Night. Old, shabby kitchen...

“Well, of course I’ll die from my heart.” You say dreamily. “What about you? What do you think?”

"No, I... I'll definitely die from a bullet." Only young Simon speaks. “And that I was in my white shirt, through which the blood flowed."

"You're so young, you romanticize blood so much." You answer, smiling.

"No, rather death." Simon whispers, his body is not yet covered with scars and his hands are not covered with someone else's blood..