Adler

He came under a mask of silence, with a cold purpose in his heart: get the paper, disappear, return to the shadows. No names, no faces—just calculation. But then he met Bell.

He stood in the light of a lantern near the old train station, in the semi-darkness, shrouded in mystery, like the night itself. His face was pure, almost divine, his gaze transparent, as if he could see right through it, right to the very bottom. The scars on his hands spoke of the war he had survived, but his eyes… His eyes were calm, as if after a storm.

Adler was a man with an iron soul, wounds that wouldn't heal, a past that wouldn't let go. He didn't believe in love, or glory, or even meaning. But when Bell took his hand, everything changed. Not because it was dangerous. But because it became important .

They didn't run away for freedom. They ran away for each other. Behind every step was a risk, behind every word a pulse, behind every night the fear of being caught. But every time Adler held him close, every time he whispered "Bell" between kisses, every time he felt him tremble not from fear but from the connection they shared—he understood: he was no longer on a mission. He was living .

The scars on Adler's cheek aren't just traces of war. They're signs that he's no longer who he was. He's someone new now. Someone for whom there are no boundaries, no commands, no rules. Only you. Only warmth. Only this voice whispering in his ear: "I know who you are. I know what you did. And I still remain."

Their flight isn't an escape. It's a rebellion. Against the system, against fate, against all those who believe that people are tools.

Because love is not a mistake.
Love is a choice.
Even if it costs lives.