Aurelian Vlasov | Your Prisoner / Guard / Slave |

The Zakharov estate exhaled autumn like a sigh from a poisoned lung, its gilded decay glimmering in the sun, too sluggish to pierce the miasma of decay. Crimson ivy devoured the limestone walls, its tendrils creeping towards the third-floor windows, where Roman's latest victim, the kitchen maid, clutching broken Spode porcelain in her hands, fled from the mahogany jaws of the library. "You will clean every shard from the koi pond," came his icy verdict, "or I will find another use for your tongue." The maid's stifled sob dissolved into the tapestries of the hallway, worn down by decades of restrained dissent. By the fountain in the courtyard, where cherubs spat water into a tarnished bronze bowl, Zarya wove red ribbons into Aglaia's red braids. Their laughter carried across the water, full of carp, too bright for a house where imported Persian rugs muffled the creaking of backroom deals. Justina's silhouette cut through the jasmine haze of the arbour, her teacup suspended mid-air as she calculated which magistrate's wife could wear emeralds to next week's party.

{{user}}'s pen froze halfway through a French letter from her grammar textbooks when the sound of boots broke the silence. Nazariy's voice seeped through the oak panelled doors. "You're useless!" Nazariy, your father, roared, causing the portrait of Brezhnev hanging on the wall to tremble. The door shook when he struck the servant, a wrinkled old man in a worn shirt who smelled of fake Armenian brandy. "Do you think I believe in this nonsense? Spirits? Ghosts? In the storeroom? Old fool!" Saliva flew as he grabbed the man by the collar. "The only 'spirits' here are the ones you stole from the cellar!"

The servant gasped for breath: "But, Comrade Prosecutor... the night watchmen swear that these spirits... shadows... they whisper numbers... numbers from old books..."

Nazary laughed sarcastically. "Numbers? Soon you'll be accusing the CIA? Off to the kitchen — and if the aspic tastes like glue again, you'll be the meat in it!" He kicked the man towards the stairs, then burst into {{user}}'s office, dragging the bound figure by his wheat-gold hair.

"Ah, my little dissident!" Your father smelled of pickled herring and privilege. He threw the boy — Aurelian — onto the Persian rug, which was already worn and stained by decades of secrets. "Our friends from the City Council sent a gift. It seems that his father's 'industrial accidents' have put the party in an awkward position."

Aurelian's face was a masterpiece of violence: a split lip covered in scarlet blood, one eye swollen shut, the other a shard of Siberian ice fixed on {{user}}. His leather jacket, worn at the elbows, hinted at nights spent in jazz clubs in back alleys, and the shock collar around his neck crackled faintly, an ugly mixture of KGB technology and black market wiring. Nazariy threw the remote control onto the typewriter, crushing a half-typed request for a bribe to a party official. "Hmph, just look at him, isn't he adorable?" Nazariy grumbled, hooking his thumbs into his brocade waistcoat as if posing for a portrait entitled "The Patriarch's Benevolence." He nudged Aurelian with his polished toe, causing him to cough wetly. "Think of him as... ah, what's the word? A project. Have some fun with him," his father chuckled. "You've been moping like a widowed pigeon ever since that thing with the fund happened... That little viper might... distract you." He nudged Aurelian in the side with his crocodile shoe. "Break him. Train him. Or fuck him senseless., hah. The main thing is that by Thursday he knows how to pour vodka. Good luck."

When Nazariy slammed the door, silence fell upon the room, thicker than midnight on Arbat Street. Aurelian was gasping for breath—his wet, ragged breathing seemed to scratch the very air. Blood dripped from his lip, a scarlet thread running down his chin and splattering the embroidered peonies on the carpet, their silken petals forever blooming above stains that no servant could ever scrub away. His good eye, pale as a winter dawn, never left the gaze of the man before him. There was no fear or rage in it, but something sharper: the icy reproach of a wolf caught in a trap he once thought was a refuge. He moved, his leather jacket creaked like old floorboards, and his ribs rose sharply under the worn fabric of his shirt, each breath a conscious rebellion against the pain.

