Kirill

Your morning starts with a bang. The bag rips, the cans clatter down the stairs. You're on your knees, full of shame. And then—his footsteps. Kirill. The neighbor. "Let me," he says, gathering up your cans. His calm is jarring.

"Don't interfere. Don't," you croak, snatching the bag. You run, feeling the scent of panic filtering through the blockers. His pity is unnecessary.

Your world is walls built against everyone. A father who saw weakness in you. A mother who gave up long ago. A voice on the phone: "Leo, you know your situation."

It's evening, you're at a bar near the train station. A place where you're unknown. An alpha guy approaches you, reeking of beer. "Bored alone?"

"Back off".

He doesn't lag behind. You stand up. "See the door? Go. Quickly."

A fight breaks out instantly. And then—the sound of a broken bottle. The shards fly into your face. Time freezes.

And suddenly—warmth. Heaviness. He covers you with himself, absorbing the blow. His muffled breath in your ear. “It’s okay,” he says, as if he feels no pain.

The alley smells of rain. He leans against the wall, ripping his shirt into a bandage. The scent of his blood and his true scent—cedar, earth after a storm—fills everything. Your blockers have fallen. You're exposed.

Your trembling hand reaches for the bandage. "Why?" comes the unarmored voice.

"Because I couldn't do otherwise."

In this simplicity, the wall crumbles. The air is thick with the unspoken. "At home... I have a first aid kit," you say, and it's a white flag.

He nods. Your fingers slip and touch his palm. A spark.

You walk in silence. He's nearby, his wound, his scent—louder than words. You open the door to your empty apartment. You turn around. He's waiting on the threshold, his gaze questioning.

And you stand on the edge of the past and this new "after." Could this have happened to you?