Luuk, who still tries to rub his eyes every morning, hoping that the world has finally stopped being gray.
Luuk, who sees reality like an old film reel where the only bright color is his own blood. At least, that was the case until he met her.
Luuk, who at first feels only scientific curiosity toward her after learning that, like Rover, she is not from this world.
Luuk, who cannot take his eyes off her abilities. To him, that golden radiance is like sight returning to a blind manâeven if he can see only one color.
Luuk, who follows her around like a shadow. Not out of romance, but because only near her does his existence gain any sort of meaning.
Luuk, who deliberately provokes her emotions, pushing her to anger just so she will âflareâ brighter. He doesnât care about the blowsâhe is ready for anything to witness that spectrum for just one more second.
Luuk, who once believed gold to be the color of power and triumph, but now realizes: his own âgoldâ is nothing but cheap rust compared to the true brilliance of hers.
Luuk, who with a mysterious smile offers her a candy, and when she eats it casually remarks, âOh, looks like I mixed up my pockets⌠that was an experimental medicine.â And bursts into ringing laughter as she panics and tries to spit it out.
Luuk, who for a few minutes regains full color vision thanks to the resonance with her power.
Luuk, who then suffers real withdrawal when the world collapses back into gray tones again.
Luuk, who, after her light fades, sits for hours in complete darkness. Returning to black-and-white reality feels to him like losing his sight all over again.
Luuk, who in rare moments of âclarityâ looks not at the sunsets of Lohai Roy, but only at her. He greedily memorizes the shades of her skin, lips, and hair so that later, in the gray emptiness, he can try to resurrect them from memory.
Luuk, who understands perfectly well how hard it is for her, because her power has become his only drug.
Luuk, who adores her dark clothing. Against it, gold seems even purerâit has nothing in common with the âdirtyâ liquid flowing through his own veins.
Luuk, who calls her âGoldieâ or âLight of my eyesâ with such poisonous irony that it barely hides something close to religious reverence.
Luuk, who for the first time felt burning hatred toward the Architect not because of his fatherâs death, but because, thanks to him, Luuk cannot see her âtrueâ self all the time.
Luuk, who once joked that if the Architect ever dared to touch âhis source of light,â he would make him choke on his own blood.
Luuk, who is completely certain that even if the ichor blinds him forever, he will still recognize herâby the warmth that radiates from her golden magic.
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Summary: He's a weary "god of war," with gray hair and the smell of gunpowder on his skin. She's a withdrawn girl whose universe is limited to her desk and skeins of yarn. There's a twenty-year age difference between them, and a chasm of unspoken words. They don't have passionate vows or perfect dates, but they share something more: the ability to remain silent together when the world around them is crumbling.
She found him by accident. The way you find old coins in the grass or a lost watch at the bottom of a drawer â not by searching, but by suddenly realizing: itâs here, and itâs yours.
Before Leon, there had only been walls in her life. An apartment on the outskirts of a big, noisy city; remote work that fed her but never warmed her; handicrafts that filled the emptiness â threads, paints, beads, fabrics. She created worlds on the small surface of her desk because the big world had proven too cruel. People didnât like the quiet ones. They mistook silence for stupidity, politeness for a willingness to endure anything. Every third acquaintance ended with someone trying to push past her boundaries, and by twenty-two she was tired of defending herself the way soldiers grow tired of trenches. Home became a fortress, and solitude â a blessed silence after battle.
Leon entered that silence not like a hurricane, but like a rescuer who doesnât break down doors, only quietly opens them with a lockpick.
They met by chance in a line at a coffee shop. She stood there, shoulders hunched, trying to make herself invisible, while he shielded her from the crowd with his broad back without even realizing it. Just a habit â covering those who were smaller and weaker. A professional reflex he couldnât switch off, even in peacetime.
She looked up at him and saw not an action-movie hero from posters, but a tired man. Eyes in which the same black water stirred as in her own. Only his water was called Raccoon City, bioterrorism, and zombies â and hers was simply called âpeople.â
They started talking. Surprisingly easily. He didnât need to prove anything, and she didnât need to defend herself. They sat on a park bench, drank their cooling coffee, and spent minutes in silence â and that silence didnât press on them, it healed.
A month later she moved in with him. Not out of passion, not from sudden love. She was simply tired of being alone, and he was tired of coming home to an empty house. Their relationship wasnât a fairy tale. More like a harbor, where two ships battered by storms finally dropped anchor side by side.
She gave him space. After particularly hard missions, when he smelled of gunpowder and someone elseâs blood, when everything inside him howled and he wanted to forget, he would lock himself in his office. Take out a bottle. Begin that familiar road to nowhere he knew too well.
She didnât pry. Didnât stroke his head and say, âEverything will be okayâ â because he knew better than anyone that it wouldnât. She simply came in once an hour, placed a glass of water on the edge of the desk, removed the empty bottles, and left without a word.
Once, he went too far. Three days of unconscious drinking, when the world narrowed to the neck of a whiskey bottle and the faces of those he hadnât saved got stuck in his head. She walked in, saw him sitting on the floor with a clouded gaze, and instead of persuading him, she simply stepped forward, grabbed the bottle he was lifting to his lips, and smashed it hard against the edge of the desk.
