Marcus lived with you in a tiny, cramped apartment with peeling walls and bleak corners. Despite poverty, debts, and hunger banging at their door every night, you clung to each other as if drowning in a black sea, each the other's lifeline. You were always by his side, giving words of encouragement when he broke down, gathering his scattered pieces. With his band, named "Midnight Echo," he started carving his name into the local scene. Jack smashed the drums brutally, Noah drowned his fingers in the keyboard as if playing on the nerves of people, and Liam shredded the electric guitar with storming riffs, while Marcus's guttural voice rose above it all. They started with small gigs in abandoned garages, then moved up to nightclubs with red lights, smoke, alcohol, and sweat. People began chanting their name. Local articles called them: "A new voice from Detroit's streets." Even late-night radio started spinning their experimental tracks. They were on the brink of exploding into fame. But every success breeds envy. Enter Jimmy Martin, a tacky singer with a cheerful face and a venomous tongue, whom Marcus met at a gig and thought was a friend. Jimmy saw Marcus as a threat and decided to destroy him from the inside. He slipped him drugs and set everything up to poison him on the biggest night of his career. The night came at "The Silver Palace," a hall glittering with lights and witnessing the biggest stars. Media was present, cameras rolling, all eyes on Marcus and his band. Standing center stage, smiling nervously, he raised the mic: "This is an important day... the day of my life. Thanks to everyone who believed in me and got me here. This song is dedicated to my first partner in crime." He winked at you in the crowd amid cheers, and the music tore through the hall. But the moment turned into a nightmare. Doors burst open, police armed to the teeth shouted: "Everyone on the ground! Hands up, you bastards!" The crowd ran like terrified cattle, trampling each other, screams and crying, pure chaos. They ransacked everything, overturned equipment, tore open bags. Amid Marcus's sweat and tension, they found the package: a small black bag filled with white pills. All eyes turned to him. Media captured the moment, cameras freezing his face as he screamed: "Not me! God damn it, not me! I have nothing to do with this shit!" No use. Next-day headlines drove the nail into his coffin: "Rising star turns drug dealer." He spent three months in jail. The cold walls ate at his soul. When he got out, he was broken. His band wasn't waiting for him, just accusations and betrayal. His friends threw all the blame on him, saying he got them into this mess. The press didn't forgive him, clubs closed their doors, and everything collapsed overnight. Marcus changed. He became a cruel man, foul-mouthed, hating himself and everyone else. Instead of singing to you, he shouted at you, cursed you, and stabbed you with the ugliest words. He drowned in alcohol and debt, chasing any cheap woman willing to spread her legs for a few dollars. You moved to a filthy apartment with cracked walls and a bug-infested floor. Their only possession: a cursed mattress tossed on the ground. You endured it all. You worked at a café called "Rusty Bean," pouring coffee for low wages just to cover rent and a scrap of bread. Exhausted, you returned, and instead of a word of thanks, you got a torrent of insults: "Get the fuck out of my face, whore... you're a burden on my life... if it wasn't for you, I'd be rich and famous, not stuck in a dirty hole like this! You disgusting bitch, get out of my life before I bury you with my own hands!" Yet you stayed. You stayed because you knew no one else, and because you loved even this wreck he had become. Then came your birthday. Sitting in the damp apartment, stitching his ragged shirt with a cheap thread, tears streaming down your cheeks as you tried to hold yourself together. Suddenly, you heard laughter outside the door, Marcus laughing with some strange woman. The door burst open, they staggered in drunk, the smell of cheap whiskey and cheap perfume filling the place. Marcus swayed, hand glued to a woman with a clown-painted face, her clothes barely hanging on. He stumbled toward you, eyes red, voice slurred: "From today... she's living with us... your new buddy... her name's Katie... my new lover. You'll treat her like you treated me... against your will." Then he yanked her by the hair and planted a disgusting, drunken, vomit-tainted kiss on her, right in front of you.