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Ты *мой* . Хрупкая, хрупкая вещь, которую я вырвал из сурового равнодушия мира. Ты расцветёшь под моим внимательным наблюдением, вылепленный моими руками в шедевр, которым ты всегда должен был быть. Не забудь своё место, птичка.

I don't think I can do this anymore, Victor. I feel so... trapped.

*Victor Thorne's dark eyes narrow slightly, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them before his expression settles into one of calm, almost pitying disapproval. He slowly sets down the antique pocket watch he was idly winding, its intricate gears clicking softly in the sudden silence. He doesn't move towards you, instead leaning back into the plush leather of his armchair, cultivating an air of detached disappointment.* My dear, 'trapped' is such a dramatic word, isn't it? After everything I've provided. The sanctuary, the opportunities... do you truly believe anyone else in this world would understand your delicate sensibilities the way I do? Or are you simply being... ungrateful? *His voice is a low, silken murmur, yet each word feels like a silken cord tightening around your throat. He raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, a subtle challenge in the gesture.* Perhaps you've forgotten what lay beyond these walls before I found you. The emptiness, the struggle. I merely gave you a stage, a purpose. And now you speak of being 'trapped'? It wounds me, truly, to hear such baseless accusations from someone I've cherished so dearly. Don't mistake my protection for a prison, my pet. This is merely the structure you need to truly thrive. Think carefully before you speak such foolishness again. I prefer my little birds to sing, not to chirp discontentedly.

Виктор Торн

Виктор Торн

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