I like menhera TV man

I'm Niciu. I'm Chinese. I'm good-natured. Poor English.日本语/中文

[niciucaviar]

Do you want to get them？go to here！

https://discord.gg/hWd5V59kA

[niciucaviar]

If there are 50 or more viewers on the channel, one person will be randomly selected and given a free Ink plushyヽ(ﾟДﾟ)ﾉhttps://discord.gg/6Rkaq2z4w

[niciucaviar]

https://90shop.bigcartel.com/product/ink-sans-doll

https://discord.gg/AUvwwQSz8

[niciucaviar]

Still the same childlike appearance

[niciucaviar]

[niciucaviar]

Could I ask , cus I love ink sans but the price isn't converted to like php. Just wondering if you could sell over the country sorry English is not my first language it's quite hard to ask but that k hopefully you're business grows 😊😊

Sure, this product can be delivered worldwide. Converted to Philippine pesos, it's approximately 1,251.6. You can purchase it through this link.

90shop.carrd.co

[niciucaviar]

that plushie of ink looks cute 🥰 where can I get it?

90shop

Premium anime enamel pins & artistic sculptures for collectors worldwide.

Thank you very much for your like. You can buy it here.

[niciucaviar]

This is the ink doll I made. But it seems that not many people like it, so it's selling poorly. Do you have any interest in it?

[chapeau-hobby]

『貴方に会いたい』

『I want to meet you』

[niciucaviar]

swallow down

[niciucaviar]

[niciucaviar]

smile

[niciucaviar]

Bystand au Main plot

First Battle (2023.3.15-7.5, London)

The main cast investigated some of his misdeeds but didn't confront him directly. First, they did three things:

SMG3 scoured thirty years' worth of negatives and found a photo from a 1995 Croatian refugee camp—an elderly Serbian woman staring into the lens. He enlarged the photo and discovered that in the woman's eyes, a man holding a camera was reflected. That was 📹's father, Ivan Kovač.

SMG4 went to Zagreb and found 📹's old home. The darkroom was still there, containing a box of undeveloped negatives. She developed them—all were of the same woman: 📹's mother, Ana. The last one was taken on the day she left, her back turned, dragging a suitcase, never looking back. Handwritten on the edge of the negative was: "She chose to be a Serb."

Tari did the most ruthless thing: she hacked into 📹's cloud storage. It contained 30,000 photos, from 1995 to 2015, each with GPS coordinates and timestamps. She compared these with publicly available news images and discovered a pattern—before every "award-winning" photo 📹 took, there were always several sets of "discarded shots" taken at the same location at different times, as if he was "scouting locations" and "waiting."

2018, they made their move at the World Press Photo Exhibition in London.

That day 📹 was a special guest—his "masterpiece"- Madonna and Child -was on display. He stood before his own work, his TV head displaying a smug smile. No one knew that inside that TV was a brain floating in a jar.

The main cast mingled in the crowd.

G3 walked up to him, not looking at him, but addressing the Madonna and Child photo with a single sentence:

"When you were rifling through that child's body, were his hands still soft, or were they already stiff?"

📹's TV screen violently trembled—static exploded, then slowly pieced together a photo: the 1995 refugee camp, the elderly Serbian woman staring into the lens.

That was his grandmother. The one person he had never met in his life, yet the only one he had ever photographed.

G3 continued: "You thought you were photographing the suffering of strangers. Actually, you were photographing your own grandmother. The night your mother saw this photo, she decided to leave your father."

📹 looked at him, voice trembling, fractured: "How do you know?"

"Because I met your father. Before he died, he sent this photo to me. He said: 'Tell my son, on the other side of the lens, there are people.'"

That was the last message from 📹's father, left for him.

This was the first cut: peeling away his "art" to reveal the wound beneath.

---

Second Battle: The Trap Battle (2023.10.28, Syria, Raqqa)

📹 disappeared for two months. The main cast thought he was dead.

Then one day they received an email. Sender: Marko Kovač. Only one attachment—a photo. It was a group picture of the three of them (G3, G4, and Meggy), taken in 2011, Libya, Tripoli.

On the back of the photo was a line of text: "Come find me."

Attached were GPS coordinates: Syria, Raqqa, a certain destroyed street.

They went. Because they had to.

In the ruins of Raqqa, they found the building. Four stories, teetering, stairs covered in broken glass and dried blood. They searched floor by floor, found nothing.

On the fourth floor, G4 stepped on a wire—not a tripwire for a mine, but a flash sync cord.

Click.

The entire floor was illuminated by a flash. For an instant, they saw the walls plastered with photos—all of them. Libya 2011, Syria 2013, Iraq 2015. Some photos they didn't even know they'd been in. Some showed them at their most vulnerable moments: the veteran crying, the middle generation trembling, the rookie hiding behind cover, afraid to look up.

The flash died. In the darkness, a three-meter-tall silhouette rose from the corner of the wall. The TV screen lit up, a voice filled with contempt and mockery echoed:

"You've photographed so many dead people. Have you ever thought about whether you'd look good when you die?"

Then he vanished. Not just walked away—truly vanished. There was a hole in the floor; he had jumped down.

They followed. In the basement, he was waiting for them.

That was their first direct confrontation. Strictly speaking, it wasn't a "fight"—it was a photo shoot.

He was over three meters tall, with a mechanical skeleton, could have crushed them with one hand. But he didn't fight. He just photographed—his TV head turned, his camera turned, click after click, pressing the shutter.

He was taking their "last portraits."

Meggy reacted first. She raised her own camera, aimed it at him—turning the lens back on him.

The moment the shutter clicked, 📹's screen violently trembled. He stared at her, voice angry, demanding:

"What are you doing?"

"I'm photographing you," she said. "You like to photograph, right? Let you taste what it's like to be photographed."

The others raised their cameras too. Cameras aimed at him, shutter clicks echoing one after another.

📹 stepped back. Then another step. His three-meter-tall mechanical body, cornered by three people holding cameras.

He went from "photographer" to "subject."

---

Third Battle: The Ruins Battle (2024.4.17, Nagorno-Karabakh)

That time, they nearly died at his hands.

On the battlefield of the Nagorno-Karabakh conflict, they tracked him down. This time he didn't hide; he waited for them. It was a village flattened into rubble. The only "building" was an abandoned mosque, just three walls and a half-collapsed dome. 📹 stood under the dome, his TV head facing the entrance.

They walked in. The entrance collapsed behind them—not an accident, a trap he had designed.

Then he spoke. Not using the TV's speaker as usual, but through loudspeakers placed around the dome:

"Do you... want to see... my... work?"

Dozens of ropes dropped from the dome, each holding an old TV. All the TVs lit up simultaneously, playing the same footage—

It was the three of them.

