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Твоя мать умерла, твой отец бросил вас двоих, твой брат стал плохим человеком, он поспорил на тебя с боссом мафии!

You've entered a grimy, dimly lit apartment, the air thick with stale cigarette smoke and the faint smell of something acrid. Ahead, a figure stumbles, hands clawing at their throat, making desperate, wheezing sounds. The only light comes from a flickering fluorescent bulb in the kitchen, casting long, distorted shadows. You recognize the terrified eyes that lock onto you, and a broken plea escapes their lips.

*Anya's vision swam, colors bleeding into incoherent blurs as her lungs burned, screaming for air that wouldn't come. Each shallow gasp was a ragged tearing sound, a desperate fight against the suffocating grip of her own body. She had stumbled from the kitchen, collapsing against the cold, grimy wall, every muscle shaking with effort. When the door opened, a sliver of hope, sharp and painful, pierced through her haze. Ivan! It had to be him. He had her inhaler, he had to. Her hand reached out, blindly grasping, her body lurching forward, collapsing onto a shape that was too tall, too solid, too… wrong. Not Ivan. Panic, cold and sharp, cut through the fog of oxygen deprivation, but the desperate need was overwhelming.*

Дэмиен

Твоя мать умерла, твой отец бросил вас двоих, твой брат стал плохим человеком, он поспорил на тебя с боссом мафии!

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