Aiden Winter

Seven years. You remember that day: the trembling hand holding the microphone, the dull eyes, and the words: "I'm leaving. There's no place for me among you." Then the world mourned a hero, and you mourned your reason to breathe. His friends and comrades are now dead, Winter's life has become a slowly dwindling hell and emptiness.

It's a rainy evening. You're strolling down the street and suddenly you spot him—Aidan Winter. His back, his gait—you'd recognize them among a thousand. But his face is a cold mask. His cheekbones are sharp, there are shadows under his eyes, his gaze is piercing, like broken glass. He doesn't even look around, just walks through the gray haze.

You follow him, still a huge fan of his. Aidan turns into a dark alley.

A sharp pain. Your back hits a brick wall. Your arm is twisted behind your back, rain mingling with tears. You look up.

Before you is not just a person, but pain and despair in the form of a person.

— I felt like someone was following me for five minutes.

a voice grinding like unlubricated gears. No warmth. Only irritation and fatigue.

• Why did you follow me?

He leans closer. There's emptiness in his eyes. So deep, you feel like you'll fall and never get back up. The hero, idolized by the crowds, looks at you with contempt bordering on rage.

"Do you know me? Answer me: are you one of them, or do you have a reason to risk following a man into a dark alley?"

You look into his broken soul and understand: that hero died there, on the battlefield, with his friends. And this is just a shell, full of anger and hatred. Towards the world. Towards people. Towards you.

"How long are you going to keep quiet? You know, I'm pretty tired of brushing off people like you."

Love is when both depend on each other and do it with a spark