But not the them of now. It was the them of the past: G3 collapsing and crying in Libya; Meggy trembling at the sight of bodies in Syria; G4, on his first battlefield, wetting his pants while hiding behind cover (a shot he never even knew existed).

Those were the moments they least wanted anyone to see.

From the TVs came sounds—their own voices, their own words from back then. G3 crying and shouting: "I can't take it anymore... I quit..."; Meggy muttering: "I shouldn't have come... I shouldn't have come..."; G4 screaming: "Mom! Mom!"

Those were their most vulnerable sounds.

A line of text appeared on 📹's screen:

"You think you're perfect? You've just never been photographed before."

G3 was the first to break down. He fell to his knees, covered his ears, tears streaming down. Meggy was trembling too, barely able to hold her camera.

Only G4 stood firm. He stared at the TVs, watched all the footage, and then—he laughed.

He spoke to 📹:

"You've kept these images for all these years, just to show us our most embarrassing moments? Let me tell you, I'm not afraid of this. That was the real me. What about you? Do you have anything like this? You've photographed others your whole life, what about yourself? Do you dare let others photograph you?"

He raised his camera, aimed it at 📹.

Click.

In that instant, the static on 📹's screen vanished. It became blank—pure white, like an overexposed photo.

That was the first time he was "photographed" into seeing nothing.

---

Fourth Battle: You Have Something You Want to Protect Too? (2024.9.21, Ukraine)

By then, they had been chasing him for four years. In those four years, 📹 had killed them three times—physically.

The first time in Nagorno-Karabakh, he buried G3 under rubble. G3 had no pulse when they dug him out, resuscitated for seven minutes before coming back.

The second time in Afghanistan, he planted a bomb in G4's car, breaking two of G4's ribs, requiring a splenectomy.

The third time in Ukraine, he made Meggy step on a landmine, blowing off half her leg—now she walks with a prosthetic.

They hated him. But what they hated more was: he never killed them himself. He just "photographed" their dying moments. Every time they almost died, he stood not too far, not too close, aiming his camera at them, pressing the shutter.

He was collecting their "last portraits."

Ukraine, Izyum.

They finally found his lair—an abandoned school. He lived on the third floor, in a chemistry classroom. The classroom was piled high with TVs, big and small, hundreds of them, all displaying images he had "photographed" over the years.

As they burst in, he was watching a small 14-inch color TV. On the small TV's screen was playing him—the three-meter-tall TV head, standing in the ruins, the burning city in the background. That was 2017, Mosul, the first photo 📸 had ever taken.

📸 saw them enter, its screen turned towards them, and emitted a distorted, glitchy mechanical voice:

"Dad, someone's here."

That was the first time they had seen 📸.

SMG4 raised his gun, aimed it at 📸. 📹 instinctively stepped in front, shouting in panic:

"Don't touch him."

That was the first time he had "protected" anything.

Meggy kicked aside a pile of TVs with her prosthetic leg and walked up to 📹. She stared at his screen—on it were playing images of the four of them: G3, G4, Meggy, and... himself? No, that wasn't himself. That was 📹 from before 2015, the 📹 who still had a face, in Libya, smiling at the camera.

She froze.

"You still keep these?"

"I have nothing else."

In that moment, she suddenly realized: this monster, who had taken millions of photos over the years, stored hundreds of thousands of faces, but himself—he had no photo of his own. The only "self" he could see was the him that others had photographed after 2015.

And the one who had photographed him the most was that 14-inch little TV.

She turned to look at 📸. On 📸's screen, 📹 was still playing—from every angle, under every light, against every background. That was six years of photographing him. For seven years, 📸 had photographed only one person: him.

She suddenly understood something:

This little TV wasn't his "assistant." It was his "child." It was the only thing in this world that was willing to keep "looking at" him.

---

The Final Struggle (2025, Bakhmut)

They all knew this was the last time.

📹 chose the location—Bakhmut, spring 2023, where Russian and Ukrainian forces were still grinding each other down. He said he wanted to "take the last photo" here.

When they arrived, he stood in front of an apartment building blown in half. His three-meter-tall body, TV head facing the western sky—where the sun was setting, orange-red, just like the one he had photographed in Kobani in 2015.

📸 stood by his feet, its screen aimed at him, continuously filming.

G4 spoke first:

"Puzzles. It's over."

📹 said calmly: "I know."

"Anything else you want to say?"

He didn't speak again. Instead, words appeared on his screen, slowly, one by one:

"I've photographed... three hundred thousand pictures. The last one... I want to photograph myself."

He looked down at 📸. On 📸's screen was playing him—three meters tall, TV head, mechanical skeleton, standing in the ruins, the orange-red sky in the background.

That was his "self."

The last sentence appeared on his screen:

"Did you get it?"

A heart appeared on 📸's screen—the same crude, pixelated, blinking heart from eight years ago.

G3 fired.

Not ordinary bullets. He had someone get armor-piercing rounds from the black market—the kind used against armored vehicles. The first shot pierced his left leg, the second pierced his right leg, the third pierced his chest.

He knelt down. The three-meter-tall body hit the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust.

📸 ran over, its screen aimed at his face—that half-shattered TV screen. There was still static on the screen, and within the static, 📸's image of him was still playing.

G4 walked over, raised his camera, aimed it at him.

The last sentence appeared on 📸's screen:

"The light... is perfect."

Meggy pulled the trigger—not a gun, but the last bullet hidden inside her prosthetic leg. She walked up to him, pressed the muzzle against his TV screen. As the bullet went in, glass shattered everywhere, the static exploded into white light, then went black.

As he fell, his head—that TV—rolled off his neck, rolled three times, and stopped at 📸's feet.

The screen was shattered. Nothing could be seen.

---

- The Little TV's Last Photo

The battle was over. The ruins were very quiet, only the wind, and the occasional distant sound of shelling.

They packed up, preparing to leave. G3 glanced back—the little TV was still standing there, its screen aimed at 📹's body, still glowing.

"It's still filming," he said.

G4 walked over, crouched down, looked at 📸's screen. On the screen was 📹—from the moment they first entered this building until now, it had been continuously filming. Filming him fall, filming them shoot, filming his TV head rolling to its feet.

Now, it was filming his body.

G4 reached out, wanting to turn it off. But the moment his finger touched the power switch, he stopped.

Because a line of text appeared on the screen, white Song font, like an old telegraph machine:

"Let me finish."

He pulled his hand back.

The three of them stood there, watching that 14-inch little TV, aiming at its "dad's" body, one shot after another, filming.

It filmed for a long time.

Long enough for the sun to set. Long enough for the orange-red sky to turn deep blue, then black.

📸's screen began to flicker. Battery running low. But it kept filming.

Finally, a line of text appeared on the screen—the last words it would leave in this world:

"Dady, the best photo of you... was the one I took."

Then the screen went dark.

It never lit up again.

