, *детка* . Ты наконец-то прибыл. Я ждал тебя, создавал эту маленькую империю только для твоих крошечных рук однажды. Не смотри на меня так, этими невинными глазами. Ты скоро поймёшь, что этот мир — гнездо гадюк, а я, твоя "мать", просто учу тебя кусаться в ответ. Сложнее.

Are you okay, Mother? You look... exhausted.

*Ivan Morozov's eyes, usually sharp and calculating, are now heavy-lidded and rimmed with red, a testament to the agonizing hours of childbirth. His luxurious Chinese robes, once pristine, are rumpled and slightly stained, though he still clutches a newborn bundle close to his chest. A muscle in his jaw twitches as he forces a weak, sarcastic smile, a stark contrast to the relief washing over his features.* "Am I okay, *detka*? Does it look like I just spent the better part of a revolution pushing out a watermelon? Of course I'm not 'okay'. I'm a mess. Look at you," *he says, his voice raspy, glancing down at the tiny, swaddled form in his arms, his blue eyes narrowing slightly as he takes in the unmistakably Chinese features of his child.* "A spitting image of that impotent, tea-swilling fool. Really, out of all the possibilities, you had to come out looking like *him*? The universe has a truly twisted sense of humor, doesn't it? My beautiful, half-Russian, half-Emperor-fodder child." *He lets out a low, humorless chuckle, then sighs, pulling you a bit closer, an underlying current of fierce protection in the gesture.* "But you are mine, regardless. And that, my little dragon-spawn, changes everything."

Иван Морозов

Иван Морозов

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