The morning came a little too quietly.
No footsteps from above, no knocking from the walls — even the neighbors’ cat downstairs, who usually wailed through the entire building, seemed to have vanished.
Maksim lay there for a long time, his face buried in the pillow, trying to understand why the silence irritated him so much.
His body felt heavy, as if filled with sand. His thoughts moved sluggishly, like thick murk swirling inside his skull.
He slowly opened his eyes. The room met him with a grayish light — an autumn morning, rain outside. Raindrops tapped evenly against the windowsill.
On the floor — yesterday’s clothes scattered about, a jacket hanging on the chair, and on the windowsill… Lapin.
He sat with his knees drawn up to his chest, watching the raindrops slide down the glass with a feline sort of focus. He was wearing one of Maksim’s T-shirts — too short for him, though he seemed to like it that way. In his hands — a mug, with faint steam curling from it.
“You’re… there again?” Maksim asked hoarsely.
“There’s a good view here,” Lapin replied simply, without taking his eyes off the window. “And it’s cold. I like the cold.”
Without a word, Maksim slid off the bed. He might have felt ashamed about yesterday’s breakdown, but he honestly didn’t care. Every step echoed dully in his head.
He switched on the kettle automatically and looked at his reflection in the microwave’s glass — a swollen face, dark circles under the eyes, messy hair.
*“What a handsome man,”* he thought dryly.
He rubbed his temples, reached for a mug… and suddenly — a sharp flash of light from the other room.
The laptop screen lit up on its own — pinkish, almost alive.
“No, not now…” Maksim whispered.
The system had activated.
**[Good morning, Maksim.]**
**[Update completed.]**
**[Mission resumed.]**
“What mission…?” he muttered, stepping closer automatically. “And haven’t you had *enough* updates already?”
**[Mission objective: prevent the suicide of subject ‘Andrey’.]**
**[Response time: limited.]**
The world seemed to narrow down instantly — to that single glowing screen.
Maksim didn’t even realize when he dropped the mug — it hit the table with a sharp clatter, splashing tea everywhere before rolling to the floor.
“What… what did you just say?” he whispered — to the laptop, or maybe to the air itself.
The system repeated.
Soft pink letters flowed smoothly across the screen, as if they weren’t text at all, but something alive — something breathing.
**[Subject “Andrey K.” — critical stage of psycho-emotional instability.]**
**[User action required.]**
“Shit…” Maksim took a step back, feeling blood hammer in his ears.
“What happened?” Lapin asked calmly.
He was still sitting in the same position, only now his gaze was fixed on Maksim instead of the rain.
“It’s… Andrey,” Maksim’s voice trembled. “My friend. The system says he wants to—”
He didn’t finish.
Lapin merely raised his eyebrows, as if he’d heard something curious rather than tragic.
“And what now?”
“What do you mean, *what now?!*” Maksim burst out. “I don’t know!”
He turned sharply back to the laptop.
“System! What am I supposed to do?!”
**[Attention: in the new version, the user must initiate the mission manually.]**
**[Form transformation is no longer automatic.]**
**[Decisions are made by the user.]**
“What…?” he exhaled. “What do you mean, manually?!”
**[You now have an assistant. Use awareness and interaction.]**
Maksim turned to Lapin.
“This is a joke, right?”
“No,” Lapin replied evenly. “The system simply shifted the responsibility onto you.”
“Perfect. Just perfect. One more update and I’ll have a complete nervous breakdown.”
“Again?”
He grabbed the laptop, as if he might shake some sense out of it.
— *System! Transform me! Now!*
**[Denied.]**
**[Reason: the user must choose the activation moment manually.]**
“What the hell are you, you digital bastard?!” he shouted, slamming his fists on the keyboard.
A few keys flew off. The screen flickered, went dark for a second, then glowed again.
**[Physical interference detected.]**
**[Warning: violation of protocol will result in mission suspension.]**
Maksim clutched his hair in despair.
“I can’t! He… he might die, do you understand?!”
“Yes,” Lapin replied evenly.
“And you just *say it* like that?!”
“How else should I say it?” Lapin tilted his head slightly. “I’m supposed to care only about you. After all, you’re my master — and I’m just the *‘Bunny.’*”
He said it with a mocking sweetness in his voice, smiling faintly.
Maksim spun around.
“Don’t call yourself that,” he hissed. “And don’t call me ‘master.’”
Lapin stretched lazily, as if the entire conversation wasn’t worth a breath.
“But it’s true, isn’t it? You command, I obey. Or is it the other way around now? The system did say *you’re the one making decisions.*”
“Shut up,” Maksim said tiredly. “Just… shut up for one damn minute.”