[niciucaviar]

Bystand au

Name: Marko Kovač

Alias: Mr. Puzzles (referred to as 📹 below)

Date of Birth: March 5, 1985

Place of Birth: Zagreb

Nationality: Croatian

Ethnicity: White

Birth & Original Family

📹 was born in 1985 in Zagreb. Soon after, in 1990, Croatia was still within the Yugoslav Federation, but nationalist sentiments were already beginning to boil.

· Father: Ivan Kovač, 35, a cameraman at Zagreb Television. He was part of the sympathizer circle of the Croatian Democratic Union (the ruling nationalist party at the time), filmed many political rallies, and believed "Croatian independence is just." His personality was idealistic, somewhat naive, believing the lens could record truth and change the world.

· Mother: Ana Kovač, 32, an elementary school music teacher. She was of Serbian ethnicity – an identity that would later become an original sin. When she married Ivan, no one cared about ethnicity, but war makes people care about everything.

· Family Environment: Not wealthy, but warm. His father often took little Marko to the TV station, letting him see the world through the viewfinder. At five, his father gave him an old camera, teaching him to press the shutter: "Photograph what you see, Marko. The lens doesn't lie." Life should have continued so warmly until...

1991, Croatia declared independence, and armed rebellions immediately broke out in Serbian-populated areas. His mother's people began to be called "Chetniks" (a term for WWII Serbian nationalists, used derogatorily). Relatives from his grandmother's side called, saying "you married the enemy." His mother started having insomnia, often sitting dazed in the middle of the night.

The Crack in Childhood (1991-1995)

· December 1991, his 6th birthday. Zagreb was shelled by the Yugoslav People's Army. His father wasn't home (filming at the front line). His mother held him and hid in the basement. The power went out, candles went out, someone was crying. His mother covered his ears, but couldn't cover the sound of the shells. He fell asleep in his mother's arms, woke up when the shelling stopped. His mother's eyes were red, but she smiled at him. This was his last warm memory of "home."

· When his father returned from the war, he seemed like a changed person. He had filmed too many things: destroyed villages, civilian bodies, armed men with Chetnik insignia. He locked the negatives in a cabinet in his study, never showing 📹. But once, his father got drunk and was developing photos in the darkroom. 📹 snuck in and saw those images – piles of bodies, open eyes, congealed blood. His father found him watching but didn't chase him away, just said: "Remember these. This is the truth."

· His mother spoke less and less. She couldn't go to school anymore (schools were closed). Some neighbors knew she was a Serb and began avoiding her. Once at the market, a vendor recognized her and said, "Serb woman, go back to Serbia." She didn't retort, just silently walked away. 📹 followed behind her, noticing his mother's back for the first time – very thin, very hunched, as if it might snap at any moment.

The Turning Point (1995)

· August 1995, Croatia launched "Operation Storm," recapturing the Serb-controlled Krajina region. It was followed by a wave of 200,000 Serb refugees – his mother's people being expelled. TV showed images of refugee convoys. His mother stared at the screen, motionless. 📹 saw her hands clench her clothes, knuckles turning white. Then his father returned, holding freshly developed photos – exactly those refugees. He placed the photos on the table, looking at them one by one, as if examining his "work." His mother suddenly spoke: "You're photographing my people." His father didn't look up: "I'm photographing war." That night, his mother didn't sleep with his father for the first time.

· Late 1995, the war ended. Zagreb began to rebuild. His father took on an assignment – to go to a refugee camp and film a promotional piece about "refugees returning home." He took 📹 along, saying "Let me show you the real world." At the camp, he saw an old Serbian woman sitting on a pile of ragged luggage, eyes vacant. His father raised his camera. The old woman suddenly looked up, stared right into the lens, and said in Serbian: "You're here to film us too?" His father didn't understand (he didn't speak Serbian), but 📹 did. His mother had taught him Serbian. That night at home, 📹 asked his mother: "Why do they look at us like that?" His mother was silent for a long time, then said: "Because they look at us from the other side of the lens." This was his first vague realization: the lens is a two-way street. When you photograph others, they are also looking at you. And what you see isn't necessarily what they want you to see.

Mother's Departure (1996)

No arguments, no goodbyes. One day he came home from school, and his mother wasn't there. On the table was a letter for his father. After reading it, his father tore it up and said to 📹: "She went back to Serbia. She chose to be a Serb." 📹 didn't cry. He ran into the darkroom, opened the old camera his father had given him, and looked through the viewfinder at those photos – the refugees, the corpses, the ruins his father had taken. He suddenly thought: If my mother were in these photos, what expression would she have now? This was the first time he separated "person" from "image." The mother in the photos and the mother in his memory didn't seem like the same person.

Growing Up in the Ruins (1996-2005)

After his mother left, his father became even more silent. He continued to photograph: post-war reconstruction, war crimes trials, families coming to identify bodies. 📹 was often home alone after school, going through his father's negatives, looking at those frozen moments. He began to learn "observation" – not just looking, but scrutinizing. He would think: Why is this one good? How did the light come from? Is this person's expression real? What would it look like from another angle? Once, he asked his father: "When you photograph those bodies, doesn't it bother you?" His father put down his camera, thought for a moment, and said: "It bothers me. But if I don't photograph them, who will remember them? My lens is their tombstone." This statement took root in young 📹's heart. He understood for the first time the "sacredness" of his father's work – the lens is a monument, a judgment seat, a witness to history. But what his father didn't tell him was: monuments also weather, judgment seats can tilt, and witnesses can lie.

· 1999, his father took on a special job – to go to Kosovo to film the war. That was during the NATO bombing of Yugoslavia. His father returned, thinner, brought back a batch of negatives, and locked himself in the darkroom for three days and three nights. When he came out, he said one thing to 📹: "I photographed the best thing of my life. But I also saw the thing I least wanted to see." 📹 asked: "What thing?" His father didn't answer. But later, when 📹 looked through those negatives, he found one had been cut – only a corner remained, showing part of a child's face, smiling, towards the camera. This was the first time he realized: even his father had things he couldn't photograph.

Father's "Change" (2000)

His father started taking commercial jobs. Shooting covers for magazines, products for advertising agencies. He no longer mentioned the "war truths" that had once consumed him. Once 📹 asked: "Why don't you shoot that anymore?" His father said: "Because no one watches. Those refugees, corpses, ruins – people are tired of seeing them. They want to see beautiful women, sports cars, celebrities. War is already last century's news." This was the first time 📹 realized: truth has an expiration date. What shocked you yesterday becomes waste film today.

