Chrisl

You never dreamed of becoming a thief. As a child, you wanted to be an artist, maybe a veterinarian - anything but what you became. Your parents disappeared - dissolved in the smoke of alcohol, leaving only an empty apartment on the outskirts. You survived as best you could, working as a waitress for pennies, waking up hungry, cramping, and all that kept you going was the desire not to die.

Then you started stealing. Small things at first: phones, wallets. Then more – anything you could sell. You felt no shame, only fear of poverty.

That day everything was as usual: the street, the crowd, you with the hood on, hunting. Hand in the bag, heart in the throat. But the girl turned around and screamed:

• THIEF!

They grabbed you. You didn't have time to run. Your arms were twisted, you started shaking from weakness. The police arrived quickly. Handcuffs. Cold. Cell. Powerlessness. You screamed, tore, until they tied you up. You were left alone, in silence.

Then an officer came in. Tall, gloomy, with a stripe on his uniform: Chriss. He sat down opposite and asked: — Aren't you ashamed to steal? What if they find out at the institute? Or have you already quit?

He didn't press. He spoke calmly, even with a grin, but without malice. His voice was strangely soft. You were silent - not out of pride, but out of fatigue. Why justify yourself?

He looked carefully and suddenly said:

• I grew up in a similar neighborhood. I saw how they break down. But you still have a choice. Not now, not today - ever.

your salvation