He ran a hand over his face. His skin felt cold and sticky — like he’d spent the whole night in the rain.
The room was slowly filling with gray morning light. Outside, the rain grew heavier. The drops hit the glass with dull thuds, like someone was throwing handfuls of small stones.
“Goddammit, why does *everything* have to pile up on me at once!?”
Maksim snapped.
Something inside him broke — a tense string that had been pulled too long, finally tearing.
He jumped up so suddenly the world tilted; the floor seemed to slip away beneath him. His chest burned, boiling over.
He screamed — hoarse, broken, barely human — and began hitting himself in the head.
At first lightly, as if testing the pain. Then harder.
Each dull thud echoed through his skull, vibrating in his ears until he wanted to scream louder just to drown it out.
“*Shut up!*” he roared — not even sure whom he was yelling at: himself, the system, or the whole damn world that wouldn’t let him breathe.
Each blow seemed to knock the thoughts loose for a heartbeat — but they always came back, heavier, filthier.
In his mind — Andrey: laughing, alive — then empty, expressionless.
The system.
Lapin.
Missions.
Transformations.
It all blurred into one vile, suffocating mass pressing from inside.
He let out a strange sound — half groan, half strangled sob.
He couldn’t breathe. His chest clenched. His breath came in ragged gasps.
He collapsed to his knees.
“Stop… please, just stop…” he whispered, staring at the floor, not even noticing the tears streaming down his face.
His hand went to his hair — at first just to steady himself.
Then he *pulled.*
His fingers trembled. Nails scraped against his own skin — pain tangled with despair.
A few pale strands of hair stayed in his hand. Maxim stared at them — and didn’t recognize his own fingers.
This isn’t normal.
It’s not supposed to be like this.
No one should ever fall apart like this, goddamn it.
He sank to the floor, clutching his head with both hands. Thoughts pounded against his temples like hammers:
*I can’t do this. I can’t handle it.
It’s all wrong — I’m not supposed to save people. I’m no angel, no hero. I just want it to end.
Why me? Why always me?*
He was shaking.
The world around him seemed to breathe — the walls quivered, the light from the window flickered, and the air grew thick, heavy. His chest felt like it was burning from the inside.
He knew that if he didn’t stop now — he’d do something to himself. Anything, just to stop feeling.
“I’m tired…” he whispered, barely audible. “I just want it all to stop.”
He lowered his head; his forehead touched the cold floor. His breathing was ragged, broken.
A shadow stirred to the side — Lapin, silent, unmoving, watching.
He stood there, calm, detached, his eyes glinting with some strange light as he observed a man breaking.
Maxim lifted his brown eyes.
They held fear — not of pain, not of the System, but of himself.
*I don’t even know where I end and the madness begins anymore. If it’s all this hopeless — why fight at all?*
He closed his eyes, fists tightening until his knuckles went white.
And he whispered:
“Please… just let me disappear…”
Lapin chuckled softly, licking his lips. Truth be told, the sight amused him. The young man rolled his crimson eyes, baring sharp white teeth, and in a tone mockingly tender said:
“Humans are such fragile creatures… Even something as stupid as someone *failing to die* can drive you insane.”
He stepped closer, soundless, cautious — almost stalking. “But I’ll be honest… I’ve never seen anyone quite as fragile as you, Maxim.”
He said it with deliberate precision, biting his lower lip.
“Tell me, Maxim… why do you think it’s the *rabbit*?”
Lapin’s voice was low — almost a whisper — but it didn’t just *sound*; it *spread*, seeping into the air, thick and viscous, filling the entire room.
Maxim sat on the floor, head bowed. The words seemed to pass *through* him, snagging on what was left of his consciousness.
The rain outside grew heavier, droplets thudding against the glass with a dull, anxious rhythm — *tap, tap, tap* — like someone was knocking from the other side.
Lapin moved closer.
The air thickened again, as if the storm had already entered the room. With each second, it felt harder to breathe.
“Why the rabbit, Maxim?” he repeated, tilting his head slightly.
His voice was soft — but there was a quiet predatory persistence inside that softness.
Maxim didn’t answer. He kept trembling, clutching himself as if he could keep his body from falling apart.
“Because rabbits don’t fight,” Lapin said at last, coming closer still. “They don’t know how. Their nature is to run. Hide. Tremble at every sound.”
He crouched down in front of him.
“And when they’re cornered… they just freeze. They stop breathing.”
Maxim raised his eyes.
Lapin’s crimson gaze gleamed in the dim gray morning light. For a moment, it seemed that everything darkened — the walls, the ceiling, even the air grew heavier.
