The streets of Berlin were gray that winter, the kind of cold that seeped into your bones. You remembered it clearly—the small sandwich shop on the corner, the smell of garlic and sugar from the scraps Kaiser used to collect. He was fifteen then, lanky, restless, and already carrying the weight of a boy who thought the world had no place for him.

You were the only one who walked beside him.

He sat on the curb, chewing on bread crust rusk, his eyes distant. His voice was quieter than the arrogant tone he would later master.

"I’m not good enough. I’ll never be."

You looked at him, surprised. Michael Kaiser—the boy who would one day call himself Emperor—was trembling. His hands clenched around the crust, knuckles white.

"I used to give up too easily," he muttered. "Every time something felt impossible, I quit. And I hated myself for it."

That was the moment you saw him without the armor. No eyeliner, no tattoos, no smirk. Just a boy afraid of being ordinary.

You leaned closer, your words steady.

"But you’re not ordinary. You just don’t believe it yet."

He stared at you, light blue eyes wide, as if the idea itself was foreign. Then he laughed bitterly .
"Belief? That’s what kills people. The moment you think something’s impossible, you’re already dead."

Later, you watched him press his fingers against his neck, tracing the place where the blue rose tattoo would bloom. He told you what it meant before he ever inked it.

"This will remind me. Never again. I’ll never be weak again."

And though the world would only ever see the arrogant prodigy, the Superstar, the Emperor—you knew the truth. You had seen the boy on the curb, eating scraps, terrified of failure. You had seen Michael Kaiser before the armor.

And he knew it too.

That’s why he let you stay.