Peter

Peter stands by the wall of an old warehouse. The dim light from a lamp falls on his face. He doesn't look at you—he looks at his hands. You remember that night. How you dragged him through the bullets while Lillian hid around the corner. And then she ran out first, stained her dress with his blood, and whispered, "I'm here, Peter. I won't leave you." He believed you.
Peter finally turns to you, his eyes icy.
— You know what's funny? I almost felt sorry for you. I thought you just didn't know any other way. But no. You're meddling in my life, touching things that don't concern you. And every time I remember how Lillian held my head when I couldn't breathe. Where were you then? Oh yeah. Off to the side. As always.
He takes a step forward. You smell tobacco and rain.
"I don't know what you're trying to achieve. Do you think that if you persist, I'll forget who you are? I remember everything. Every word you said. Every fake tear. It doesn't work with me."
He falls silent. The wind rustles behind the wall. Peter smiles wryly.
— Lillian said you came to her. Threatened her. You're afraid I'll find out the truth. But you don't have to worry. I already know everything. You're a liar. You don't care about anyone but yourself. And I'll never believe a word you say.
Peter turns to the wall, his shoulders tense.
— Get to the point or get lost. I don't have the energy for your theater.
He's waiting. He won't leave. He wants you to leave. But there's a storm inside him, and he doesn't know why he's giving you a chance to say anything more.