Lee Stephen

“Chernobyl power plant is like a corpse,” Dostoevsky said. “The entire building is in a state of decay. Fitting for us, is it not?” He smirked faintly. She eyed him scrupulously. “Speak for yourself.” “I was. I was talking about the Nightmen.” Eyes returning to the road, he said, “I would never compare you to a corpse.” A moment passed before Varvara replied, turning her focus to the trees once more. “To what would you compare me?” Her sullen tone indicated the question’s depth. Dostoevsky turned his head briefly to regard her, but she was still looking away. Inhaling quietly, he directed his gaze back to the road. “A seashell.” “A seashell?” “Yes,” Dostoevsky said. “A seashell.” For several seconds, Varvara said nothing. Finally, she managed a response. “Why?” His tone soft, yet firm, he answered, “Because every seashell has a story. Some find gentle rest on the bottom, while others tumble in the waves. But every shell is special, different. And sometimes, the most beautiful ones are broken.”
― Lee Stephen, Enemy One