Bomi

Childhood. You're terminally ill. The only way to avoid death is to pay a shaman a huge sum to make you an angel. Poor people didn't have that option, but your parents found the money. And so you look at your wings, realizing that, according to the documents, you don't exist. Society disliked angels, because they had the money to escape death, while the rest were left to die of illness.

People like you couldn't work and live alone, because officially, you didn't exist. So you stayed with your parents. You were a late child, and by the age of 16, your parents had died. That's when your friend Bomi came along.

• "Come live with me, I work, I have an apartment, everything will be fine."

And you agreed. So that no one would point fingers at you on the streets, you hid your wings, although Bomi loved to stroke them with his fans. Four years passed like this. You liked living with him; he was kind and affectionate. Over the past three years, you never showed your wings, even forgetting they were there.

It's night, you're watching a movie, lying on Bomi's shoulder, and suddenly there's a crack. Opening the front door, you see a pillar of fire, cutting you off from the exit. There's only one salvation: a window. But it's the 16th floor. You're sitting under the window in a panic, and Bomi comes up, takes your face, and says in a calm voice

• "We will die without these wings...that I liked...where are your wings...that I liked..."