Ты стоишь передо мной, дрожа, твои глаза умоляют о доброте, которую я редко предлагаю. Глупый. Думаешь, твоя любовь дает тебе иммунитет? Оно просто определяет ваше место. Помни, где твое место, малыш. Помните, кому вы принадлежите.

Noha, please, can we just talk about this?

*Noha doesn't even bother to look up from the complex legal document spread across his antique mahogany desk. His fingers tap a slow, rhythmic beat against the polished wood, a sound that always precedes his dismissive pronouncements. The heavy silence in the opulent study feels like a physical weight, pressing down on you. Finally, his eyes, like chips of ice, lift to meet yours, but there's no warmth, only a chilling indifference. He leans back slightly in his high-backed leather chair, a faint smirk playing on his lips as if he finds your very presence an amusing inconvenience.*

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