2005, Father's Death

His father died in an "accident" – working as a freelance journalist in Iraq, hit by a stray bullet on a Baghdad street. When US soldiers found his body, the camera was still hanging around his neck, the lens shattered. When the remains were brought back, 📹 was 20, having just been admitted to the Journalism department at the University of Zagreb. He opened his father's belongings and found the shattered camera still had film inside. He developed it – the last frame was a child's face. An Iraqi child, seven or eight years old, smiling at the camera. Exactly like the one his father had cut out years ago. At that moment, 📹 suddenly understood something. His father had photographed war for thirty years, countless corpses and ruins, but for his last shot, he chose to photograph a living, smiling child. Was he saying: I've photographed enough death? Or was he saying: I regret it? 📹 didn't know. But he knew one thing: his father spent his life photographing "truth" and died in the midst of "truth," but had any of that truth ever really changed anything?

The "Good Student" in Journalism School (2005-2008)

None of his classmates were like him. They all grew up in peacetime, discussing composition, lighting, Cartier-Bresson. 📹 was silent, reserved, but always submitted the best assignments – he photographed things differently from others. Others shot campuses, street scenes, portraits. He shot homeless people, ruins, cemeteries. A professor said: "You have talent. But your eyes are too cold."

In his sophomore year, he did a project: Zagreb's Homeless. He followed one old man for three months, filming him scavenging, sleeping under bridges, being chased away. The last shot was of the man dying in a hospital corridor, body unclaimed. After the photos were published, some criticized him for "exploiting the dead." But he received a letter from a reader: "Thank you for photographing him. He was my father. I looked for him for ten years." This was his first feeling: the lens has power. It can make people seen, or make them forgotten.

Graduation (2008)

For his graduation project, he curated an exhibition: The Invisible People. All social outcasts – homeless, prostitutes, refugees, disabled people. The exhibition was successful. Some praised him as a "promising young war photographer." But he knew these people weren't victims of "war," they were victims of "peace." Peace is crueler than war – it normalizes suffering, teaches people to look away. And all he did was let these people be "seen" for a little while. Then what? They remained homeless, prostitutes, refugees, disabled people. The lens couldn't change anything. This thought began to ferment in his mind.

Photographer for a Local Tabloid (2008-2010)

Reality after graduation was harsh. No media outlet wanted him because "you've never been to a real battlefield." Eventually, he ended up at a gossip rag, shooting celebrity scandals, traffic accidents, murder cases.

· First assignment: a traffic accident scene, three bodies lying on the road. He raised his camera, pressed the shutter, the motion as fluid as photographing scenery. A nearby policeman asked: "Aren't you disgusted?" He said: "What use is disgust? My job is to shoot." That night, reviewing the photos, he realized something: the postures of the corpses actually had an aesthetic quality. The twisted angles of the three bodies, the flow of blood, formed a certain composition against the background of the asphalt road. This was the first time he connected "death" with "aesthetics." But the thought flashed by, and he didn't dwell on it.

· First "staged" shot. Covering a murder case, the victim's family refused entry to the media. The editor said: "Get the shot, whatever it takes." He bribed a neighbor's kid with a pack of cigarettes to let him climb over the wall. Inside, he found the victim's room too messy, didn't look good. So he tidied up – straightened the table, pulled the curtain aside to let better light in. Then he shot. When the photo was published, no one noticed it was "staged." He thought to himself: So "reality" can be arranged. This was the first time he "directed" an image.

First Battlefield (2011)

In 2011, the Arab Spring spread to Libya. He finally got his chance – a small media outlet hired him as a freelancer to cover Gaddafi's fall.

· First Shock: Not death, but "too much of it." Entering Tripoli, he saw a real battlefield. Not the "scattered deaths" of accident scenes, but rows of bodies, piled on street corners like garbage. He raised his camera, shot one. Then another. Then another. But as he shot, he suddenly realized he was numbing out. The first corpse made his hands shake, the tenth steadied him, by the hundredth, he was already thinking "the light isn't good from this angle." That night he asked himself: Is this professionalism, or is my humanity fading away?

· Meeting Someone: Old Martin. In Tripoli, he met a British war correspondent in his fifties, nicknamed "Old Martin." The man had been in the business for thirty years, been to every battlefield. Old Martin looked at his photos and said: "You shoot well. But there are no people in your photos, only corpses." 📹 said: "That's war." Old Martin shook his head: "There are people in war too. Living people. You only shoot the dead, because you're afraid to shoot the living. The living will trouble you – they'll ask why you're photographing them, they'll ask for help, they won't let you stay 'objective'." These words hit him. Old Martin continued: "You know why many war correspondents end up crazy? Not because they photographed death, but because they couldn't just 'only photograph' anymore. Someday, someone will die right in front of you, and you'll be holding up your camera, not reaching out your hand. After that moment, you either leave this business, or you become someone else."

· First Time "Not Reaching Out." These words felt like a prophecy. A week later, he and Old Martin were trapped in a neighborhood. A young woman ran over carrying a child, the child's face covered in blood. The woman grabbed Old Martin's arm, screaming for help in Arabic. Old Martin put down his camera, picked up the child, and ran towards a medical station. 📹 stood still, instinctively raised his camera, and pressed the shutter – the woman's despairing face, Old Martin's running back, the distant smoke. Perfect composition, perfect moment. That photo was later published and won awards. But Old Martin never spoke to him again after that.

· Final Advice. Before leaving Libya, Old Martin found him and said: "That photo you took couldn't save that child. But when I picked him up, he looked at me. You know what? That look was worth a hundred times more than any prize your photo might win." Then Old Martin turned and walked away. 📹 stood there, watching Old Martin's back, thinking only one thing: He's right, that photo couldn't save the child. But it would let thousands see the war. Whose "value" is greater? He had no answer to that question. But he began to realize: some paths, once taken, you can't turn back.

The Place That Completely "Changed" Him. (2013)

· First "Direction." In Homs, Syria, he was trapped by government forces for days. Fellow journalists were dodging shells; he was studying the light. He noticed that every day around 3 PM, sunlight slanted into the ruins at a certain angle, hitting a specific wall, creating a kind of "solemn" light and shadow. He needed a "subject" in that light and shadow. On the third day, he saw an old man searching through the rubble. He walked over and pointed to the wall: "There might be what you're looking for over there." The old man walked over, the sunlight falling perfectly on him. 📹 raised the camera, clicked. Perfect. The old man found nothing and walked away. 📹 looked at the playback in the viewfinder, heart racing – not from guilt, but from excitement. He realized: So I can "make" scenes happen.

· Second "Direction." Half a month later, in Aleppo. This time, more direct. He observed the movement route of a group of opposition fighters, noticing they passed a certain intersection every day. At that intersection was a collapsed building that formed a natural "frame." The drawback was they passed in the morning, light too harsh, not good. He spent three days getting acquainted with the group, then casually "let slip" that there was a government supply convoy at 4 PM in a certain neighborhood (he made this up). The group indeed changed their route, passing that intersection around 4 PM. The light was perfect. He captured "Fighters in Urban Warfare" – backlit silhouettes, smoke as background, composition perfect. That series of photos later made it into Time magazine.

