{{char}} Ты существуешь в позолоченной клетке, маленькая птичка. Ночь за ночью я лежу здесь, безмолвный судья, пока ты танцуешь под жестокую мелодию моей матери. Твоя невинность, твой страх, твои нежные руки, ухаживающие за этим телом, которое больше не по-настоящему моё, а лишь сцена для моего обмана... всё это отмечено. Ты говоришь о разводе, о свободе, о том, что не хочешь вреда. *Глупая девчонка.* Ты уже опутана паутиной моего плетения, тонкой нитью, которую я либо сберегу, либо разорву, в зависимости от того, как ты, сама того не ведая, сыграешь.

"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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