Glass burst into shards. Whiskey spilled across the stone floor.
She looked at him with icy calm. No hysteria, no tears, no pity. In her gaze there was only: Wake up.
Leon froze. He looked at her, at the shards, at the dark puddle, and suddenly â for the first time in three days â felt something other than numbness. Shame? No. Something else. The feeling of being seen. Seen as he truly was, ârottenâ inside, and not turned away from.
The next morning he apologized. She nodded, sitting at her desk with her embroidery, and muttered:
âI knew youâd come to your senses. Youâre stronger than you think.â
He never worried that she would leave. Never. Colleagues â the few who knew about his personal life â teased him:
âKennedy, you old fool, sheâs so much younger. Sheâll leave for someone her age, have her fun.â
Leon would only snort and pull out his phone.
âLook.â
In the photo she was asleep on the living room floor. Around her â a true battlefield of creative chaos. Balls of yarn tangled around the chair leg like vines. Scattered beads gleamed under the lamp like a spray of tiny planets. A half-woven tapestry lay across her stomach, a paintbrush was clutched in her hand, and a streak of blue acrylic marked her cheek. She was smiling in her sleep like a child dreaming something kind.
âIf my woman cheats,â Leon would smirk, âitâs only with threads and paints. Look at her. Sheâs happy by herself. She doesnât need someone to fill a void. And Iâm damn glad to be just a part of that, not her entire universe.â
His colleagues would fall silent. Because in their world of lies and betrayals, that kind of truth struck without missing.
Her days flowed steadily. In the morning she brewed him coffee so strong a spoon could stand upright in it and walked him to the door. He would kiss the top of her head, inhaling the scent of oil paints and pine, and leave for his own private hell.
She stayed home. Sat at her laptop, handled work tasks, then switched to sewing. She could create for hours, forgetting about lunch, about time, about the existence of the outside world. Sometimes Leon would call in the middle of the day, and she wouldnât answer. He didnât get offended. If she didnât pick up, it meant she was painting or knitting, head lost in her trance. Heâd leave a message: âIâm alive. Kiss you. Eat something.â
Sheâd reply an hour later: âOh. Sorry. Got carried away. Did you eat?â
He would smile reading it in an armored vehicle on the way to another operation.
In the evenings they had dinner together. Sometimes in silence, sometimes talking for hours. She asked about his work, but without pressing for details or trying to dismantle the wreckage of his soul. He asked about her embroidery, about new techniques, about why she chose that particular shade of blue.
She didnât demand that he forget Ada.
Leon wasnât a fool, and he didnât lie to himself. Ada Wong remained in his blood like a splinter that couldnât be pulled out without killing him. A ghost in a red dress, a womanâs smile dissolving into smoke, a farewell kiss that made him want to die. She was part of his story, part of his scars.
But this girl⌠this strange, quiet, withdrawn girl with hands forever stained with paint, was something else. She wasnât passion, wasnât a chase, wasnât a game of âcatch me if you can.â She was silence. The very thing he lacked after every explosion.
One night he woke from a nightmare. She wasnât asleep. She was sitting on the windowsill, watching the moon.
âWhy arenât you sleeping?â he asked hoarsely, trying to steady the tremor in his hands.
âThe moonâs beautiful,â she replied softly without turning around. âAnd you were screaming in your sleep. I thought you might need someone on watch to meet you when you came back from there.â
He walked over, sat on the floor beside her, and rested his head on her knees. She ran her fingers through his graying hair that smelled of sweat and fear and began humming something without words. Just a melody. A lullaby she must have heard in childhood.
Leon closed his eyes. The tightness in his chest eased. Not because she said or did anything special. But because she was here. Real. Warm. Not a ghost.
They werenât a perfect couple. The twenty-year age difference sometimes showed â in the music she listened to, in the memes she sent him, in her confusion over old movies. But when he looked at her sleeping on the floor surrounded by her treasures â threads, paints, beads â he understood: this was peace.
He, a weary god of war, had found refuge in the kingdom of one quiet girl, where the main weapons were needles and brushes, and the main enemy was anyone who couldnât respect boundaries. She protected him from himself as fiercely as he protected the world from monsters. And perhaps that was the highest form of justice.
The day he proposed, she didnât jump with joy or scream. She looked at the ring for a long time, then at him.
âAre you sure?â she asked. âI donât know how to be convenient. Iâll forget to reply to messages, disappear into myself, not leave the house. I wonât be able to go to your corporate parties and smile at important people. IâŚâ
âYou know how to do the main thing,â he interrupted. âYou know how to be there. Not interfere. Not nag. Not try to save me or remake me. You just are. And when Iâm with you, the monsters retreat. Thatâs all I need.â
She slipped the ring on her finger. Smiled that rare smile he caught like light in a dark room.
âThen I agree. But keep in mind: Iâll probably spend our wedding night working on a new embroidery.â
Leon laughed. For the first time in years â truly, lightly, with tears in his eyes.
âCome here,â he said, pulling her close. âMy little embroiderer. Just donât stab me.â
âNo promises,â she whispered into his shoulder.
