My gaze shifts to Maxim. He stands, staring at the floor, waiting, as if frozen in some strange, painful tension. His shoulders are slightly lowered, as if under the weight of an invisible burden, and even the shadow falling from him seems withered, dim. What is he thinking about now? What feelings are raging inside while outwardly he remains still and silent? I try to guess, to see through closed eyes, through the heaviness of the moment, feeling how my heart beats painfully with anxious suspicions.
Suddenly, he turns his head and looks at me. That look… it pierces me to the very bottom of my soul. Even from here I see how broken he stands there, as if his entire soul is cracking into pieces, and every fragment reflects in his eyes — dim, tired, full of pain and a silent cry for help. There is no anger in his gaze, no reproach — only immense exhaustion and something frighteningly familiar, as if I am looking in the mirror at someone I once knew, but who now has disappeared into this darkness.
"Will he really be able to win? Max looks bad," I ask Tim, unable to hide my anxiety.
"I thought the same in the first fight. But he says he tunes himself this way. Now the fight is about to begin, and Maxim will become someone else," Tim answers, and his voice carries confidence, as if he sees inside Maxim the strength that I cannot yet recognize.
The buzzer sounds — it means the fight has begun. My heart beats faster, as if trying to catch up with that sound that tears apart the tense silence around us. Timur is right. Maxim changes instantly, before my eyes — as if someone switches a lever inside him. The fury with which he strikes shocks me. In every movement there is focus and unstoppable energy, as if his whole soul bursts out through every blow. I cannot take my eyes off him — as if enchanted, I follow each of his moves, each powerful, almost ferocious strike.
Andrey, his opponent, despite his height and weight, looks like a small frightened boy who tries to escape from the approaching storm. His fear is so obvious that my heart tightens with pity and worry. From the very start the fight turns into a beating — it is something more than just a struggle; it is cruel domination, humiliation. Rebel Boy pushes and kicks Andrey with such force that he has no idea how to defend himself. His attempts to counter are useless — Maxim is not just stronger, he is merciless.
I see how my beloved already crosses the line into brutal beating. I try to break free from Tim's grip, desperately trying to stop this slaughter, but all my attempts are useless. I remain in place, as if paralyzed, and only watch how, with each strike, unstoppable and filled with wild aggression, Maxim forces his way to victory. Fear, horror, and helplessness mix inside me into an unbearable cocktail.
When Andrey can no longer move, trying at least somehow to protect himself, the fight is stopped. Heavy breathing is heard, the roar of the maddened crowd fills the air. While the announcer congratulates Maxim and all who bet on him, the beaten boy is quietly dragged from the ring, his face covered with bruises and blood, and his eyes filled with pain and confusion.
Finally, Timur lets me go, and I rush to Maxim. His face greets me with a smile full of triumph and satisfaction, but I cannot bear it — my heart is torn apart by conflicting feelings. I slap him across the face, and that easy strike wipes the pleased smile from his lips.
"How could you bring me here?" I cry into his face through tears. "For what? So I watch you being beaten or you beating someone?"
"Well, I won," he answers calmly, as if it is just a statement of fact, showing not a trace of regret.
"What do I need your victory for?" My voice breaks, the words tear out of my chest. "You drag me back into the past again. I stood there remembering how I saw your lifeless body after Ivan. I thought you died then, and I wanted to die too. Why do you force me to go through this again?" I scream, sobbing, losing both voice and control.
"Because I wanted you to see what you turned me into when you left," he answers, his voice beginning to rise with pain. "Why did you leave? We could have solved everything together. Why did you do this to me?"
"By appearing in your life I already ruined it. I didn't want to keep destroying it further," I whisper, as if already hopeless, feeling the heavy weight of my guilt.
"You didn't destroy it when you appeared, but when you left," Max says with pain. "You showed me that there is another life beyond studying. For the first time after my parents' betrayal, I felt what it means to be loved. There was love between us, just like you wrote to me."
"You read the letter?" I ask, not believing my ears.
"Yes, and like a fool I kept it, reread it all this time," his eyes fill with tears, just like mine. "You won, as always. Even though I love you, I came to hate you. Because of you I have felt dead inside all this time. By leaving, you killed me. And now you stand before me and want me to be alive again. You cannot first break someone and then expect him to become whole on his own and accept you back with love."
These words pierce me through, like an icy dagger driven straight into my heart. In every sound, in every intonation, there is hopelessness — dull, sticky, like fog before dawn. Offense lashes at my cheeks like a slap, and behind it trails the unbearable heaviness of a broken heart crumbling into shards with every beat.
"And you think it was easier for me?" bursts from my lips, like pain that has been held back too long, finally breaking free. The words tremble in the air like a thin thread stretched between despair and hope. "Do you think I left because I wanted to? I died every day when you were not near. Every night I lay in bed, hugging the emptiness where you once were, and cried silently into the pillow just to drown the longing. I blamed myself for everything. For coming. For what happened because of me. For leaving, and by that hurting you."
