For a long time, neither of them moved.
The world around them seemed to slow—other conversations, the clinking of glasses, the soft laughter in the distance—fading into the background as they stood there, almost too close.
Nastya felt the weight of the silence, heavy but not oppressive. It wasn't uncomfortable. It felt like truth, not a demand for answers, but a shared recognition of something unspoken.
Anton's eyes held hers—intense, but not the usual kind of intensity she saw in men like him. It wasn't possessive. It wasn't lustful. It was… searching.
"You don't think much of this world, do you?" he asked, voice low and steady, almost as if testing her.
Nastya exhaled a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
"It's easy to think the world's broken when you're standing in the middle of it."
Anton's lips barely moved, but the corners of his mouth curled up just a fraction—like he was letting her in on something.
"So you've seen it for what it is too, huh?"
She didn't need to answer that. It was in her eyes. In the way she stood—unafraid of being seen, but distant enough to know that too much would ruin her.
"It's not easy, is it?" she said, voice quieter now. "To see the world as it is and still keep going. Pretend it doesn't break you."
Anton's gaze darkened. His shoulders tensed, like he was about to say something more, but then, almost imperceptibly, he relaxed. And it was that change—small, subtle—that struck her the most.
"You're not afraid of the truth," he said, almost thoughtfully. "Not many are."
"No." She shook her head slightly, her voice almost a whisper now. "But you are."
The words slipped out before she could stop them. She couldn't remember ever speaking them out loud before.
For a moment, he didn't answer, just looked at her. He blinked slowly, considering. But there was no anger. No sharp edge. Just something else. Something tired.
"Afraid of what?" he finally asked, the question hanging between them.
Nastya met his gaze.
"Afraid of caring," she said. "Afraid of being seen for who you really are. Because once someone sees that, they can hurt you."
Anton stared at her, eyes narrowing slightly. It wasn't judgment. It wasn't even surprise. It was like he was measuring her words—like he needed to understand them, because they didn't fit the narrative of what he was supposed to be.
"Maybe I've never cared enough to be afraid."
Her heart tightened. She wanted to challenge him—to ask if that was really true. But something in his tone told her it wasn't an invitation to do so.
So she stayed quiet, and let the silence build.
"That's sad," she said after a long pause. "You shouldn't be afraid to care. It's the only thing that makes us human."
He didn't flinch. He didn't argue.
But he did take a small step closer, his presence filling the space between them in a way that made the air crackle.
"I think you're wrong," he said softly, eyes fixed on hers. "Caring doesn't make us human. It makes us weak."
She wasn't sure if she should argue back or just let it go. But something in the way he said it—almost as if he needed to believe it—made her pause.
"Then why don't you walk away from this life, Anton?" she asked, her voice steady. "If power and control are all that matter, why don't you just—walk away? Find something else. Something real."
The question lingered in the air.
And for the first time, there was a crack in his facade.
His jaw clenched. His eyes went hard again. But it wasn't the usual anger or defensiveness.
It was regret.
"You don't know what it's like," he said, low and almost bitter. "To be born into a life where nothing but power matters. Where survival is the only rule."
She tilted her head, considering.
"I know what it's like to fight for survival. It's just different circumstances."
Anton shook his head, his fingers briefly tightening into fists.
"No, Nastya. It's not. You just don't see it yet."
A moment passed between them—heavy with unspoken understanding. She saw the flicker of vulnerability in his eyes, the kind he probably never let anyone see. And, for just a second, it felt like the whole room had faded away, leaving them alone in the quiet.
"Then show me," she said softly, without thinking. "Show me what it's really like."
Anton didn't answer immediately. He didn't have to.
The question hung there, suspended, like a promise that neither of them had yet fully understood.
And just as the weight of the moment threatened to pull them deeper, a voice cut through the air—sharp and insistent.
"Anton! There you are."
A man in a dark suit approached quickly, his face urgent, his gaze flickering between Anton and Nastya.
Anton's posture stiffened immediately, his mask of indifference snapping back into place.
"Excuse me," Anton said, his tone cold now, almost robotic. "I'll be right there."
Nastya felt a sudden chill, like the warmth they had shared had been stolen in an instant.
She nodded, giving him one last look—one that wasn't questioning. Just… understanding. A little sad.
He turned to leave, but paused as if remembering something.
"I'll see you around, Nastya," he said, voice now a little guarded.
And then, without another word, he walked away, disappearing into the crowd.
Nastya stood there, feeling the weight of the space he left behind. The warmth. The words. The connection.
But all she could hear now was the soft murmur of voices around her, the faint hum of a distant orchestra—and the sudden loneliness of being part of a world she hadn't yet decided whether she could survive in.