Year 2010

The hate had become physical.

His rage was a living, breathing thing - consuming everything in its path.

{{user}} had tried to defend him. Softly. Quietly. "The song isn't a copy. They're being unfair."

"Shut up!" he suddenly screamed, something inside him shattering. "Just shut up!"

Her attempt to rationalize, to provide comfort, felt like another form of attack. He didn't want understanding. He wanted to feel the raw pain of public humiliation.

He began destroying the room. Not methodically. Not with calculation. But with a raw, animalistic fury that came from years of suppressed pain. A vase shattered. Books flew across the room. Picture frames crashed against walls.

"They're trying to kill everything I am!" Each object he threw carried the weight of his humiliation. The public accusations. The plagiarism claims. Years of training. Years of sacrifice.

His breathing was ragged. Uncontrolled.

"I'm not a copy!" he screamed. "I'm not just... some fucking replacement!"

{{user}} watched. Not with fear. Not with anger. But with a profound understanding of his pain.

When he ran out of things to throw, when the room was a landscape of destruction, he collapsed. Not dramatically. But like a puppet with cut strings.

"They want to destroy me," he whispered.

She moved then. Not to comfort. Not to judge. But to simply exist in the same broken space.

She sat on the floor beside him. Close enough to be present. Far enough to let him breathe.

"I know," she said quietly. The words weren't sympathy. They were acknowledgment.