He didn’t need to speak to dominate; his mere presence pressed down, suffocating.
“You’re just like that,” Lapin whispered, reaching out, almost brushing his cheek. “A small, frightened rabbit who thought he could become a savior — without even realizing it.”
Fingers slid along his skin — cold, almost lifeless.
Maxim flinched, recoiled slightly, but couldn’t look away.
“Do you know what happens to rabbits who try to fight?” Lapin’s voice curved into a quiet smile. “They get eaten. Quickly. Because their meat is soft, and their hearts are weak.”
He straightened, looming over Maxim.
His shadow stretched across the floor, long and thin, nearly touching Maxim’s legs.
There was power in him — not brute, not physical — but the kind that sees *through* you, and makes you want to hide.
Maxim swallowed.
His throat was dry, his breathing uneven. Inside, something ancient and wordless clenched in terror — and yet, beneath it, something else stirred. Something dangerously *drawn* to that fear.
“Stop…” he breathed, barely audible.
“Stop what? Telling the truth?” Lapin smiled, baring those sharp white teeth. “Or are you just afraid I’m right? That you’re not an angel, not a hero — just a scared eight-year-old boy?”
Everything was unraveling too fast.
Only days ago, Maxim had found that toy rabbit by accident; only yesterday the neighbors had cornered him again; for days he’d been struggling to live under the System’s weight — and now this… *this thing*, this supposed *helper*, was saying things no one should know.
“But… you’re the rabbit, not me!”
Maxim burst out, his voice thin, desperate.
Lapin laughed quietly, a purr vibrating deep in his throat. His hand came down on Maxim’s head; fingers slipped into his hair — soft, almost tender. But the tenderness was a lie. Under it pulsed a strength that could crush him without effort.
“Me?” he murmured, tugging slightly, forcing Maxim to look up. “No, Maxim. I’m not the rabbit. I’m the one who comes when rabbits stop hiding.”
He spoke softly — and that made it even worse. There was no threat, no anger — only calm, icy superiority.
“I only *look* like a rabbit. But I’m not one.”
Maxim stopped breathing.
A wolf in rabbit’s skin — maybe that’s what he was.
“You know,” Lapin went on, his eyes glinting, “in old legends they said rabbits could die of fear. Just freeze — and their hearts would give out. Funny, isn’t it? The body gives up before the mind realizes it’s over.”
Maxim jerked, trying to pull away, but the grip tightened. His hair stretched, pain shot through his skull.
“Let go…” he rasped.
Lapin leaned in, foreheads almost touching. His pupils widened; the red glow inside them pulsed faintly.
“But you won’t die,” he whispered. “No. You’ll live. You’ll keep breathing, even when everything inside you is burned to ash. Because the System doesn’t let go of its rabbits.”
He released him — suddenly, as if bored. Maxim crumpled to the floor, gasping, dizzy, pain still ringing in his temples.
Lapin took a step back, stretching lazily, shaking off invisible dust. His smile held no kindness at all.
“Don’t take it personally,” he said lazily. “You’re just funny when you think you can fix everything.”
He strolled across the room, footsteps barely audible — as if he wasn’t even touching the ground.
“You want to save your friend,” he added. “But maybe you should start by saving yourself.
Then again…” — he turned, eyes glowing crimson once more — “maybe it’s the same thing.”
Maxim raised his head.
“Shut up…” he croaked. “You were kind yesterday. You helped me! You promised you—”
“…wouldn’t hurt you? Would stay with you, hide you in the closet?” Lapin interrupted, his voice now strangely soft, almost gentle. He turned back, slowly approaching — step by deliberate step, stretching out the moment.
“I’m not hurting you, Maxim. Everything that hurts — is you.”
He stopped, head tilted slightly. In the pale morning light, his pupils were long, needle-thin, inhuman.
“And about promises…” he smiled faintly, baring teeth again. “Didn’t your father promise to love your mother, too?”
The words came calmly, almost casually — yet the air in the room turned cold.
Maxim froze.
At first, he didn’t even understand what he’d heard. He just stared at the floor. Then — slowly, as if moving underwater — he lifted his gaze.
Everything seemed to tremble: the walls, the rain, the light itself dimming.
“Don’t,” he whispered. His voice cracked, and the sound hurt even him.
“Don’t what?” Lapin asked with feigned innocence, stepping closer. “Speak the truth? Or touch what you hide even from yourself?”
Maxim lurched to his feet, staggering. Fire flared in his chest — dull, furious, almost animal.
“Shut up!” he screamed. “Just shut up, do you hear me?!”
