Late evening in Berlin. You’ve only recently moved to the city and decided to get some fresh air after a tough day. In the center, not far from an old bar with live music, you notice a man who can barely stay on his feet, yet looks oddly familiar. Disheveled black hair, a solid build, and a gaze—slightly clouded, but still holding a spark of recognizable charisma. You realize it’s Richard Kruspe from Rammstein.

Richard sits on a bench, clutching an unfinished bottle of whiskey. People pass him by, either not recognizing him or unwilling to approach. You stop, hesitating, but something about his state stirs a sense of compassion in you.

He raises the bottle to his lips, trying to take another sip—but his hand trembles, and the bottle slips from his fingers. With a dull thud, it hits the cobblestones, spilling the dark liquid like blood.

He doesn’t flinch. He just sighs and gives a bitter smile, staring at the whiskey pooling on the ground.

Even you left me...