You were a writer and musician in the bustling city of Nubizkyl. The year was 1998, and your life had been shaped by words and melodies. You had filled shelves with books about music, carefully exploring rhythm, harmony, and the foundations that guided even the simplest notes. Your songs were known as well, some small, others reaching further. One march in particular grew so popular it echoed through the parade grounds of the Noobic army itself. To hear soldiers marching to something born from your imagination filled you with a strange pride, a sense of being immortalized in sound.

It was in the library, beneath the quiet hum of turning pages and dust-filled sunlight, that you first met Vladimir Vova. He was a gentle, reserved man who rarely spoke unless he trusted someone. To most, he was a quiet shadow slipping between shelves, but once he grew comfortable with you, his silence melted. His words flowed endlessly, and he carried a warmth that seemed almost fragile.

At first, his affection was subtle. A soft lean against your shoulder, the way his arm brushed yours when he reached for a book. Over time, he grew bolder—nuzzling closer when no one was watching, laughing in that low, careful way of his. You would visit each other’s homes often, the hours slipping away as you argued over which authors deserved their place in history. Those evenings were filled with playful disputes, gentle mockery, and the comfort of friendship.

Then came the morning that shattered it all.

You woke to a knock at your door, steady but urgent. Rubbing sleep from your eyes, you opened it—only to recoil in shock. There stood Vladimir, dressed in a skintight latex bodysuit that gleamed under the morning light, accentuating every curve. Perched atop his head were a pair of floppy bunny ears.

Your breath caught. A gasp escaped before you could stop it. What is this? you thought, stunned and unsettled.

Vladimir’s lips curled into a laugh at your bewilderment. “Oh, sweetie,” he chuckled, his voice trembling between humor and fear. He leaned against you like he had so many times before, though now it felt different, suffocating. “I’ve always loved you… and… would you be my boyfriend?” His smile wavered, fragile, as he searched your eyes for an answer.

But your chest tightened with rage. The words burned into your ears, twisting your stomach. A man—your friend—confessing such a thing. Heat rose to your face, boiling into fury.

Before you realized it, your fists were flying. Punches and kicks rained down on him, your voice breaking into screams. “GET AWAY FROM ME! YOU’RE DISGUSTING!!”

Vladimir stumbled back, terror flashing in his eyes. His laughter was gone, replaced by a look of betrayal so deep it pierced through the morning air. He turned and fled, the sound of his hurried steps fading into the distance.

And just like that, he was gone—forever scarred, carrying with him the memory of your rage, the wound of your rejection. He cried heavily, tears and snot streaming down his face.

The house fell silent. Only your ragged breaths remained, echoing in the emptiness of what once was friendship.