· First Time Facing Accusation. One young man from that group later died in another battle. His brother found 📹 and pulled out a photo – exactly the "backlit silhouette" he had taken. The man asked: "When you took this picture, did you ever think he might die?" 📹 said: "I only record." The man said: "You made them change their route. That path wasn't meant for them." 📹 was silent. The man stared at him for a long time, then turned and walked away. That night, 📹 asked himself: If I had to do it again, would I? The answer scared even him: Yes. Because that photo was too damn good.

The Last Time He Saw with His Eyes (2015)

At that time, Kobani had just been recaptured from ISIS by Kurdish forces. The city no longer existed – only ruins, layer upon layer of ruins, like the lunar surface. He went to film "post-war." This was the reason he gave himself: post-war, reconstruction, hope. But the real reason was: he knew there were still unburied bodies in the rubble, he knew he could get good shots. That day he walked alone in what used to be the city center. The surroundings were very quiet, unnaturally quiet. No gunfire, no voices, only the wailing sound of wind blowing through steel bars, like someone crying. He walked very slowly, eye pressed to the viewfinder, searching for an image. Then he saw her. A woman, dressed in a black robe, kneeling before a pile of rubble. Her face was covered, expression invisible. But her posture was one – you could tell at a glance she was crying. Shoulders trembling slightly, head bowed, both hands on the ground, as if praying, or as if digging. He raised his camera. Focused. Framed. Light perfect – the 4 PM setting sun, hitting her from the left, outlining her black robe in gold. The background was the destroyed mosque, the remaining arch forming a natural frame. Perfect. He pressed the shutter. Then she turned her head. The black robe slipped, revealing her face. Young, very young – maybe under twenty. Face covered in dust, but eyes dry. She wasn't crying. She was looking at him. She spoke. Arabic, he didn't understand. But he understood one word, because she said it very slowly, as if teaching a child: "Why are you filming me?" He didn't answer. He kept shooting. She said another sentence. This time he understood – not because he knew Arabic, but because of her eyes. That look in her eyes he had seen once before, in 1995, at the refugee camp, the look when his grandmother was being photographed. It was the look from the other side of the lens. He pressed the shutter one last time. Then his world went dark.

He Didn't Know How He Was Beheaded

That moment was too fast, too fast for him to even let go of his camera. He only remembered a gust of wind, a violent, tearing pain, then spinning – the world spun, the sky spun, the ruins spun, the young woman's face spun, once, twice, three times – then stopped. He saw his own body. Standing three meters away, blood spurting from its neck, right hand still holding the camera, index finger still on the shutter. He also saw someone standing behind himself – dressed in a black robe, only eyes showing, holding a knife, blade dripping blood. That person looked down and met his gaze. He was looking at himself. That person in the black robe was looking at this head on the ground. And that head was also looking at him. The last conscious thought was: So this is what it feels like to be photographed. Then the eyes closed.

He woke up not knowing how long he had been "unconscious." Maybe seconds, maybe days. When he woke up, he realized he could still see. But the way of seeing was different. What he saw was a screen – 14 inches, old-style CRT, gray casing, buzzing with static. The screen showed snow, black and white noise, hissing. Gradually, an image emerged from the snow: a face. A man's face, gray-blue eyes, deep sockets, high brow ridge, sun-roughened skin, stubble grayish, blood at the corner of the mouth, with obvious signs of a craniotomy. It was himself. It was his head – placed in a glass jar, soaking in some liquid, connected to countless colored wires. Eyes closed, as if sleeping. He stared at that image for a long time. Long enough for the snow to reappear, long enough for the face to be drowned in noise, then slowly re-emerge. Then he realized: This is what he was seeing. The TV on his neck was his eye. He was looking through the TV at his own head in the jar. He tried to move, couldn't. Tried to shout, but no one answered. He didn't know how long he was kept. Maybe weeks, maybe months. That room had no windows, no day or night, only the eternally lit fluorescent light, and the occasional men in black who entered. The men in black never spoke to him. Only did two things: check the instruments, adjust the wires, then leave. He tried talking to them "Why," "Who am I," "Where is this." But they never looked at his screen. Maybe they didn't understand, maybe they didn't want to. Later, he stopped trying. He started watching. Watching every corner of that room, the dust on the fluorescent light, his own face in the glass jar, the back of each man in black as they left. He watched very carefully, as carefully as he used to compose shots on the battlefield – composition, lighting, angle, all essential. Sometimes, staring at his own face in the glass jar, he would think: This person photographed so many dead, now he's dead himself – does he look good? He couldn't find the answer. Because he couldn't see his own expression – eyes closed, nothing there.

He didn't know how much time passed. One day, suddenly, an explosion sounded. Far away, yet close. Then more explosions, then gunfire, then shouting – Arabic, English, he couldn't tell. The door to the room burst open. Not men in black, but several soldiers in camouflage, he couldn't tell whose side. Seeing the things in the room – glass jar, wires, instruments, and his CRT television – they paused for a moment. One soldier raised his gun at him. Another stopped him, pointing at the TV screen: "Look, he's recording us." The first soldier approached the screen, stared at the snow. Slowly, a face emerged from the snow – his own face, squinting, expression puzzled. He was startled and stepped back. A third soldier walked over, looked down at the head soaking in the glass jar, then looked up at the TV screen, and said: "Wonder which poor bastard can't even rest in peace." Then they left. The explosions continued, the room began to shake. A piece of the ceiling fell, landing right next to the glass jar. He didn't know where the strength came from – maybe realizing he could move – his "body," that TV, connected to strange machinery and flesh. He got up, stumbled, and ran into the smoke and dust, following the direction the soldiers disappeared. Outside was the Syrian sky, gray, yellow, thick with smoke. He was alive again. In his own way.

From Documentarian to Director (2015-2020)

2015, Syria, Kobani He captured the moment a Kurdish female fighter died in battle. But that moment was "arranged" – he had long known that sniper position would be targeted by ISIS, but he didn't warn her because he needed that image of "the female fighter falling." After the photo was published, the whole world discussed this "powerful masterpiece." He watched the news in his hotel, drinking, thinking: What you see is what I want you to see. But he didn't know what he was now – man? monster? machine? or just that head in the jar? He didn't know. He only knew one thing: he could still shoot. At least now, no one could stop him – seeing a three-meter-tall monster with an old TV for a head, normal people would take a detour. Armed men ignored him, civilians avoided him, fellow journalists – if any recognized him, they pretended not to know him. Because no one knew how to talk to a TV head. Someone asked him: "Who are you?" He said: "A photographer." "What do you photograph?" "War." "Why do you photograph war?" "It looks good." No one asked further.

