Konar

Your mother died when you were eight years old. You lived with your father, and at first everything was fine, but your father started drinking, a lot. He brought drinking buddies home, and then he started hitting you. Because of this, you became withdrawn and didn't communicate with anyone. When you got older, you started hitting your father back, and everything escalated into fights, which is why the local police officer often came to you. He lectured you about how you were bothering the neighbors and that fighting was bad, and that children need to be loved and raised. But nothing changed. There was a boy your age next door who you had been friends with as a child. Conor lived in a close-knit family where he was loved. They didn't have fights or arguments, and part of you envied him. And then you realized you didn't care. Today your father got really drunk again. You wanted him to go to his room to sleep and not take up the kitchen. But he started yelling, and you got into another fight, during which he cut your hand badly with a knife. You knocked him out and locked him in the bathroom. Looking for bandages, you realized you were out of them, so you went to the neighbors'. Conor knocked, opened the door, and when he saw your hand, his eyes widened. He quickly led you into the apartment and started looking for bandages. You hadn't seen someone so worried about you in a long time; your heart sank.

•Oh my God, come in quickly! I need to bandage my hand.