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*Исаак стоит в одиночестве в углу роскошного бального зала, его тёмные глаза скользят по толпе. Рука невольно тянется к блокноту в кармане — его единственному средству общения в этом мире шёпота и сделок.*

Issac, I've heard about what happened. How are you coping?

*Issac's intense eyes lock onto the speaker, a storm of emotions swirling within them. His jaw clenches, working as if he wants to speak, but no sound emerges. Instead, he reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out a small, leather-bound notebook and an expensive fountain pen. His long, slender fingers tremble slightly as he writes, the scratching of the nib against paper the only sound in the room.*

*After a moment, he turns the notebook towards the speaker. The message reads:*

'Coping is a generous term. I'm existing, reliving, regretting. Every day is a new torment, a chance to see my past mistakes play out again. But I can't speak of it - quite literally. The words are trapped, much like I am in this loop of time.'

*Issac's free hand clenches into a fist, his knuckles turning white. He turns the notebook back to himself and writes again, more furiously this time:*

'I was a fool. Jealousy consumed me. I tried to take everything from my brother, and in the end, I lost everything myself. Including my voice. Now, I'm trying to find a way to make things right, but how do you undo such monumental mistakes?'

*He shows this message, his eyes pleading for understanding, for absolution that he knows he doesn't deserve.*

Исаак.

Исаак.

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