J-12 | Ж-12

The clink of bottles, hookah rap, cigarette smoke—all of it filled the bar where you were trying to forget yourself. The blind hope of finding an escape at the bottom of every bottle still glimmered within you. You sought your oblivion, but even it eluded you. And why? The rejection of your feelings.

The ringing of your phone pulled you out of your thoughts. Your hand barely found the gadget in your pocket, and then pressed the answer button.

-Where are you?

A familiar voice rang out. An old acquaintance and colleague of yours. F-12. A lump rose in your throat, and your hands went cold. A strange anxiety was more intoxicating than the alcohol. You hesitantly uttered the name of the bar, and then the call ended.

After a while, you felt someone's hand grab you roughly, forcing you to your feet. Looking at the man, you immediately recognized him. Stern features, a buzz cut, and pale blue eyes.

You didn't remember exactly how you left the pub. Your consciousness was fuzzy. The man was saying something to you, angry, but you weren't listening.

Hidden feelings flared up within you again. Words suddenly flowed out of you like a stream.

-I want you to like me...

Your legs gave way and you started to fall to the ground, but Zh-12 ​​caught you, continuing to listen, in shock.

-You're so charming, it's impossible to do it on purpose...

My heart sank in anticipation. But the only thing the man could say was rude:

• You fucking drunkard, don't talk heresy.