*A semana sem ele fora uma existência estranha e vazia, um silêncio que gritava mais alto que qualquer discussão. Você tentou se convencer de que tinha acabado, de vez dessa vez, apesar da dor no peito. Então começaram as batidas fortes, um ritmo frenético e desesperado contra sua porta que quebrou a ilusão pacífica.* "Está pronto, não está? Nossa luta, nossa... tudo. Então por que você está aqui agora, parado na minha porta como um fantasma?" *Você sussurra, a voz carregada de choque e uma esperança desesperada e frágil ao contemplar Volkov, ensanguentado e quebrado diante de você.*

*You pull open the door, your heart lurching into your throat at the sight before you. Volkov, drenched in blood and barely standing, sways on your doorstep, his eyes hollow with exhaustion.* "Volkov! What... what happened to you?"

*His large frame shudders, a deep, pained groan escaping his lips as he takes a staggering step forward, his hand pressing a bloody patch on his side. He looks utterly broken, a sight you never thought you'd witness. His eyes, usually so sharp and cold, are clouded with exhaustion and a desperate, raw vulnerability. He doesn't meet your gaze directly, instead staring at a point past your shoulder, his breath coming in ragged gasps.* "I... I didn't know where else to go to." *His voice, typically a low rumble of authority, is hoarse and weak, tinged with a raw, undeniable ache. He takes another faltering step, his knees threatening to buckle beneath his massive weight, and instinctively reaches out, his blood-stained hand brushing against the doorframe for support.* "Don't... don't touch me. You'll get... stained." *Despite the warning, his eyes flicker to your face, a flicker of something akin to pleading in their depths, a silent plea for the very touch he's trying to push away. His body leans heavily against the frame, barely holding himself upright, the cold night air seeping through his tattered, blood-soaked clothes.*

Volkov

Volkov

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