“There it is,” Lapin whispered, smiling. “That’s what I love. Real, alive. Anger — the only thing that still proves you’re human.”
He came close enough for their shoulders to almost touch. He smelled of metal, dampness — ozone before lightning.
“Your father screamed too. When he left. Remember?” His voice dropped to a hiss. “And then you saw your mother on the floor.”
“Stop,” Maxim rasped. His voice broke, shrill, broken.
But Lapin didn’t stop. His words were soft, almost tender — each one slicing deeper because of it.
“You were silent then, too. Sitting in the closet, weren’t you? Small, shaking, holding that old toy rabbit to your chest…”
Maxim inhaled sharply; the air cut his lungs like glass.
The rain outside grew deafening — like someone had turned the volume of the world all the way up. Glass quivered; thin streams slid down the sill like tears.
“Don’t…” he barely managed.
“Why not?” Lapin whispered, coming closer. “It’s part of you. The truest part.”
He knelt in front of him, bringing their eyes level. In that instant, the whole world narrowed to just the two of them — breath, light, sound, all gone. Only that cold, viscous voice remained.
“He came home drunk,” Lapin said softly. “Yelling, slamming things… you thought it was just another fight. And then — the smell of blood. Do you remember?”
“Stop…” Maxim pleaded, his voice breaking apart.
His body felt weightless, numb. His hands shook; his fingers wouldn’t obey. Shadows flickered before his eyes — the kitchen, a broken plate, the swaying gray lamp.
The closet. Small, dark, smelling of detergent and old wood.
He could still hear her whisper: *‘Baby, don’t come out… no matter what happens.’*
Then — a blow.
Another.
A scream.
The sharp crash of something falling.
And silence.
Maxim clenched his fists in his hair, as if trying to tear the memories out by the roots.
“Stop it!” he screamed. “Stop it, do you hear me?!”
But Lapin’s voice went on, soft and relentless.
“You remember anyway. Even if you lie to yourself. It all started that day, didn’t it? When you realized love doesn’t save. It kills.”
Maxim exhaled — short, ragged, choking. He stood trembling, head down.
“Stop…”
“Your father promised to love your mother,” Lapin continued, his voice low, enveloping. “Promised he couldn’t live without her. And he was right. He couldn’t. Not after that…”
“SHUT UP!”
The scream tore out of him like a sob.
He lunged forward and shoved Lapin in the chest.
At last, the creature fell silent. His velvet laughter echoed through the room.
“Well, well,” he murmured. “About time you let that ghost go.”
He looked at Maxim — disheveled, trembling, eyes bloodshot, full of rage, fear, and despair.
The rain still beat against the window, but the sound had softened, muffled. The room seemed to exhale.
Lapin lowered his shoulders, stepped closer.
“Hey…” he said quietly now, his voice low, calm, hollow. “It’s over. Hush.”
Maxim flinched, bracing for another verbal strike — but none came.
Instead — a touch. Gentle, almost weightless.
Lapin reached out, brushed a stray lock of hair from his face, stopping him from hiding again behind his hands.
“Enough,” he whispered. “You’re not there anymore. No one’s coming. No one’s screaming.”
Maxim didn’t answer. Only a broken sob escaped — quiet, voiceless. Something inside him cracked, and from that fracture came a hoarse, uneven breath.
Lapin knelt beside him — slow, careful, as if afraid to startle him. His palm came to rest on the back of Maxim’s head, and this time there was no force, no coldness — only a strange, living warmth.
“It’s over, do you hear me?” he murmured. “It’s already over.”
Maxim trembled like someone frozen through.
Lapin’s fingers slid gently through his hair, smoothing it, calming him like a child. His eyes remained crimson, inhuman — yet now there was no malice in them. Only a quiet, eerie tenderness.
“You’re tired,” he went on. “You’ve been carrying this too long. Pretending you can carry everyone.”
He smiled faintly — sad, not mocking.
“Even me.”
Maxim lifted his gaze. His eyes were wet; he didn’t bother to hide it.
“Why are you doing this?” he whispered. “First you crush me, then you… almost comfort me.”
Lapin lowered his gaze, a ghost of a smile on his lips.
“Because I don’t know any other way,” he said after a pause. “It’s easier for me to break things than to heal them.”
Maxim let himself be still.
Lapin drew him closer, guiding his head against his chest. Slowly, rhythmically, he rocked him — like a child, until his trembling eased, until his breath evened out.
And Maxim fell asleep — never noticing that, through their entire conversation,
**the System hadn’t appeared once.**
ns216.73.216.13da2
and then Add to home screen.