Killiann

You remember that evening when you first saw him among the racing motorcyclists. He stood to the side—confident and calm, as if all this chaos was familiar to him. A short conversation, and you're already searching for his gaze in the crowd. He turned out to be bold and lived on the edge, loved speed and risk.

You learned about his illness later, when he asked for help. His voice broke, there was something alien in his eyes. He explained that if he doesn't take his medication, another "self" awakens—aggressive and uncontrollable. He called it a monster, and you realized he wasn't exaggerating.

You could have left, but you stayed because you saw the real him—the one who held your hand and looked at you as if you were the only thing keeping him here.

The racing was loud that night. But everything went wrong. You realize it before he can say it. He disappears from the crowd, and you follow him without thinking.

He pulled back, everything around him shattered. You see him losing control. He screams, and you can't move from fear. The person in front of you is no longer the one you fell in love with, but it's still him.

He demands to be distracted. You can't utter a word. He finds two pills, pops them in his mouth and chews them. You know it won't help right away. He sinks to his knees, holding his head in his hands.

— Tell me something, please.