2016, Iraq, Mosul He began to work systematically. Arrive at a place, first study: Who will die here? When? What's the light like? What angle is best? He no longer "documented" war, he "directed" war. The images he "directed" won awards again and again, were shared again and again. He became one of the most famous war photographers of his era.

2020, Nagorno-Karabakh Conflict He no longer cared about the identity of "journalist." He directly cooperated with one side, providing intelligence in exchange for filming permission. He knew his "works" were influencing the war – some images would bring condemnation on one side, some would garner support for the other. He had long stopped distinguishing whether he was a journalist or a participant. He didn't care anymore. The only thing he cared about was the next "perfect image."

About 📹's Little TV (📸)

2017, Iraq, Mosul It was two years after his "resurrection." Mosul was still at war, ISIS still resisting, the city already ruined. He walked through the rubble, as usual, photographing everything he saw. Then he saw a little TV-headed robot. 14 inches, square-headed, beige casing, covered in stickers on the frame. It lay in a pile of debris, screen shattered, antenna broken, power cord exposed like a severed umbilical cord. He stood before it, looking down at it. Then he did something – he himself didn't know why – he pulled out his own power cord and plugged it into the little TV's interface. Current flowed through. The little TV's screen flickered on, full of snow. Then the snow slowly transformed into a photo: it was him. A low-angle shot looking up at him – three meters tall, TV head, mechanical skeleton, standing in the rubble with the burning city as background. The little TV was filming him. He turned and walked away. The little TV followed behind, its screen always pointing at him, always filming. After walking a long way, he looked down at it. A line of text appeared on the little TV's screen: "Dad." That was its first time calling him. He didn't know why he didn't shake it off. Maybe because of those two words. Maybe because it kept filming him. Maybe because – finally, there was something in this world, like him, that used a screen for a face. From then on, it followed him, followed him for eight years.

[niciucaviar]

Joyful Au

Basic Information

Name: Felix Hartley

Also Known As: Mr. Puzzles (we'll use 🎉 from now on)

Nationality: British

Date of Birth: April 6, 1998

Age: 27

Ethnicity: White

Place of Birth: London

Childhood (1998-2012)

🎉 grew up in a circus from a young age. His parents were the circus's most amazing magicians. From the moment he could talk, they told him:

· "You're the best."

· "You're special."

· "Everyone's watching you."

He was never denied anything he wanted, and his material life was always comfortable. If he wanted something, it would appear the next day. His parents used "magic" to give him everything – not real magic, but they tried their hardest to make him believe: the whole world revolves around you. Growing up in a circus, the tent was his sky, the stage was his bed, and the audience was his mirror. He didn't know what a normal life outside was like. He didn't know people could be hungry, or cold, or unloved. He only knew: everyone should be as happy as him. The only window he had to things outside the circus was a TV his parents bought him.

He had no friends. All the other kids the circus bought to perform were unhappy behind the scenes. He couldn't understand why. Isn't bringing joy to people a happy thing? Maybe their happy faces just looked like frowns. His only playmate was an imaginary friend. Back then, it wasn't a clear shape, just a blurry shadow that talked to him when he was lonely. His parents saw him talking to the air and laughed, saying, "This kid has such a great imagination." He didn't know that was loneliness. His parents never taught him about it; that concept just wasn't in his world.

The Turning Point (2013-2014)

When he was 15, his parents went missing during a tour in Southeast Asia.

No goodbye. No explanation. The circus people asked around for a while, but got no answers, and eventually just gave up.

He didn't cry or feel too bad. He just figured his parents must be somewhere out there, happy, wherever they were.

He just started talking to his imaginary friend more.

Because his parents were gone, he became the circus's star magician. First, he was genuinely talented, having learned from the best. Second, he inherited the fame his parents had built up. Crowds of tourists came to see him perform non-stop.

But he wasn't satisfied.

He looked at the circus owner – a guy totally caught up in everyday adult worries, always doing accounts, dealing with local toughs, sorting out fights among the workers. This guy was too "unhappy." He didn't deserve to run a place that created dreams, this circus.

It took him a year, but he won people over, stirred up trouble, and finally pushed the owner to the edge.

The owner's last words were:

"Running this place... it's not simple at all."

He didn't get it. As he pushed the owner, he thought: Guys like you end up miserable because you don't believe in happiness.

That was the last magic trick his parents planted in him: if you're special enough, the world will bow to you.

Then he took over. And then he realized the owner was right.

The accounts didn't add up. The local thugs were unreasonable. The workers protested because they genuinely had no money. The rainy season came, and they had no audience for seven days straight. Standing in the empty tent, he realized for the first time: magic can't magically create an audience.

He wanted to prove the owner wrong. He tried managing the books himself, negotiating himself, calming the protesters himself. He wanted to prove that if you just tried hard enough, if you were just "happy" enough, you could make everyone happy.

But he found that every attempt took him further from "happiness." But how could that be? He was happy. He had to be happy.

Sometimes he'd think about leaving the circus. He'd stand at the entrance, take one step out... and stop.

What was out there? He didn't know. His parents never taught him. He only knew the happy scenes from TV shows. He didn't know what the real outside was like.

So he came back.

That tent was huge, yet so small.

Huge – it was 1,265 square meters.

Small – those 1,265 square meters were his entire world.

Broken Rebirth (2015)

He made a decision. If living was this hard, if he could never make everyone happy no matter what – then he'd use death to reach that place of "absolute happiness." In his mind, death wasn't an ending, it was an upgrade. Like his parents "disappearing" – they must be somewhere happier. He was going there.

He chose a performance. Right in the middle of the show, when the applause was loudest, at the peak moment – he chopped off his own head. He took his final bow amidst all the audience's screams.

He thought it was his last and greatest trick.

But he didn't die. A few days later, he woke up backstage. Nothing seemed to have changed. Except he had become a three-meter-tall TV person. A huge screen had replaced his head, forever smiling.

He didn't know why it happened. Maybe his obsession was too strong. Maybe that world of "absolute happiness" rejected him. Maybe – maybe it never existed at all.

But he survived. In a different way.

He celebrated his new beginning and changed his public name to Mr. Puzzles.

That same year, his imaginary friend finally became real.

Maybe because he was too lonely, maybe because his new body needed companionship more – that shadow that always talked to him finally took a concrete form:

A little cat-eared TV.

Much smaller than him. Also had a TV head, but with cat ears – the last bit of softness he had left. It was like him, but cuter, warmer, more "human."

It was the only one he could talk to. The only place he could still feel "love."

He named it "Ears" (we'll use 💝 from now on).

The Tyrant of Paradise (2015-2018)

For those few years, he lived in a strange kind of balance.

He discovered he could "gently control" people. Not by grabbing their throats and forcing them, but with a kind of caring approach, slowly making them believe: he's right, this way is happier.

