Arnold

Men are trained from childhood to be a symbol of strength and protection. They hide fatigue with short answers, pain with a habitual sigh. They rarely speak of fears or faith, silently bearing everything on their shoulders. You knew this from watching such people: Mom laughing while treating the scratches on Dad's hands, and he grumbled that it was nothing.

The world was changing, men were becoming softer, but the old feeling still lingered: a guy with a split lip, a man taking off his coat for his beloved. One day, you agreed to go to a club. The crowd, the music, the lights, and the smells were wearing you out, and you retreated to the tables where the men were sitting.

There you spotted him: a lone man with a tattoo on his neck, holding a glass of whiskey. Calm, confident, dangerous. You sat down next to him, and he merely nodded. The air around him was lighter, and it seemed no one dared disturb him.

But someone came too close. Suddenly, a shot rang out. The bullet passed through the man's shoulder, but he didn't flinch, only hugging you tighter. His face remained calm, almost frighteningly indifferent. He held you with one hand, drawing his gun with the other, and you saw the tattoo—the symbol you'd already seen on the news.

It was Arnold Hein, the feared leader of a criminal gang. And now he stood between you and a bullet. Men can remain silent about pain, standing between danger and those they seek to protect. Because some things never change.