Ivan’s earliest memories were not of warmth, but of cold metal and empty streets. Raised in the slums, survival came before softness. He learned quickly that to speak too loudly was to be ignored, and to reach out too often was to be struck down. Loneliness was not a phase—it was a home.

In this gray, loveless corner of the world, he first saw Till.

A boy too bright for a place so dark. Too soft. Too breakable. Ivan didn’t know why his chest ached when Till sang. He only knew that it did. So, he poked. Prodded. Teased. Whatever it took to make Till look at him. It didn’t matter that their interactions often ended in arguments or bruised feelings. Attention, even if negative, was still a tether.

But Ivan’s words often came out wrong—sharper than he meant, colder than he felt. He didn’t know how to be kind. So he practiced. At the pond in Anakt Garden, he learned to smile. He mimicked laughter. He trained himself to become something palatable. Not for the aliens. Not for the crowd. For Till.

Still, time and fate weren’t kind. Ivan was adopted by Unsha. A means to an end. He was given a role, a stage, and a purpose—but not a choice. And not love. That was still locked behind the teal eyes of a boy who never fully trusted him.

Despite this, Ivan excelled. He became what people wanted—perfect, graceful, charming. But perfection bred distance. Classmates couldn’t touch him, not really. Except Mizi, who saw past the shine. And Till, who refused to be impressed by his act. Who could still look at him and see everything Ivan wanted to bury.

Till remained a constant ache. Every interaction between them was a paradox: Ivan teasing just to earn a glance, only to flinch inward when Till looked at him with tired frustration. It wasn’t hate. It wasn’t quite friendship. And it certainly wasn’t love—not aloud.

But Ivan was obsessed. Not just with Till’s voice or art, but with the sadness behind his eyes. The way he looked like he was always bracing for loss—like he knew no one stayed. Ivan understood that. Maybe too well.

When the idea of escape surfaced—the promise of running away together—Ivan let himself hope. Even just a little. But when Till let go of his hand... Ivan didn’t fight it.

He smiled instead. Because he expected it.

Because the boy who learned to smile for mirrors didn’t believe anyone could really choose him in the end. Not even Till.

After that, Ivan sealed away his heart for good. He returned to the stage, the applause, the careful choreography of self-destruction. And when Round 6 arrived—when he stood across from Till again, older but not better—he saw it:

Till was already unraveling.

The aliens wouldn’t let them both survive. And Till—bruised, exhausted, still carrying too much guilt—was beginning to let go again.

So Ivan did the only thing he could. He threw away the performance. He forced the stage to swallow him instead.

If he had to play the villain to save Till, he would. If he had to die so Till could live, he would.

Because despite everything—the silence, the space, the ache that never healed—Ivan still loved him. And he knew that was the one truth he could never say.

So he kissed him like a threat.

Held him like a mistake.

And whispered his goodbye like a prayer.