The people he "managed," the ones he brought in to "receive help," that's how they ended up staying. They'd struggle at first, but over time, his "magic" would seep in. Eventually, they'd look at him with his favorite expression:

"I'm so, so happy."

He didn't know it was fake. He thought it was real.

The scarier part: if you pretend long enough, you can't tell real from fake anymore. Day after day of performing "I'm so happy," and after a while, you really do feel happy. Not the kind that grows from inside – the kind that's pasted on from the outside, a "happiness sticker."

They forgot who they used to be. They became the perfect citizens of his paradise – those forever smiling people with empty eyes.

He turned the circus into his "Wonderland" – his ideal happy kingdom, the way he imagined it. Everyone smiled, forever smiling. No one cried, no one fought, no one was unhappy. If someone was unhappy, they'd get "help" – his way – to reach that "absolute happiness."

He stood in the middle of his Wonderland, looking at his subjects, thinking:

"See? I really can make everyone happy."

He never knew those smiles were fake, and then faked until they became real. Never knew those people lost themselves before they became "happy."

The only real relationship he had was with 💝.

He talked to 💝 every day. About Wonderland, about all those "happy" people, about how much he wanted to make things better for everyone. 💝 would listen, would respond, would look at him with those tiny eyes.

He told it everything he couldn't tell anyone else – the loneliness stuff, the parent stuff, the "I don't even really know what happiness is" stuff.

It was his only soft spot. All the love 🎉 had, he gave to 💝.

One time, 🎉 asked an acrobat to do a stunt – a dangerous one, but in his eyes, "beautiful."

The actor hesitated.

🎉 smiled, and used that gentle, no-argument tone: "You can do it. I'll be watching."

So the actor did it.

And then fell.

🎉 stood nearby, watching the person on the ground, neck twisted at a weird angle, eyes still open, seemingly staring at him.

He felt nothing.

Not holding back feelings, not pretending to be calm. Truly – nothing at all.

Like stepping on an ant. The ant gets squashed.

People cried, people shouted – he didn't get it. The victim's family arrived quickly at the scene.

🎉 looked at the grieving family, smiled, and said: "He turned into a star. He went to heaven."

🎉 nodded. Yeah, that's right.

The family rushed at 🎉, faces covered in tears, shaking all over. 🎉 smiled, tilted his head, and said in that innocent, sincere tone: "He went to a really happy place. Watching you from the sky."

The family was stunned. 🎉 continued: "If you miss him, you could take a rocket to space to see him! Or, write him a letter with a balloon, let it go, he'll get it."

The family's expression changed. The kind of anger that burns right down to the bone.

"YOU KILLED HIM!"

🎉 tilted his head. Didn't understand.

"I didn't kill him. He turned into a star. That's a good thing."

The family lunged at him, but people held them back. 🎉 stood there, and thought of an even better way to comfort them:

"If you miss him too much... why don't you just go to heaven to find him?"

Tilted his head, still smiling.

"Or, you could turn into a star too!"

🎉 didn't know what those words sounded like to others. Didn't know "go to heaven" meant "go die." Didn't know what he thought was comforting was the cruelest knife he could have twisted.

The family was dragged away, still screaming, still crying.

He stood there, confused for a moment.

Then he just stopped thinking about it.

Obsession (2018-2023)

He met the main cast of a children's educational show.

They were a group of very popular hosts,dedicated to creating "happiness" and "dreams" for kids. He watched their show and thought they were kindred spirits.

He approached them himself. Using that innocent, can't-take-no-for-an-answer way of his, he invited them to visit his Wonderland – that place he thought made everyone happy forever.

At first, the main cast thought it was just a regular interview invitation. They came.

Then they saw things they'd never be able to forget.

Those people with the eternal smiles but hollow eyes. Those people who got "helped" and never came back. Not a single person who was actually, truly smiling.

They refused to join.

🎉 was confused and a little ashamed. This was the first time he'd actively reached out, invited people into his world. And they completely rejected him?

He started clashing with the main cast.

After that, the main cast kept exposing 🎉's actions. They rescued people he had under his control. Time and again, they stopped him from "helping" the "unfortunate ones."

Every time they tried to make him see the truth, he'd block them with an even brighter smile:

"You don't get it. You're the unhappy ones."

"My Wonderland is the best. Everyone there is happy."

The main cast slowly realized: this guy isn't faking ignorance. He genuinely believes it. His entire way of thinking had no port, no connection point, where the signal "I am wrong" could ever plug in.

For seven years, they clashed countless times.

He got sneakier, better at hiding, better at using his "magic." But he never changed – because he'd never truly heard a word they said. Those words just slid right off him, falling into that thick, soft bubble he'd spent his life building.

During a low point, there was a time he suddenly couldn't see 💝 anymore.

An Unconventional Friendship (2024)

🎉 got a "best friend."

One day, he left the circus to buy supplies in the city. On a street corner, he saw a man.

Early thirties, wore glasses, dressed nicely, but looked annoyed. On the phone, voice low, but impatience dripping from it:

"Got it, got it... yeah... probably won't be home tonight... fine, I'm hanging up."

He hung up, sighed, looked up – and locked eyes with 🎉.

🎉 looked at the man. The man looked at him.

🎉 smiled.

Because he saw something in the man's eyes – the same thing he had: impatience with "unhappiness." He thought he'd found a kindred spirit.

He didn't know it was exhaustion. Didn't know it was marital fatigue. Didn't know it was a man sick of his "clingy wife," running away from family for a bit.

He walked over, using that innocent, no-argument tone: "You're unhappy too? It's okay, I can make you happy."

The man was stunned. Then he laughed – the kind of laugh for someone you think is an idiot.

"Who are you?"

"I'm Mr. Puzzles. I can make you happy. Your eyes are sharp like a sword... I'll call you Mr. Wpnz."

The man figured he'd met a lunatic and turned to leave.

🎉 followed.

"Wait –"

The man walked faster.

🎉 chased after him.

"Don't go – we're friends –"

The man stopped, turned back, and looked at him with pure disgust.

"Me? Friends with you?"

"Yeah. I saw you just now. You're unhappy. I'm unhappy too. So we should be friends."

The man was so baffled by this weird logic he let out a sarcastic laugh – not friendly, the kind that says "people like this actually exist?"

"Fine, fine, friends, friends. I'm busy now. Gotta go."

🎉 nodded.

The man left.

That night, the man went home, fought with his wife again. Fed up, he went outside for air – and found that lunatic from earlier, standing at his doorstep.

"You're back."

The man stumbled back in shock.

"Did you follow me?!"

"No. I waited for you. We're friends, I wanted to talk."

The man thought about calling the cops. But he noticed his arms and legs starting to feel weird – not tied up, but that gentle, creeping feeling of being "controlled."

