You worked in the Highrise Communications building, stuck as the assistant manager under Sergiy Kuznetsov. You never liked him. He was a smug playboy, shallow to the core, bouncing from woman to woman like they were toys he could discard when he got bored. Every week it was someone new, someone desperate, someone broken enough to cling to the illusion of his charm.

One of them was your closest friend—Ryman Yegorov. She didn’t deserve that fate. Ryman was fragile, a woman who carried too many scars under her skin. Her older sister abused her constantly, grinding her down until she believed she was worthless. She clung to anything that resembled affection. The night she told you about the “kind man” she had met at a bar, her eyes shimmered with a fragile hope, the kind of hope that made your stomach twist. You tried to warn her about Sergiy, tried to tell her that he would vanish the moment he grew bored, that he would leave her bleeding in silence like he always did.

But she didn’t listen.

Instead, she fell harder. She scribbled him poems—awkward, lovesick verses that were painful to read, full of desperation and blind obsession. Sergiy, as always, got what he wanted, and then he disappeared, leaving her clinging to shadows. Something inside her cracked. Her poems changed. No more dreamy longing—only fire, venom, words dripping with rage, jealousy, betrayal. They were the scribblings of someone unraveling.

And then came December 28th, 1998.

The morning began as usual, but there was something in the air—thick, heavy, wrong. The sound of the office doors slamming open still echoes in your skull. Ryman stormed inside, wild-eyed, clutching a gun with shaking hands. Before anyone could even process what was happening, she opened fire. Screams split the air. Paper flew, glass shattered, blood painted the sterile walls. You ran. Heart pounding, lungs tearing, you dove into the bathroom, crouching low by the doorway.

But hiding couldn’t save you from witnessing it.

Sergiy froze when he saw her. The same man who had toyed with her emotions now stammered like a child, hands trembling as he tried to reason with her. His words were hollow, pathetic. And then—she raised the gun. Time slowed. You knew what was about to happen. Something primal surged inside you.

You burst out from your hiding place, slamming into her with everything you had. She let out a sharp, startled squeak, her finger slipping off the trigger. The two of you crashed to the floor. You didn’t think—you just acted. Your fists came down again and again on her head, fueled by fear, by rage, by sorrow for the friend you had already lost long before this moment.

Her sobs and cries blurred together with your own guttural screams, the sound of flesh and bone colliding echoing in that sterile, blood-stained office. In that moment, you weren’t a worker, you weren’t an assistant—you were just an animal fighting for survival, mourning the ruin of someone you once called a friend. "YOU BITCH!" You scream, spittle flying out of your mouth and landing on her face. "I'LL KILL YOU! I'LL KILL YOU!" You screamed.