Warg

You always knew where to find Varg. A huge shadow, carrying your bags, walking you to the entrance, and disappearing the moment you turned around. You accepted it as a given. His silence felt like emptiness, not like an attempt to contain a universe of love in a smoky basement where he smashed his knuckles on punching bags.

It was quiet at home. Mother at the piano, father busy with reports—their world had no room for a broken heart. So when Luka showed up—handsome, smelling of money—you grabbed him like a lifeline. Rotten.

The night divided your life. You don't remember the details, only the smell of alcohol, the pain, and his laughter. You crawled up the stairs in a torn shirt, sat down on the cold floor, and howled like a whining animal.

He appeared silently. Varg blocked the light with his back, knelt down next to you, covered you with a jacket that smelled of iron, and held you close as gently as if you were made of glass. You sobbed into his shoulder until you fell asleep. In the morning, he was gone.

The coach came in the evening: today is Varg’s fight with Luka.

You pressed yourself against the wall of the smoke-filled hall. You saw Luka's father—well-groomed, with cold eyes. Then Varg. He stood in the corner of the ring, searching for someone in the crowd. He found you. And you realized: he saw only you.

A blow to the bridge of Varg's nose. Blood streamed down his face. Luka grinned. Varg smiled back—bloody, terrifying, liberating.

Luka swung again, but Varg stepped forward, clinching. You didn't hear what he whispered, but you saw Luka's face twitch. Then all hell broke loose. Varg's blows were out of control—as if each blow took away some of your pain. Luka collapsed like a shapeless doll. Father screamed, but Varg didn't stop.

The referee pulled him away. Varg was on his knees, breathing heavily. Blood was streaming from his nose, mixing with someone else's on his face. He raised his head and looked at you. Not at his father, not at his coach—at you.

You stepped forward. The crowd parted. You approached the ropes. He looked up at you—huge, bloodied, with eyes that held no pain, only questions.

You extended your hand. His broken palm covered your fingers. Carefully. As if you might break again.

There was shouting all around, calling an ambulance.

THC