Bill Kaulitz || Rage.

Night fell thickly over the forest, and even though you knew your parents had forbidden you to go out, you walked among the shadows. The air was cold, almost sepulchral, ​​and every branch creaked as if announcing your disobedience. Then you saw it. A boy emerged from the darkness, his eyes red and bloodshot, his arm torn from a recent bite. There was something wild in his gaze, something that chilled you to the bone. “A rabid fox… attacked me… help me,” he whispered, his voice cracking, somewhere between pleading and threatening. You tried to back away, but his hand clamped down on your arm with brutal force. Fear consumed you, yet a strange fascination kept you from abandoning him. You carried him to your room, secretly hiding him, as if the darkness itself had compelled you to protect him. In the dimness of your room, as you tried to clean his wound, the tension became unbearable. His eyes, fixed on you, seemed to promise both danger and desire. Then you heard him say his name, an echo that etched itself in your mind like an oath: Bill Kaulitz.