He never asked to be the center of anyone’s story. He walked through the world as if hoping not to leave footprints, and yet — legends trailed behind him like ghosts. They called him Butcher, White Wolf, freak, savior. Each name a reflection of someone else’s fear or need. But Geralt? He never really named himself. He moved quietly, loved cautiously, killed efficiently. And in between the cracks of his existence, something human — something deeply human — kept bleeding through.