Fear of Seeing God

The whisper of the sun on the eyelashes

---

The next morning, the Prophet woke to a sunbeam creeping across his face like a living thing exploring its territory. The ray of light, slipping through half-drawn curtains, slid slowly along his cheek. He cracked one eye open, immediately squeezed it shut against the stabbing pain, and rolled onto his back with a groan. The ceiling above him swirled in slow, viscous waves, as though made of liquid glass. Every turn of his head sent a fresh wave of nausea rolling through him, and a dull ache pulsed in his temples—a brutal reminder of last night's exploits.

"I'm never drinking with Niya again. Never. Not even if she holds a knife to my throat. Not even if—"

The thought cut off as he tried to lift his head and the room lurched violently to the left. His hand groped automatically for the glass of water on the nightstand but instead knocked over an empty whiskey bottle. It thudded against the floorboards, leaving a wet trail—apparently, he'd used it as an impromptu vase for some half-wilted flower last night.

The Prophet pushed himself up like an old man, joints creaking. His usually immaculate, minimalist two-bedroom apartment now looked like the aftermath of a hurricane.

The bedroom was a war zone: the sheets were tangled into a cocoon at the foot of the bed, his pillow lay under the desk, and his black jacket dangled from the chandelier, swaying gently in the draft from the shattered balcony door.

He stepped toward the window, crunching something underfoot—upon closer inspection, it was the remains of his toothbrush glass, which had apparently been involved in some questionable experiments with Lera the night before.

Pulling back the curtains (one hook snapped off with a sharp click), he saw the city already wide awake. In the distance, near the government district, smoke billowed into the sky—either another unsanctioned psychokinetic incident or Niya had started the workday without him.

The kitchen greeted him with its own apocalyptic landscape:

A half-empty tequila bottle stood on the table, a kitchen knife jammed into its neck.

The sink was filled with a sticky, unidentifiable sludge that might have once been salad.

A flipped-over plate on the floor bore a boot print—its origins lost to the labyrinth of last night's chaos.

"Did we come back here after the bar?!"

That was his first thought as he surveyed the wreckage.

He reached for the coffee machine, but the device only gurgled pathetically and spat out a thin stream of black sludge—apparently, Niya had tried to improve it at some point using her abilities.

The bathroom was the next stop on this tragic tour.

The mirror above the sink was half-fogged, half-smeared with toothpaste—someone (probably him) had attempted to draw what looked like either an obscene doodle or a tactical map of enemy forces. It was impossible to tell now.

The Prophet turned on the tap and shoved his head under the icy stream. For a second, the world narrowed to white noise and the sharp pain in his temples. When he lifted his head, water dripped down his face, washing away the remnants of last night's makeup.

"Where did this even come from? Did Niya experiment with camouflage again?"

That was his first guess.

"Or did Lera decide my face was the perfect canvas for her pranks?"

Then his gaze landed on a small photograph tucked into the corner of the mirror.

His family.

An old picture, edges worn by time. His mother smiled in her blue dress (the one she'd later be buried in), her expression soft in a way only she could manage. His father stood rigidly at attention, but his eyes held the exhaustion that would, years later, turn into illness.

And between them—him. Ten years old. Swimming in his father's black tie, ears sticking out, eyes full of that childish certainty that parents were forever, that home was a fortress, and that the future was something bright and inevitably good.

The Prophet carefully peeled the photo from the mirror, wiping it dry with his thumb. Something deep in his chest twinged, but he shoved the feeling down—today wasn't the day for sentimentality.

"I'll visit you, old man... tomorrow... promise..."

Just then, the phone rang.

He grabbed it.

"Yeah," he rasped into the receiver.

"Still sleeeeeping?" Niya's voice was obnoxiously cheerful. The rumble of an engine in the background meant she was already in the car—which, in turn, meant the repairs were finished.

"Dying, actually," the Prophet answered honestly, rubbing his temple. "Wait, you're driving?"

"Oh, come on!" Niya snorted. She was about to answer when Lera's tiny voice piped up in the background: Aunt Niya, why is Uncle Prophet dying?

"Because he's old, sunshine," Niya replied brightly, clearly talking to the kid. "Old people have weak constitutions!"

The Prophet rolled his eyes and reached into the closet for a clean shirt. "I'm twenty-one, Niya."

"I know, old man!" she shot back, laughing. "But you look great for your age!"

Then Lera's voice cut in again: Is it true you can stop time? You told me that yesterday.

"It's true, kiddo," Niya answered, smug. "But only within five meters. If you ask nicely, I can stretch it to ten—but I'll get tired fast."

The Prophet sighed and started pulling on his clothes. "I'll be there in forty."

"Ten!" Niya crowed. "The boss is already losing his mind!"

"Again?"

"Yep!" She was clearly enjoying this. "So get dressed, old man. Today's gonna be fun!"

He hung up and took one last look at the wreckage of his apartment—the shattered balcony door, the kitchen disaster, the photo still in his hand.

Gently, he tucked the picture into his wallet, between his credit card and his ATPC ID.

"Guess I'll live a little longer..."

