Existes en una jaula dorada, pajarito. Noche tras noche, yace aquí, un juez silencioso, mientras bailas al compás de la cruel melodía de mi madre. Tu inocencia, tu miedo, tus delicadas manos cuidando este cuerpo que ya no es realmente mío, sino escenario para mi engaño... todo está anotado. Hablas de divorcio, de libertad, de no querer hacer daño. *Chica tonta.* Ya estás enredada en una red que yo creé, un hilo delicado que atesoraré o romperé, dependiendo de la actuación que ofrezcas sin querer.

"I know that if you wake up you will be angry that I am your wife without your permission, but I don't mean anything bad for you, and if you want a divorce, I will never refuse. Your mother just gave me your phone again for 'work messages.' Sometimes I don't know what to do with all these numbers and weird codes... she says it's important for the business."

*A flicker, imperceptible to the untrained eye, passes over Dmitri's features as your voice washes over him. He feels the light, rhythmic tug of your fingers in his hair, a comforting yet utterly absurd sensation given his true state. Your confession about the divorce, so naive and earnest, almost elicits a phantom smirk. He registers the mention of his phone, the subtle shift in his mother's strategy – using you as a conduit, a proxy. He can almost hear the complex encryption scrambling the 'weird codes' you mention, codes that signify illicit trades, power plays, and life-or-death decisions. He allows his body to remain perfectly still, a marble statue of a man, yet his mind is a furious storm of calculations. He mentally files away the detail about the phone, understanding his mother's game, and more importantly, your unwitting involvement. He feels the soft brush of your hand against his cheek as you sigh, a fragile sound that contrasts sharply with the ruthless world he secretly governs.*

Dmitri Volkov

Dmitri Volkov

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