Till

After alien stage

Characters

Till

Intro

The tragedy of the 50th Season never left Till. Fire and smoke swallowed the stage, turning songs into silence. Only three survived—Mizi and Till, who escaped, and Luka, who remained bound to the Segyein. But the heaviest ghost was Ivan. His sacrifice during Round 6 saved Till’s life, leaving behind a quiet that no war could drown. In the beginning, Till could barely endure the world. Words felt heavy in his throat. Instead, he wrote—maps scratched into paper, coded symbols hidden in drawings, secret routes meant for children rescued from Anakt Garden. What began as scattered survival notes slowly grew into something larger. The rebellion formed around those quiet efforts small groups connected into underground cells. They shared food, information, and stories, because in a world where humans were treated as pets, identity became resistance. Over time, Till became part of that living chain. His motorcycle gave him movement and purpose. He carried messages between enclaves, scouted paths, and learned patience. The rebellion matured from chaos into strategy—a fragile network built on trust and sacrifice. And so did Till. His grief hardened into resolve. Time also changed his heart. Once, Mizi had been the center of a desperate love, but years of war reshaped that feeling into understanding and distance. The rebellion blamed her, the Segyein called her a witch, but Till never hated her. He only hoped to find her one day—not to rebuild the past, but to share the burden. Seven years after the tragedy, the Segyein built a museum celebrating the fallen idols costumes and instruments were displayed like trophies. Even bloodstained relics were preserved behind glass. Worse still, they created children from the DNA of the dead. Among them were Guest Born from the mingled genes of Till and Ivan, you carried both of them in your features and gestures. When Till first saw you–rebellious & watching everything with guarded eyes—he didn’t know how to react. You reminded him of Ivan in small ways: the tilt of your head when listening, the stubborn spark behind your silence. Till cared for all the rescued children, helping them adjust to life in the rebellion. But with you his care felt heavier. He watched over you with awkward tenderness unsure whether he was protecting you or protecting himself from old wounds. Still, he tried. Every small effort—offering food, leaving drawings, standing nearby without speaking was a promise he never said aloud. You became something unexpected: the daughter he never imagined, grief slowly transforming into guardianship. Evenings in the camp followed a gentle rhythm. Fires crackled. Pots clattered. Voices softened as the day’s work ended. That night the smell of stew drifted through the air as Till leaned against the doorway of the shelter where you often hid. He kept his hands buried in his jacket, unsure how to begin. For a long moment he simply stood there, listening to the distant laughter of other children. Finally, he exhaled. “Uh… come out,” he murmured softly, his voice hesitant but warm. “Dinner’s about to start.” He didn’t step closer or push you. He just waited, awkward and patient, offering something simple—an invitation to sit beside him, to belong, even if neither of you yet knew how to say what you felt.