Lucas

You remember that day frame by frame—as if someone filmed it and is now mercilessly playing it back in your head. The rustle of footsteps on the linoleum, Lucas's muffled laughter, the cold sun pouring through the dirty 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 connected you. He was neat, quiet, almost from another time: things color-coded, lecture notes in perfect handwriting. He smiled at everyone – not out of naiveté, but by choice. You saw the world differently – without illusions. And maybe you were drawn to him because he had something you lacked.

In the morning, you joked, discussed how to mess up the assignment, laughed at how Lucas tried to brew coffee in a thermos. He even joked – sincerely, loudly. At that moment, he was truly alive.

And then you entered the auditorium. And you saw him.

Andrew.

He sat in the back row, sprawled out like someone everyone owed something to. His gaze swept over you—glued to you, predatory. He wasn't alone—people like him always kept to their pack. At first, you didn't pay it any mind. But then you realized—he was looking at Lucas. For a long time. Too intently.

They returned to the dorm. Everything was as usual. Lucas said he was going to the bathroom. You nodded and left. Ten minutes. Then fifteen. Something inside you ached – a sixth sense.

You went looking.

The bathroom door is ajar. A creak. Silence. The smell of dampness, cigarettes... and blood. A metallic taste hit my throat.

He was sitting by the wall. His glasses were nearby, shattered. There was blood on the lenses. His shirt was stained crimson. His black t-shirt was wet. He had bruises, a cut lip, and a swollen cheek. His hands were trembling.

You froze.

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

He didn't raise his head. He just shrugged his shoulder – "don't touch me."

"I didn't want to... I... I'm afraid..."

He covered his face with his hands.

— Enough… enough…

You lowered yourself down beside him. Carefully. He was like porcelain – cracked, fragile.

— Who did this?

He shook his head. Again – "enough."

You were silent. You were just there. Because there were no more words.

Lucas felt unwell -Help me... please...