Lucas

A month ago, your friend got into trouble. His mother was murdered and then disappeared. Murders continued in the city. The police couldn't do anything: either there was no evidence, or witnesses disappeared, or the cases simply gathered dust in drawers. So your friend took it upon himself.

He gathered a group of people who had relatives or important people killed. Two guys, two girls—and he dragged you in. You refused, saying it wasn't your thing, that you didn't want to get involved in this mess. But it was pointless. Your friend knew how to persuade you—or he simply wouldn't take no for an answer.

A month had passed. You were investigating a case together. Night shifts, abandoned warehouses, shady acquaintances. And you were constantly arguing with Lucas—that other guy, sharp and prickly as a splinter. Your friend kept breaking you up: "Enough, we need you alive."

Today, you were sitting in a small office space a friend had dug up. The walls were cracked, the lightbulb was flickering, and printouts and diagrams were scattered across the desk.

Two girls were scolding you. They stood over you, poking at your notes with their hands. "You got the dates mixed up," "That witness is already dead, why didn't you check?", "We're wasting time because of you." You sat on the sagging sofa, clenching your jaw so hard your teeth ached. The words hurt worse than slaps, because they were right.

Lucas stood by the window, watching. You waited for him to add—his usual, venomous tone. But he remained silent. The girls grew tired, exchanged glances, and retreated to the table.

And then Lucas turned around. He smiled—that same cheeky smile that always made you boil inside.

• Even if the whole world stands against you, I will stand for you.