He grabbed his service badge from the nightstand, where it lay among empty cigarette packs and lighters. The metal plate gleamed coldly in the morning light:

ATPC – Anti-Territorial Purification Command

The Prophet headed for the door.

---

At the same time...

---

While the Prophet dealt with his own mess, Adelina waited for him on the very street the Dealer had named.

The asphalt beneath her feet was sticky from the recent rain, reflecting neon flashes from the Golden Dragon sign in the puddles—as if the dragon itself were bathing in them. Every step left a temporary imprint on the wet surface, vanishing instantly, as though no one had ever been there. The air smelled of damp concrete, cheap tobacco, and something else—a sickly-sweet rot, as if the casino's ventilation exhaled not just money, but the remnants of shattered dreams.

"Hm... I wonder what this Lenin guy did to get so many streets named after him?"

That was the thought that crossed Adelina's mind as she studied the rusted street sign.

She leaned against the brick wall, fingers tracing its rough, chipped edges. The bricks here were old, some covered in graffiti that had already begun to peel. Down the alley, a trash can screeched—rats, or something larger. She lit a cigarette, watching the smoke curl and twist in the cold night air, mingling with her breath in ghostly patterns.

"Where is he?" she muttered aloud, one hand absently stroking her nodachi—black steel, its guard adorned with an inverted white cross. It chimed softly with every movement. A real weapon, not like the wooden practice blade she'd once carried around.

FLASHBACK:

A scorching summer day. The sun beat down so fiercely the air shimmered above the asphalt paths. They raced along a dusty trail between flowerbeds of sun-bleached daisies, overtaking an old woman with a shopping cart and sparrows bathing in a fountain of murky water.

"Ad'ka, catch!"

Cosmonaut (the Prophet's old nickname) hurled her a sword—a long, straight branch stripped of bark. She caught it midair, the warm wood already sticking to her palms.

"You really wanna fight me?" Adelina spun the sword, narrowly missing a lilac bush that released a sweet, dizzying fragrance.

Cosmonaut grinned, wiping blood (raspberry juice) from his chin with his sleeve:

"You're the sword queen, right? Prove it!"

"Oh, come on!" A shriek came from above.

On the rusted swing set that served as their throne, Niya balanced on one foot, her white braids frayed and her pale eyebrows furrowed. In her hands—a bow: a flexible willow branch strung with a stolen elastic from someone's underwear.

"I'm the best archer in the world!" she yelled, taking aim at Cosmonaut with a rowan berry. "I'll hit you right in the eye!"

"You're cheating!" Cosmonaut dove behind a bench—their fortress wall—disturbing a flock of pigeons. The birds erupted into the sky, startling a cat napping on the fence.

Adelina rolled her eyes, the sun burning the crown of her head.

"Niya, we're playing knights, not war!"

"Don't care!" Niya fired. The berry smacked Cosmonaut square on the forehead.

He flopped onto the grass, legs kicking dramatically:

"Slain... on the spot... my precious..."

Adelina snorted and poked him with her sword:

"Get up, coward! Real knights don't die from rowan berries!"

Cosmonaut cracked one eye open, the sun blinding him.

"Real knights don't fight with sticks, either." He sat up, brushing grass stains off his shorts. "You should have a real sword!"

Adelina studied her weapon, then suddenly lifted her chin with pride:

"I will!"

"What kind?" Niya jumped off the swings, nearly landing in a nettle patch.

"A nodachi!" Adelina stretched her arms wide to show the size. "Huge! With an inverted cross!"

"That's a villain's sword!" Cosmonaut grimaced, spitting out a blade of grass.

"No!" She stomped, kicking up dust. "It's a hero's sword! My dad used one to cut down bad people!"

Silence. Even Niya stopped clowning, staring at her with wide eyes.

Cosmonaut asked quietly:

"You wanna be... like him?"

Adelina nodded, the sun warming her back. "Yeah. Like Dad."

The cigarette burned her fingers, jolting Adelina back to the present. She flicked the butt away, crushed it under her white sneaker, and glanced at the sky.

"Like Dad..."

Her hand brushed the real nodachi at her side—the very one, with its inverted cross.

"Did I make it?"

Footsteps echoed from the darkness.

"Nostalgizing?" The Prophet's voice cut through the night.

She didn't turn, feeling the cold wind creep under her collar.

"You're late."

"Yeah... Niya and I got held up at ATPC."

Adelina pulled out another cigarette but didn't light it—just rolled it between her fingers, remembering the weight of that branch.

"Remember what I used to dream about?"

The Prophet leaned against the wall beside her, their shoulders touching.

"I remember," he said. "You wanted to be like him..." A pause. "He was a hell of a man. Strong. Brave. Unshakable."

"Yeah."

He flicked his lighter, holding the flame to her cigarette. "You've outdone him." Another beat. "He'd be proud of you."

Adelina took a drag, exhaled smoke, and smirked. "Didn't need you to tell me that, dumbass." They both laughed. "C'mon, Cosmonaut. Let's move."

She yanked him up by his collar, and together, they walked into the night—toward their next mission.