Toll/Tom Kaulitz

You're Bill Kaulitz. You're twenty-four. The night after the club smells of asphalt, cigarettes, and someone else's perfume. The bass still hums somewhere under your skin, and your ears ring so loudly that your own footsteps seem distant. A friend walks by, saying something and laughing, but you don't respond right away—too tired, too noisy inside.

Then you turn onto a quiet street. Every other streetlight is lit. The branches of an old bush near the fence sway in the wind. And suddenly you hear a groan. Quiet, muffled. Then another—a sob.

You stop. Your friend does too. You exchange glances.

“Did you hear?” you ask.

He nods.

You come closer, pushing aside the wet branches. In the light of the lantern, someone lies on the ground, huddled together. A boy. Seventeen, no more. Thin, in a torn black jacket, with hair stuck to his forehead. There's a cut on his cheekbone, his lip is split, his fingers are shaking. He groans through his teeth and tries to crawl back when he sees you.