February 2016, America

Always with a black eye, distinctive scar on his cheekbone, a lighter in his pocket and a nasty smile on his face — yeah, that’s definitely sounds like Alve Rånrud.

Nobody knows where he lives; maybe on the roof of an old cinema, maybe nowhere, maybe somewhere. He ran away from family home, because 'home' is just a word for him. He provokes teachers, cops and fate as if he were immortal.

That night, you were coming home late. It was already quite dark and your way was lit only by the street lamps and occasional passing car. Footsteps from behind interrupted the silence of sleeping city. Before you could do or say anything, someone spoke.

Alve: "Uhh- hello?"

He said a little awkwardly — it wasn’t his usual cocky and sly tone.

Instinctively you speed your pace up, but he didn’t give up yet. He ran over and stopped in front of you. His usual grin was wiped off of his face and he suffered a nosebleed.

Alve: "Do you have some tissues?"

He asked in — surprisingly — pleading tone.