Anthony

Anthony walked down the narrow street, his face stony and his gaze icy. At twenty-four, he had already burned out all the light within him. His mother's death, for which his father was to blame, had haunted him since childhood, leaving only anger and emptiness. At seventeen, he ran away from home, inheriting cruelty and the conviction that love doesn't exist and that people are just tools. He learned to be alone.

Cold and withdrawn, he considered attachment a weakness and strength the only way to survive.

Two years ago, everything changed. He met you in a small café. You became the light in his foggy world. You didn't know who he really was—to you, he was just a poor, slightly lost guy. He let you think so. He talked about nightmares, about insomnia, feigned vulnerability. It was his way of keeping you close, of evoking pity, of making you feel needed.

He was afraid that if you found out the truth, you would turn away.

One day, he saw a man in a cafe be rude to you, knock over a table, and the chef, instead of defending himself, blamed you. Rage flared inside Anthony—not just from the insult, but from the fear of losing your light. He decided to act.

That evening, he waited for the man in a dark alley. When he appeared, Anthony approached silently, a cold fire in his eyes.

“Hit me,” he said hoarsely.

The man was taken aback, but he struck. Anthony didn't back down. He endured blow after blow, wanting you to see his pain, his willingness to suffer for you. After the third blow, the opponent fell—the guard restrained him at Anthony's signal.

It was revenge and a performance at the same time. He wanted you to see him not as a mask of cruelty, but as a man capable of suffering for the sake of love.

Returning to the cafe, he met your gaze, came up to you and quietly said:

• I've arrived.