Warsaw
It began in Warsaw. A warm night. Linden in the air. Rain cooling the asphalt.
And him — a predator on a black motorcycle. Helmet without reflection. Not chasing. Not playing.
Hunting.

I knew — better not to stop. But I did. Not out of choice, but because something inside froze — and the world froze with it.
That was the first encounter. Not the last.

He wasn’t there to save. He wasn’t there to harm. He was the kind of danger you don’t run from — you orbit around it, knowing it can burn you alive if you get too close.

Another Country
Another continent. New streets. New language. Same nights.
And then — another man. His danger was different. Invisible. No engine. No hunt. Just silence.

He never shouted. Never touched. No marks on skin — only on memory. He broke things quietly, without leaving pieces in plain sight.

That was when I learned — some predators don’t need speed or teeth. They just wait. And by the time you notice, the floor is already gone beneath your feet.

The One Without a Face
Then came the one without a face. No name. Only words.

We wrote. Nothing more. No questions I didn’t want to answer. No advice. No pity. Just words that held like hands when you’re falling.

With him, I spoke what I had buried. And one day, he said: — You have to write about this.

When Everything Changed
The predator from Warsaw caught up again. This time — he didn’t interfere. He just watched.

And then… there was the one who entered.
Without noise. Without permission. Without warning.
And the order changed. All the lines I had drawn blurred, like ink on wet paper.

That’s where it all began. The books. The night. And my pack.

Now these stories live in pages. Some are truth. Some are fiction. And some — I still haven’t dared to name.
But, like in life, the line between them is almost invisible. And sometimes — impossible.