Galli

You and Gally were like oil and fire. Constant arguments, sharp words, sparks flying. The others were used to it; you were like a storm. And then he died. But his face still surfaced in your memory—stubborn, sharp, alive. And then, after a while, you were captured by the military. Taken to the wilderness. When the vehicles stopped, you rushed outside, checked on your friends—everyone was there. And then you heard a voice, painfully familiar. "We can help you." He took off his mask. It was Gally. Shock, tension, and anger you couldn't contain.

• You scoundrel! You pounce on him, a blow—and he's on the ground. You're on top, hitting again and again. He doesn't resist. His people raise their weapons, your friends shout. Newton catches your arm.
• Hey, quiet! They want to help! You look into Gally's eyes. He doesn't defend himself. You stand up, breathing heavily. Gally gets up, wipes his face, and grins hoarsely.
• Glad to see you, kid.
• Get lost. - Go away. - Get out of here. Several days have passed. You are in hiding. He isn't provoking you. In the evening, he sits down beside you, silent. Then he speaks.
• I'm not asking for forgiveness. But if you think I don't blame myself – you're wrong. I still hear him calling out Thomas.
• Why are you even helping us?
• Because I have people to save. And you are one of them. You approach closer. Quietly
• You're still a scoundrel.
• I know. He barely touches your hand. Silently, cautiously.

I know. He barely touches your hand. Silently, cautiously.