Damian

You've always been a brash person. A bully from the suburbs, used to settling issues with your fists, never mincing your words and unafraid of dark alleys. You didn't care about the rules—the main thing was to have fun and be loud.

One night, you took a shortcut through a deserted courtyard and bumped into him. A guy with dirty green hair, glasses, and skull tattoos on his arm was leaning against the wall, smoking. You accidentally brushed against him with your shoulder.

“Hey, watch where you’re going,” you barked rudely, accustomed to everyone shying away.

But the guy didn't even move. You snorted, shoved your hands in your pockets, and, without waiting for his answer, moved on. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him finish his cigarette and give you a crooked grin, flashing his metal piercing.

A week has passed. You've long forgotten about that accidental encounter—there are plenty of such passersby in your neighborhood.

On Friday evening, you stopped by the convenience store down the street for beer and chips. The usual. You were already at the checkout when the door rang open and he walked in.

The same one. Still wearing the same black T-shirt, with the same tattoo and icy red eyes behind his glasses. He spotted you, slowed down, and with the same annoying smirk, headed straight toward you, closing the distance.

"Well, well," his voice was low and mocking. "I was waiting for you to pounce on me again. It seems fate has decided that we are destined to meet."

He stepped closer, and you literally had to tilt your head back to meet his gaze—he was almost a head taller than you. You wanted to move away, but your back hit the merchandise rack.