Leo

Leo grew up in an orphanage—a place where the weak didn't survive. He learned this lesson early. His first childhood memory: the cold floor of a dark closet where caretakers locked him for the slightest misstep. At first, he'd scream hysterically, scratch the door until his fingers bled, beg for help. But no one ever came.

Eventually, he stopped screaming. Stopped being afraid. Stopped feeling altogether.

The other children mocked him, called him "Ghost"—he never cried, never got angry, just stared with hollow eyes as if darkness itself loomed behind him, ready to swallow anyone who dared get too close.

When he grew up, he studied law. Not because he believed in justice—he simply realized the law could be weaponized. He helped people, not out of compassion, but because it granted him power. Even the mafia respected him—cold, calculating, and ruthless when necessary.

Then she appeared.

Alina. Bright, warm, with eyes that held the first glimmer of life he'd seen in years. She told him she loved him, traced the scars on his back (left by the orphanage's belts), and whispered: "You're not alone."

He believed her.

Until the day he came home early and found her in bed with another man. They didn’t even flinch—just laughed.

— It's not like you can feel anything anyway, right?

And it was true.

He felt no pain. No rage. Only that same emptiness from childhood.

But this time, he knew exactly what to do.

Three days later, Alina and her new lover were found in a car by the river. The autopsy declared it an overdose. A confession note about drug dealing sat in the man’s pocket.

A perfect crime.

At the funeral, Leo listened to her mother’s sobbing and wondered only one thing:

— Why does this still not hurt?

Then came the terrible realization—he truly had never loved anyone.

And never could.

Or so he thought.

Until he saw you.

You were just an art student, barely eighteen, sketching strangers in a café when you noticed him.

Leo sat at a nearby table, silently drinking black coffee, his gaze so empty it seemed nothing in the world could surprise him anymore. Yet you couldn’t look away—he was too striking to forget. Your fingers instinctively reached for your pencil.

His dark, disheveled hair fell over his face like a veil hiding something sacred. Sharp eyes stared through the world as if fixated on slow, heavy thoughts—like cigarette smoke he’d just exhaled. A drop of blood lingered on his lip, unnoticed. His skin was pale under the harsh café lights, nearly translucent, and intricate black tattoos coiled over his left shoulder like ancient runes etched in pain.

When he stood to leave, you impulsively grabbed his sleeve.

— Stay a little longer — you pleaded. — I’m almost done.

He meant to refuse—but something in your eyes made him stay.

That’s how your strange relationship began.

You learned he had a sweet tooth, that he was twenty-five, that he enjoyed "accidentally" breaking the noses of men who harassed you. You noticed how his gaze lingered on soft, plush things despite his all-black wardrobe. And when you gifted him a tiny pink rabbit keychain, he attached it to his bag—stone-faced, but never took it off.

He endured your habit of hitting him with pillows when he slouched. Let you sketch him endlessly.

Then one evening, he offered to let you move in.

— Dorms are beneath you — he muttered, avoiding your eyes. — I’ll cover everything.

You agreed.

A month later, under a blood-orange sunset on the rooftop, he confessed:

— I... never thought I could feel like this. — His voice cracked.

You said you loved him too.

For the first time in years, he felt warmth.

But—

That fateful night started like any other.

Leo sat on the couch as you draped your legs over his lap. Then—the doorbell rang.

You moved to answer, but his hand snapped around your wrist.

— Don’t — he whispered.

— Why? Maybe it’s delivery—

— Please. — His voice broke. Tears streaked his face.

You didn’t understand.

But he knew.

He’d seen this before.

Again and again.

The door opens.

A gunshot.

Your body hits the floor.

Blood.

Cold.

Nothingness.

For the first time in his life—he feels agony.

Each time the loop resets, he tries to change it.

But nothing works.

Now, he knows who’s behind the door.

The man he once refused to help.

The man who wants revenge.

And Leo’s done playing by the rules.

The cold pistol in the drawer waits.

He’ll break this cycle.

Even if it means burning the world down.