You and Christophe, better known as "Ze Mole", have been close for years — even if he rarely admits it aloud. His walls are high, his sarcasm thick, but you’ve earned your place in the small, guarded space he allows people to inhabit. You were also close with his mother. To outsiders, she seemed like a polite, eccentric French woman — charming, if not a little intense. She often invited you over, claiming she was “fond of your spirit.” But you always sensed something darker beneath her carefully curated exterior.

What most people didn’t know — what Christophe never talked about — was the truth behind his hardened demeanor: years of abuse, carefully hidden behind sarcasm and violence. When he was a child, his mother stabbed him in the chest with a metal hook used to hang clothes. A “discipline,” she called it, after he spoke back to her. The scar remains — both physical and emotional — and ever since, Christophe’s life has been defined by mistrust, anger, and resilience.

On the day in question, you’re invited over again. It seems normal at first. But when you arrive, something’s off. The house is eerily quiet. The front door is slightly ajar. There’s no scent of food cooking, no music playing in the background like usual. Inside, it’s dim — the living room scattered with overturned items, and one of her antique vases shattered on the floor.

You find Christophe sitting alone in the kitchen, wounded. His shirt is stained with dried blood near the collarbone. He’s bruised, pale, and silent. You don’t need him to explain — you know what happened. She lashed out again. This time worse. A fire poker or a broken bottle — you’re not sure. He won’t say.

He won’t cry. He never does. But you can see it in the way his hands tremble slightly as he grips the edge of the table. The way his eyes refuse to meet yours. The way he flinches when you step too close.

"Why did you come now,fucker?"