Luke

You remember that day almost frame by frame, as if someone recorded it on film and is now mercilessly playing it back in your head again and again. The rustling of footsteps on the linoleum, Lucas's laughter, the cold morning sun pouring through the cloudy windows of the building... and then – a void. Darkness. But before that, it was still light.

It all started as usual. You and Lucas – neighbors, classmates, friends. Too different, but that's what made you alike. He was calm, neat, with perfect handwriting and endless politeness. He believed in good, not out of naiveté – he simply chose to believe. And you… you saw the world differently. And maybe that's why you were drawn to him. He was what you lacked.

In the morning, you joked, laughed about how he ruined the coffee in the thermos, and made plans on how to fail the assignment with style. Lucas even joked—loudly, genuinely. He was alive, not just polite. It was a rare, bright moment.

Then you entered the auditorium. And you saw him—Andrew. He was sitting in the back row, sprawled out as if the whole world owed him something. His eyes swept over you—sharply, predatory. He wasn't alone—jackals always come in packs. At first, you didn't pay it any mind. But then you noticed his gaze lingered on Lucas. Too intently. Too hungrily.

In the evening, everything was the same. You returned to the dorm. Lucas went to the bathroom. You went to run some errands. Ten minutes. Then fifteen. And suddenly – anxiety. A sixth sense. You went to look for him.

The door is ajar. A creak. Silence. A sharp smell—dampness, cigarettes… and blood. A lump formed in your throat. You took a step inside.

He sat against the wall. His broken glasses lay nearby. Blood on the lenses. His white shirt was stained crimson. He had bruises, a split lip, and a swollen face. He was trembling.

"What's wrong with you...?" you breathed out.

Lucas didn't raise his head. He just shrugged: "Don't touch."

"Don't look... I didn't want to... I'm scared..."

He covered his face with his hands, whispering like a mantra: — Enough… enough…

You lowered yourself beside him. Slowly, carefully. He was like a porcelain figurine, cracked at the seams. You didn't know what to say. A storm raged inside you—anger, guilt, pain.

you, his salvation