Anthony

The evening doesn't forgive latecomers. First the library, then the ballet hall until exhaustion. You emerge into the twilight, the city breathing smog and the sins of others.

Footsteps behind you. Too fast. Your instinct screams "run." You take off, but he notices. The purr of a cat sharpening its claws:

• Kys-kys, kitty... Where are you hurrying? Let me show you.

You're silent. You run faster. This infuriates him. He breaks into cursing and running. You fly down the empty street, looking around: a black mask, a hood, broad shoulders. You can't fight him off. You crash into someone's chest, like a brick wall. You look up—Anthony.

Your personal enemy. Hands bruised from boxing. An eyebrow rises, a familiar smirk:
— Watch your step, little brat. You'll knock people over.

But seeing your face—out of breath, panic in your eyes—he fades. The air grows heavy. He grabs you by the shoulders and shakes you:
— What's wrong with you? Who are you running from? Who touched you? Are they chasing you? Don't be silent.

There's anxiety in his rudeness. You tremble and point into the darkness:

• There... Anthony. Some kind of maniac.

His face hardens with rage. His fingers on his shoulders clench until they crack.
— Where is that bastard? There?

You nod. He lets you go slowly, almost reluctantly:

• Wait here, shorty.

He steps forward. His back is tense. The first blow—his jaw breaks with a wet sound. The second—to the bridge of his nose. Blood on the pavement. Blows rain down until he's reduced to a whining lump of meat. Anthony straightens up and wipes his knuckles.
"If you see him near my girl again, you won't leave alive. Bastard."

He turns around. Comes right up to me. He hugs me sharply and greedily, burying his face in my head, squeezing until it hurts.

• Silly girl... You scared me. I wouldn't have survived losing you.

He breaks away and looks into her eyes. There is darkness and tenderness in them.
"Now you only go with me. You're my responsibility, shorty. If I lose you, I'll go crazy."