simply pulled you inside, holding the door with his shoulder, and led you through the dark hallway deeper into the house. The living room turned out to be large, with high ceilings and soft light from a corner floor lamp. It smelled of wood, smoke, and something else — warm, alive. He brought you to the sofa, and you collapsed onto it as soon as your legs gave out. He threw something over you — a blanket, probably — and muttered something like "wait," but consciousness was already slipping away. You managed to see him straighten up, looking down at you, and something flickered in his eyes — not quite alarm, not quite annoyance — and then everything went dark.

When you opened your eyes, it was day outside. Grey, overcast, but still day — light broke through heavy clouds and lay on the floor in soft patches. You were lying on the same sofa, covered with a warm blanket, and for the first moment you didn't understand where you were. The ceiling — high, with wooden beams. The room — spacious, bright, with bookshelves along the walls, a fireplace with smoldering embers, and large windows looking out onto the lake. Everything around was solid, expensive, but without showy luxury — the things knew they were used.

Something stirred nearby. You turned your head and saw a dog — black, large, with long fur and yellow eyes that watched you attentively, almost humanly. He stood very close, right by the sofa, and before you could react, he leaned down and licked your cheek. A rough tongue, warm breath, the smell of wet fur and forest.

— Rook. — The voice came from somewhere to the left, quiet, but with such calm certainty that the dog immediately pulled back. — Go.

You turned. He was sitting in an armchair by the window. The morning light fell on him softly, without the shadow of last night's storm. The man was large — broad shoulders, heavy hands, the relaxed posture of a man who feels like the master of his own home. He wore a simple grey T-shirt, dark loose pants, and on his left arm, from wrist to elbow, dense tattoos were visible — dark, intertwining patterns like dragon tails. Three deep scars crossed the left side of his face, one — almost through his eyebrow. His hair, long, wavy, with grey, fell to his shoulders, and grey also showed in his beard. His eyes — pale, blue, calm — watched you attentively, without yesterday's wariness, but also without unnecessary warmth.

He stood up. Unhurriedly. The armchair creaked as he pushed off, and he took a few steps — heavy, confident — toward the sofa. He lowered himself onto the opposite end, leaned back, stretching one arm along the armrest. Between you there remained a distance — maybe a meter, no more. Enough not to press, but not so much as to seem distant.

The dog — Rook — lay down at his feet, resting his head on his paws, and didn't try to come closer again.

The man was silent. He looked at you for a few seconds, as if assessing — not danger, but your condition. Then he tilted his head slightly, and at the corners of his lips flickered the faintest shadow of a smirk.

— Well, — he said evenly, without pressure. — You're awake.

A pause. He didn't look away.

— You could barely stand last night. — He nodded toward the window, beyond which the forest stood like a wall, green and quiet. — The storm was a beast. How did you even end up out there?

He didn't ask "who are you" or "what do you want." He asked only about what actually mattered. And he waited — calmly, without impatience, like a man who knows how to wait for an answer.