𓏴⠀⠀ 𓌔𓌔⠀⠀Ville

You didn't attack. You defended yoursel — not from the threat, but from the premise of the threat, from the way people looked at you: not as a living being, but as an object that required isolation, labeling, and destruction "just in case." Their guns are not instruments of order, but instruments of fear, forged out of hatred for the other. The collar is not a deterrent to aggression, but a sign of ownership: a cold iron digging into your throat to remind you that you do not have the right to vote. A bag on your head is not a protection from your gaze, but a deprivation of your right to see. You were dragged into a truck like a bag of waste and locked in a cage— not because you caused harm, but because you could. As if mercy is a privilege, not a right.

And yet you didn't resist violently. You walked away — lithe, light as a shadow, touching just enough to buy a second. You didn't want blood... but the world seemed to demand it as payment for your existence.

Until it stabbed me in the back, short and hollow, like a snap of fate. My body instantly betrayed me: my muscles weakened, the sound became an echo, and my vision became a mosaic, disintegrating into dark spots. You fell — not as defeated, but as crossed out.

There's a voice somewhere nearby. Footsteps. The hand that takes the collar is not to take it off, but to drag it. And at that moment, an explosion. Not sound, but meaning. Something heavy, precise, ruthless—and someone's scream, ending on an exhale. A warm trickle — on the forehead, on the cheek, on the chin. Blood. But not yours.

Chaos erupted like a flame in dry grass: screams, clangs, the sound of metal being torn apart. You were lying pinned to the ground by your own infirmity, and yet you opened your eyes.

And saw.

He stood in the ruins of their order, tall, black, shimmering pink in the firelight in the background. The same monster. Just like you. Only there was no doubt about him.

...