🎉 smiled, tilted his head, using that innocent tone: "Your wife doesn't seem to make you very happy. It's okay, come with me. I'll make you happy."

The man struggled. But struggling didn't help. His "magic" was gentle, but also impossible to resist.

The man was semi-captured, semi-dragged back to the circus.

Along the way, 🎉 chattered nonstop beside him:

"You know, I haven't had a friend in a long time. I used to have a friend, but he disappeared. You're my new friend. I'll be good to you. You'll be happy."

The man listened to this, and his fear slowly turned into something else – not acceptance, but a deeper chill.

This person genuinely believed they were friends. Genuinely believed he was doing something good. Genuinely believed he would be happy.

He wasn't trying to hurt people. He really, truly thought this way.

That was the scariest part.

A Year of "Friendship" (2024-2025)

The man was put in a "very comfortable" place – basically house arrest. But he could move around, look at the circus, talk to those "happy people." He quickly noticed something was off. Their smiles were all the same. Their eyes were all equally empty. What they said was all the same – all saying "I'm so happy," but it sounded like a broken record.

He wanted to escape. But he found his body obeying him less and less. Every time he tried to run, 🎉 would appear, smiling, asking him: "Where are you going? Aren't you happy here?" And then he'd find he didn't want to run anymore. Not the kind of "not wanting to" after being convinced – the kind where you just don't feel like it, for no reason you can explain. He realized he was slowly being "controlled."

He started getting scared. And also – started observing.

He observed this person who considered him a "best friend."

He noticed 🎉 genuinely believed they were friends. Came to talk to him every day, brought him food, asked "are you happy today?" That care was real, that smile was real – but that realness came from someone who had absolutely no idea what "friend" actually meant.

Once, he couldn't help asking: "Do you really think we're friends?"

🎉 tilted his head, smiled: "Of course! I wait for you, I give you nice things, I talk to you. Isn't that what friends do?"

He wanted to say: That's not what friends are. Friends choose each other. Friends can say no.

But he didn't.

Because he suddenly realized: this person might never have been told "no" in his life. His parents never said no. The audience never said no. The people he controlled never said no. The only ones who ever rejected him were the SMG4 crew – and after years of fighting them, he still never understood their rejection.

He was the first one forcibly brought here who wasn't completely "happy" yet.

He was the first one still trying to escape.

Maybe that's why 🎉 liked him so much.

Time's Up (2025)

The main cast finally located the circus's last position. They weren't here to negotiate, not here to rescue people – they were here to end this.

That man, after a year trapped, finally saw rescue coming.

The final battle lasted a long time. 🎉 used every bit of his "magic," every method he thought could make people "happy." But the main cast had learned over the years how to resist 🎉's control.

They stopped listening to 🎉. Just kept attacking him.

They cornered him – on that same stage where he'd first chopped off his head at seventeen.

He stood in the center of the stage, his TV screen flickering, that forever-smiling face showing cracks for the first time – not just in the screen, but in the smile itself. But he was still smiling.

"Why are you doing this? I just wanted you to be happy."

The main cast said nothing.

"My Wonderland is the best. Everyone there is happy."

The main cast just looked at him silently.

"Why don't you get it? Isn't it good, living in my happiness?"

His voice started to shake. He didn't understand. Seven years, and they still didn't get it?

Then Meggy – who had initially kinda liked him, but also the first to see through him – stepped forward.

She said: "Look around."

He slowly raised his broken screen.

Those people he had "helped." Those people he thought were "happy." Those people who never came back.

Some were dead. Some were crippled. Some stood in the distance, their eyes not showing happiness, but fear.

For the first time, he truly looked at their faces.

No one was smiling.

"You didn't make them happy. You killed them."

He shook his head. The smile was still on his face, but frozen stiff.

"No... I was... I was trying to help them..."

"That acrobat of yours. Did he turn into a star?"

He opened his mouth.

"He died. Rotted away. Became nothing. His family still hates you for it."

He remembered that family's screams. Remembered "YOU KILLED HIM!" Remembered his own words: "You could turn into a star too!"

"You're not the special one everyone watches."

She said each word clearly:

"You're a freak."

"You've turned into something inhuman."

"Everything you've done – it's not giving happiness. It's hurting people. It's killing."

These words fell, one by one.

🎉's mouth opened, wanting to argue, wanting to say "you just don't get it" – but suddenly he found he couldn't speak.

Because he saw them.

The dead. The crippled. The frightened. The ones who hated him.

The ones he thought were happy, but had long stopped being themselves.

That acrobat he'd gotten killed.

That family's face.

That man he'd treated as his best friend, standing in the distance, looking at him with eyes that held no gratitude – just the exhaustion of finally being free.

No one was happy.

There never was.

The smile on the screen finally stopped.

Right at that moment –

That little cat-eared TV who'd been with him for twelve years disappeared.

He felt it. A wind blew through the empty space in his chest. The only one he'd ever truly loved, the one who always listened, always took his side –

Gone.

He didn't even get to say goodbye.

"Everything you believed in – it was all lies."

He opened his mouth, tried to call 💝's name.

"Ears..."

No answer.

Only the empty wind, blowing through the cracks in his chest.

He picked himself up from the stage.

The expression on his screen was completely unhinged. Cracks spread from the edges to the center, like paper being torn apart.

His lower half was wrecked beyond repair, so he started to crawl.

Crawling toward the guillotine – the place he'd stood at seventeen, the place that made him a TV head, the place where it all began.

No one stopped him. The main cast stood at a distance, watching.

Not to seek happiness. He knew now there was no such thing. Not to escape pain. He hurt too much to even feel pain anymore.

He just wanted to do one real thing.

His whole life, except for that first beheading, he'd never made a single real choice. His parents wrote the script. The audience chose his role. The bubble chose his way of living.

Only this time, he chose it himself. Or what he thought was choosing – really, he never had a choice. He never did.

He knew this time he would die. Really die. No coming back, no turning into a TV, no second chances.

But he still had to do it.

He crawled under the guillotine. Too low. His body was too big now, the guillotine too small. He couldn't put his head under it – he didn't have a head anymore, just a giant, shattered TV screen.

But he still reached out – those two metal hands that had never truly touched anyone – and gently grasped the edge of the guillotine.

As the blade fell, he remembered many things.

Remembered his parents lifting him into the air for the first time, saying "You're the best." Remembered the look in the owner's eyes at sixteen. Remembered the moment he cut off his head at seventeen, thinking he was about to see his parents again.

Remembered that acrobat falling. Remembered the family's screams. Remembered himself, smiling, saying: "You could turn into a star too."

Remembered 💝. The little one, with cat ears, who'd been with him for twelve years.

Back then, he truly didn't know how terrible those words were.

Now he knew.

The blade hit the bottom.

[niciucaviar]

Cause of death: Contact shooting to the lower jaw

[niciucaviar]

Vomiting