He clenches his jaw, his face turns pale, as if a storm is raging inside, but he does not let it break out. He stays silent. Because he knows — any word can destroy the last remnants of what still keep us afloat.
"I read that letter a hundred times before sending it," my voice softens, almost a whisper, carrying all my exhaustion. "I hoped you would understand… I hoped you would become free from the pain I brought. I thought love should save, not break. And if I was the cause of your pain, then I had to go. That's what I thought. That's what I convinced myself."
"And I hoped you would come back. Every damn day. Even when I hated you," his voice trembles, as if the feelings held back so long finally find a crack. In these words there is everything: disappointment, anger, love, despair. As if everything inside him is breaking out, shattering the armor of silence.
"I came back. But now I realize it is too late," I look into his face, as if trying to burn every feature into my memory. The line of his lips, the corners of his eyes, the fold between his brows when he is angry. As if I see him for the last time. And from this thought, my heart collapses downward into an abyss from which there is no return.
I realize, sharply and painfully, that we cannot go back—to that warmth, to those days when everything seemed simple and real. Inside, everything snaps, like a stretched string, breaking from the pain. Slowly, as if in slow motion, I step back. It feels like the air around me thickens, and every movement is a struggle. I feel my legs trembling betrayingly, not listening to me, as if buckling under the weight of disappointment and loss.
Then I turn sharply—the only thing left is to run. Run away from this pain, from his gaze, from the truth I don't want to hear. I run, unable to hold back the tears falling from my lashes, burning my cheeks, seeming to scream for me.
With trembling hands, barely hitting the screen, I grab my phone and call Vi. The only person whose voice could be my salvation at this moment—a quiet beacon in this storm of pain.
"Yeah, Katrin?" I hear his voice, warm, familiar, and concerned. It sounds like a lifeline thrown into the abyss. A voice trembling with worry, yet filled with care—the kind I desperately need right now.
"Please, get me out of here," I breathe through my tears, showing none of my despair, fear, or pain holding back.
"Where are you?" His voice becomes tenser, alert, like someone ready to drop everything and rush at a moment's notice.
"You know where they hold fights outside the city?" I say, trying to keep from sobbing, trying not to spiral into hysteria. Words stick in my throat, and my voice betrays me.
"Yeah, are you there?"
"Yes, please, come as fast as you can," I whisper, almost losing control, and without waiting for another word, I hang up. I cannot bear questions or explanations—I just need to get out, to disappear, to hide from everything that just fell on me.
I step onto the road, guided by only one thought—to leave. Just leave. I walk toward the city without looking back. No one follows me, and I don't care. The emptiness inside pushes everything else away—fear, resentment, even anger. Only a cold resolve to move forward remains, even if forward is shrouded in uncertainty.
Twenty minutes later, which feel like an eternity, Vi picks me up. His car stops beside me, and I almost collapse into the seat, as if the last of my strength leaves me the moment I am safe. He asks questions—gently, carefully, as if afraid to hurt me more. But I cry silently, pressing against the window, and he, sensing it's not the time, just drives on. His silence is louder than any words—full of care, patience, and a willingness to stay, no matter what.
I ask him to drive me home. There, with trembling fingers and swollen eyes, I write a short note—the one meant to be the final point. Then I gather my things, throwing them into a bag without order, as if I am running not only from this place but from the past, from myself.
We go to pick up Mary, who is with Vera. When I take my daughter into my arms, she smiles, knowing nothing, but her warm little hands become an anchor for me. I hold her tight, breathing in her scent, as if it could piece together everything that broke inside me.
Then we head to my grandmother's. She is surprised to see us in the middle of the night, with tired faces and silent eyes. But she doesn't ask a single question—she just hugs us and lets us in. In her embrace, there is so much warmth and understanding that for a moment I allow myself weakness. Vi stays until morning. He doesn't leave, doesn't run from my grief, he just sits beside me, occasionally handing me water or adjusting the blanket. I cry all night. Heavy, endless tears flow one after another, as if washing away everything: lies, pain, love that has died.
But by morning, sitting with my daughter in my arms, I realize—I have to hold on. For her. For myself. For the chance to start over.
Maxim doesn't reach out for several days. His silence is loud, stretching, anxious. Then, one evening, he finally shows up.
I know it's going to be a hard conversation again—my heart tightens with anxiety and uncertainty, and inside, it feels like thousands of unresolved feelings and memories are weaving together. Dressing slowly and carefully, as if preparing for battle, I take a deep breath and step toward him, feeling every muscle tense in anticipation. The air feels heavy, as if warning of the tension about to fill everything around. Each step echoes in my soul—I am ready to face it, despite the fear and pain I know all too well.