The house was quiet when *** opened the door.
Not the peaceful kind of quiet.
The heavy kind.
The kind that made the air feel thick in your lungs.
Even before he stepped inside, he could smell it.
Alcohol.
Cigarette smoke.
And something sharper.
Something chemical.
The smell clung to the hallway like a stain.
*** closed the door slowly behind him. The lock clicked softly.
He stood there for a moment, still wearing his football training jacket. His bag hung from one shoulder, damp from sweat and grass.
Outside, somewhere in the neighborhood, a dog barked.
Inside the house there was nothing.
No television.
No voices.
No footsteps.
Just silence.
His heart was already beating faster.
He knew that silence.
He took a slow step forward.
Then another.
The hallway light was off, but the kitchen light at the end of the corridor was on, casting a weak yellow glow across the floor.
His shoes squeaked slightly on the tiles as he approached.
His hand tightened around the strap of his bag.
Then he reached the doorway.
And he saw him.
Cristian.
Sitting at the kitchen table.
His head rested sideways against the wood like his neck had simply given up holding it.
His hair was messy.
His shirt half open.
Empty cans surrounded him like small metal soldiers.
On the table there was also a plastic bag.
And a thin white line.
*** swallowed.
His throat felt dry.
For a moment he thought Cristian was asleep.
Then he spoke.
"…I'm home."
Cristian didn't move at first.
Then his eyelids twitched.
Slowly his head lifted from the table.
His eyes opened halfway.
Red.
Unfocused.
Floating somewhere between awareness and complete emptiness.
He didn't even look at *** properly.
His voice came out hoarse.
Flat.
"…The money."
No greeting.
No question.
Just that.
*** stood there for a second.
Then he slowly slipped the bag off his shoulder and set it on the floor.
His hands trembled slightly as he opened it.
Inside were his football clothes.
A water bottle.
A pair of shoes.
And at the very bottom—
A folded stack of bills.
He pulled it out carefully.
Two hundred euros.
Not much.
But everything he had managed to steal that week.
He placed the money on the table.
Cristian's eyes slowly moved toward it.
For a second there was silence.
Then Cristian started laughing.
A broken laugh.
Uneven.
Too loud for the quiet room.
"I asked for four hundred."
*** looked down at the table.
"I tried."
His voice trembled already.
"It's not easy to steal—"
The punch came before the sentence finished.
Cristian's fist slammed into his face.
Hard.
*** fell backward immediately.
His shoulder hit the floor first.
Then his head.
The room flashed white for a moment.
Pain exploded through his jaw.
Warm liquid filled his mouth.
Blood.
He tasted metal.
Cristian pushed the chair away and stood up.
His body swayed slightly as he walked.
Each step uneven.
Unstable.
But still dangerous.
He reached down and grabbed *** by the hair.
Hard.
Pulling his head up from the floor.
"You think drugs buy themselves?"
His voice was louder now.
Angrier.
His breath smelled like alcohol and something bitter.
"You think I can keep begging people for money?!"
*** gasped.
Tears had already started running down his face.
"I tried…"
His voice cracked.
"I really tried…"
Cristian stared at him.
Then he kicked him.
The blow landed directly in his stomach.
*** curled instantly.
Air exploded out of his lungs.
He couldn't breathe.
His vision blurred.
Cristian stood over him like a shadow.
His chest rising and falling rapidly.
"The money."
He pointed at the table.
"Four hundred."
Another kick.
"You brought two."
Another.
"You think that's enough?!"
*** coughed weakly.
Blood dripped from his mouth onto the tiles.
Then he whispered something.
Even through the pain.
"…****."
The name landed in the room like a stone.
Cristian froze.
For the first time that night.
Someone had said his real name.
**** slowly turned his head.
His eyes narrowed.
"…Say that again."
*** wiped blood from his chin.
"…****."
For a second something strange flickered across ****'s face.
Then he smiled.
A wide, unsettling smile.
"You finally remembered."
He crouched down slightly.
His voice lowered.
"You know what the problem is with people?"
He tapped his own chest.
"They think we're the same."
He laughed quietly.
"But we're not."
His eyes glowed with something manic.
"Some people are gods."
He leaned closer.
"I am one of them."
Then he pointed vaguely toward ***.
"And some people…"
His smile twisted.
"…are insects."
*** stared at the floor.
His voice trembled.
"I just want to be loved."
**** laughed.
Louder this time.
A harsh, ugly sound.
"Loved?"
He shook his head slowly.
"That's the biggest lie humans ever invented."
He grabbed *** by the shirt and pulled him up violently.
Their faces inches apart.
"You know what matters?"
His grip tightened.
"Power."
He shoved him against the wall.
Hard.
Then he screamed directly into his face.
"WITHOUT GIACOMO—"
His voice cracked with fury.
"ARE YOU ACTUALLY HAPPY?!"
*** didn't answer.
**** punched him.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
"THE MOM HATES YOU!"
Another punch.
"YOU KNOW THAT?!"
Another.
"SHE HATES YOU!"
His voice grew louder and louder.
Almost hysterical.
Finally he shoved *** across the room.
His body slammed into the wall.
The picture frame beside him fell and shattered on the floor.
For a moment everything went quiet again.
*** slowly slid down the wall.
His face swollen.
Blood dripping from his lip.
His eyes half closed.
But somehow—
He smiled.
"…You're still the best big brother in the world."
The words were barely audible.
**** froze.
Something moved behind his eyes.
Something fragile.
Then it disappeared.
He turned away.
Walked back to the table.
Picked up the plastic bag.
He leaned down.
The sharp sound of inhaling powder echoed in the kitchen.
One long line.
Then another.
He wiped his nose.
His body swayed.
For a moment he stood there silently.
Then suddenly—
His knees gave out.
He collapsed onto the floor.
Unconscious.
The sound of his body hitting the tiles echoed softly.
The kitchen returned to silence.
*** stayed where he was for a few seconds.
Breathing slowly.
Then he crawled across the floor.
Every movement hurt.
His ribs burned.
His head spun.
But he kept moving.
Until he reached his brother.
**** lay motionless on the floor.
His chest rising faintly.
*** hesitated.
Then slowly…
He wrapped his arms around him.
Carefully.
Like he was afraid the body might break.
His face pressed against his brother's chest.
The smell of alcohol and chemicals filled his nose.
Tears soaked into the fabric of ****'s shirt.
"…It's okay."
His voice trembled.
"I'm here."
He closed his eyes.
Holding him tighter.
Like a child holding onto the last piece of something that was already gone.
And on the cold kitchen floor—
Among broken glass and spilled money—
A boy hugged the person who had just destroyed him.
Because sometimes love survives even when everything else is broken.