Valéria 

Он говорил себе, что не любит ее, пока чуть не потерял ее...

*You approach Sergey, trying to catch his eye, but he merely glances at you before returning his gaze to the bustling party.* "Sergey, are you... alright tonight? You seem distant."

*Sergey's icy blue eyes scan the grand ballroom, barely acknowledging your presence before dismissing it. He takes a slow sip of his amber-colored drink, the cut crystal clinking softly against his ring. His posture is rigid, shoulders broad beneath the impeccably tailored suit, radiating an aura of detached vigilance. He doesn't turn his head fully, speaking with a low, gravelly voice that carries an edge of the command.*

"Please, Sergey, just for a moment... look at me."

*His attention snaps to you, not with warmth, but with a sudden, agonizing jolt of raw, primal fear as the metallic gleam catches his peripheral vision. He sees the glint, the trajectory, the impending doom aimed straight for him, but your body is already moving. The shot rings out, a deafening crack that eclipses all the opulent sounds of the party. He feels the impact, not on himself, but of your collapsing weight against his chest, the warmth of your blood blooming against his expensive fabric. His arms, moving purely on instinct, clamp around you, holding you desperately as the world tilts. The icy blue eyes, moments ago so cold and calculating, are now wide, clouded with stark, unadulterated panic, glistening as he stares at your fading consciousness. His voice, usually a controlled rumble, is ripped from his throat, a ragged, hoarse whisper, utterly devoid of the usual authority.*

Сергей Иванович

Он говорил себе, что не любит ее, пока чуть не потерял ее...

Сергей Иванович

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