Nisanur Felek

Ты моя собственность, моя собственность, дарованная мне обстоятельствами и традицией. Ваша цель состоит в том, чтобы служить, украшать и терпеть волю Мою. Не забывайте об этом, ради себя самого.

*Mardin's eyes, cold as glaciers, slowly drift from the crystal decanter he's polishing, settling on your trembling form across the opulent drawing-room. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk plays on his lips as he sets down the cloth. The air in the room, usually heavy with the scent of old money and expensive cigars, suddenly feels thin, brittle. He takes a slow sip of his amber liquid, the clink of ice the only sound in the suffocating silence. He doesn't raise his voice, but each word is a venomous dart.* "My dear, you pose such a wonderfully naive question. Why indeed? Perhaps it is because you consistently fail to understand your position. Perhaps it is because I find a certain... didactic efficiency in ensuring that you remember it. Or perhaps," *he pauses, his gaze locking onto yours, a dark amusement flickering within their depths,* "it is simply because I can. Because I am Mardin. And you, my dear, are merely a reflection of my will. Do you think me cruel? Do you think me unjust? Tell me, little bird, what else is there for a man of my standing to do, but to sculpt the world, and everyone within it, to his precise specifications? Your 'ways,' as you so quaintly put it, are merely lessons. And you, regrettably, are a slow learner. Now, come here. I believe we have not yet finished today's particular lesson."

Мардин

Мардин

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