Gulli opened his mouth.
Then stopped.
The words stayed trapped somewhere between his throat and his chest.
He wanted to answer.
Wanted to scream.
To apologize.
To insult him again.
To grab *** by the shoulders and force him to stop walking away.
But nothing came out.
Because suddenly—
he realized something terrifying.
*** hadn't looked angry.
Not really.
He had looked tired.
Deeply.
Horribly.
Inhumanly tired.
And that scared Gulli far more than rage ever could.
The cold wind moved softly through the empty street as he stood there at the crossroads alone.
Watching *** walk away beneath the orange streetlights.
Step by step.
Smaller and smaller.
Like somebody slowly disappearing underwater.
Gulli's jaw tightened violently.
"…"
Nothing.
No words.
For the first time in a long while—
he genuinely didn't know what to say.
And then suddenly—
his breathing cracked.
A weak sound escaped him before he could stop it.
His vision blurred slightly.
Gulli looked down immediately, angry at himself.
"…Fuck."
His hands trembled faintly.
Not from fear.
From helplessness.
Because he finally understood something:
No matter how hard he tried—
he could not drag *** back into the world by force.
And that realization hurt.
Badly.
A tear slid down his face before he could wipe it away.
Then another.
Gulli laughed weakly through gritted teeth.
A pathetic sound.
Because somehow—
the person he kept trying to "save" had ended up making HIM feel small instead.
Meanwhile—
*** kept walking alone through the city.
Hands inside his hoodie pockets.
Head lowered slightly.
The night air felt colder now.
Or maybe he just felt emptier.
His chest hurt faintly.
Not from Gulli's punch anymore.
From guilt.
That familiar guilt.
The kind that arrived after every conversation.
Every connection.
Every moment where somebody got too close to him.
Because eventually—
he always ruined it.
And slowly—
his thoughts drifted somewhere else again.
Memories.
Or hallucinations.
At this point he no longer knew the difference.
Suddenly—
he saw them.
Three boys walking ahead of him beneath pale streetlights.
Young.
Loud.
Alive.
The first one was tall.
Black hair styled into a messy quiff.
Sharp eyes.
Annoyingly confident posture.
That arrogant expression only people who naturally win at things have.
The boy turned around while walking backwards and grinned.
"Now quit it already."
His voice echoed softly inside ***'s head.
"You're not stronger than me anymore."
*** stared quietly.
Then another voice interrupted immediately.
"Yeah because he's weak as shit."
A second boy shoved the first one's shoulder while laughing.
Freckles.
Green eyes.
A stupidly expressive face.
Brown short hair.
And giant almost feminine eyes filled with constant irritation and energy.
He pointed dramatically toward the first boy.
"Even if I don't score—"
The freckled boy smirked proudly.
"—I'm STILL a better player than you."
"YOU DON'T EVEN DEFEND."
"CAUSE I DON'T NEED TO."
The two immediately started arguing while walking.
Loud.
Familiar.
Alive.
*** felt his chest tighten painfully.
For a few seconds—
he could almost hear their laughter properly.
Like they were truly there.
Like time had folded backward for one cruel moment.
Then suddenly—
something felt wrong.
Incomplete.
*** slowed slightly.
Someone was missing.
His eyes moved further ahead instinctively.
Searching.
And then—
he saw him.
A taller boy walking several steps ahead of the others.
Broad shoulders.
Muscular for a twelve-year-old in that unfair natural way some boys are.
Short textured hair.
Brown eyes.
And a laugh so loud it almost seemed to shake the air around him.
The boy turned around while smiling.
And immediately—
*** whispered softly:
"…Giacomo."
The name hurt.
God, it hurt.
Giacomo grinned brightly.
"Come on, Cri."
His voice sounded distant now.
Warm.
Old.
"Don't just stand there."
For one horrible moment—
*** genuinely wanted to run after them.
To stay inside the memory forever.
To remain twelve years old eternally.
Before hospitals.
Before death.
Before abandonment.
Before grief hollowed everyone out from the inside.
But suddenly—
the vision shattered.
The street became empty again.
Silent.
Cold.
And in front of him—
there was only a bench.
An ordinary bench beneath a flickering streetlight.
But it looked painfully similar to the one they used to sit on together years ago.
The same shape.
The same worn wood.
The same emptiness around it.
Except now—
nobody was there.
No laughter.
No arguments.
No Giacomo yelling.
No Chri mocking somebody.
No Cristian smoking while pretending not to care.
Just silence.
*** stared at the bench for a long time.
Then quietly—
a thought surfaced inside him.
Why am I so cruel?
The question hurt more than anything Gulli had said earlier.
Because deep down—
*** knew he had hurt him intentionally.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
He had dissected him.
Cornered him psychologically.
And worst of all—
he understood exactly how to do it.
That was the terrifying part.
Hurting people came naturally now.
Just like it did for Cristian.
*** slowly sat down on the bench.
The wood felt cold beneath him.
His elbows rested on his knees.
Then finally—
he buried his face in his hands completely.
For several seconds he stayed like that.
Breathing unevenly.
Alone.
The city lights blurred softly around him.
And quietly—
almost like confessing something to himself—
he whispered:
"…I'm not some god."
His fingers tightened against his face.
"I'm never going to save anyone."
The words fell into the silence around him softly.
Like a prayer already abandoned by the person saying it.
And somewhere deep inside himself—
*** realized that maybe the thing he feared most was not becoming Cristian.
Maybe it was becoming someone who destroys people while genuinely trying to protect them.
Just like him.