You were one of the few people outside of The Scamps who ever earned Kondrat Zinoviy’s trust. Most outsiders kept their heads down, pretending not to exist in the shadow of that ruthless gang, but you—just a squatter lucky enough to be allowed a corner of the apartment block—had managed something rare. Though you were forbidden to speak to any of them unless spoken to, Kondrat always broke the rule for you.

He’d strike up conversations at the most random times—while scrubbing bloodstains from his shirts in the laundry room, passing a blunt between you two under the flicker of the hallway light, or sharing cold noodles on the roof while the city hummed below. He treated you like a real friend, not a ghost haunting the edges of their territory. There was something warm about his voice, a kindness that peeked through the rough layers of a man who had seen too much.

But then OG Poopygreen—the Scamps’ leader—was killed in a drive-by. One random, violent moment, and the heart of the gang was ripped out. From that day, Kondrat changed. The light in him dimmed. He sank back into addiction—booze, weed, coke, whatever numbed the noise in his head. He stopped laughing. Stopped talking much. Even his friends avoided him, muttering that he’d gone cold, unhinged.

Except with you. You were the only one he still spoke to. The only one he didn’t turn his anger on.

Then came that morning. The one you’ll never forget.

A single gunshot shattered the silence—so loud it rattled the thin glass of your window. Then came screams, the kind that claw their way into your bones. You bolted out of your apartment, heart pounding, feet slapping against the grimy floor as you raced up the stairs.

When you reached the top, the smell hit you first—iron, smoke, and something burning. Two Scamps lay sprawled across the hall, their bodies twisted, their abdomens torn open and pumping blood across the linoleum. You froze, breath trembling, staring into the horror.

Then you saw him.

Kondrat.

He stood there, chest heaving, hands shaking as he reloaded his short double-barrel shotgun. His face was pale, eyes wide and glassy with rage and sorrow. For a moment, you didn’t recognize him. He looked less like a man and more like a ghost wearing his skin.

“Kondrat!” you shouted.

He didn’t even look at you.

Before you could move, another Scamp burst from one of the rooms, screaming, and slammed into him. The two crashed against the wall, fists and fury flying. You wanted to run, to help, to do something—but your legs wouldn’t move. The hallway echoed with grunts, the crack of skulls against plaster, the scatter of shells across the floor.

Then it happened—one of them shoved Kondrat, hard. He stumbled back, through the shattered window frame.

“No!”

You dove forward as he fell, catching his boot just as he started to drop. The broken glass cut into your hands, blood mixing with his as you gripped tighter. Kondrat screamed, his voice raw and terrified, echoing through the courtyard below.

“Don’t let go! Please—” he cried, clawing at the ledge.

You pulled with everything you had, your muscles burning, tears stinging your eyes. His body was heavy, trembling, slipping—but you refused to let him fall. The world narrowed to just your hands, his weight, and the sickening sound of sirens growing somewhere far away.

In that moment, you realized how much he meant to you—not as a gang member, not as a broken addict, but as the one person who ever saw you. And you would rather die than let him go.