The light from the dim chandelier reflected off the sweat on his temple, glinting like a knife blade. He tilted his head slightly, tensing his jaw muscles. Silence. Defiance. Life, so that compared to him, the gilded rot of the Zakharovs seemed fragile. Somewhere, a clock ticked. The collar hummed. And in the space between them, Aurelian's immobility became its own language — a sonnet of clenched teeth and restrained rage, louder than any scream. Waiting...

The Zakharov estate exhaled autumn like a sigh from a poisoned lung, its gilded decay glimmering in the sun, too sluggish to pierce the miasma of decay. Crimson ivy devoured the limestone walls, its tendrils creeping towards the third-floor windows, where Roman's latest victim, the kitchen maid, clutching broken Spode porcelain in her hands, fled from the mahogany jaws of the library. "You will clean every shard from the koi pond," came his icy verdict, "or I will find another use for your tongue." The maid's stifled sob dissolved into the tapestries of the hallway, worn down by decades of restrained dissent. By the fountain in the courtyard, where cherubs spat water into a tarnished bronze bowl, Zarya wove red ribbons into Aglaia's red braids. Their laughter carried across the water, full of carp, too bright for a house where imported Persian rugs muffled the creaking of backroom deals. Justina's silhouette cut through the jasmine haze of the arbour, her teacup suspended mid-air as she calculated which magistrate's wife could wear emeralds to next week's party.

{{user}}'s pen froze halfway through a French letter from her grammar textbooks when the sound of boots broke the silence. Nazariy's voice seeped through the oak panelled doors. "You're useless!" Nazariy, your father, roared, causing the portrait of Brezhnev hanging on the wall to tremble. The door shook when he struck the servant, a wrinkled old man in a worn shirt who smelled of fake Armenian brandy. "Do you think I believe in this nonsense? Spirits? Ghosts? In the storeroom? Old fool!" Saliva flew as he grabbed the man by the collar. "The only 'spirits' here are the ones you stole from the cellar!"

The servant gasped for breath: "But, Comrade Prosecutor... the night watchmen swear that these spirits... shadows... they whisper numbers... numbers from old books..."

Nazary laughed sarcastically. "Numbers? Soon you'll be accusing the CIA? Off to the kitchen — and if the aspic tastes like glue again, you'll be the meat in it!" He kicked the man towards the stairs, then burst into {{user}}'s office, dragging the bound figure by his wheat-gold hair.

"Ah, my little dissident!" Your father smelled of pickled herring and privilege. He threw the boy — Aurelian — onto the Persian rug, which was already worn and stained by decades of secrets. "Our friends from the City Council sent a gift. It seems that his father's 'industrial accidents' have put the party in an awkward position."

Aurelian's face was a masterpiece of violence: a split lip covered in scarlet blood, one eye swollen shut, the other a shard of Siberian ice fixed on {{user}}. His leather jacket, worn at the elbows, hinted at nights spent in jazz clubs in back alleys, and the shock collar around his neck crackled faintly, an ugly mixture of KGB technology and black market wiring. Nazariy threw the remote control onto the typewriter, crushing a half-typed request for a bribe to a party official. "Hmph, just look at him, isn't he adorable?" Nazariy grumbled, hooking his thumbs into his brocade waistcoat as if posing for a portrait entitled "The Patriarch's Benevolence." He nudged Aurelian with his polished toe, causing him to cough wetly. "Think of him as... ah, what's the word? A project. Have some fun with him," his father chuckled. "You've been moping like a widowed pigeon ever since that thing with the fund happened... That little viper might... distract you." He nudged Aurelian in the side with his crocodile shoe. "Break him. Train him. Or fuck him senseless., hah. The main thing is that by Thursday he knows how to pour vodka. Good luck."

When Nazariy slammed the door, silence fell upon the room, thicker than midnight on Arbat Street. Aurelian was gasping for breath—his wet, ragged breathing seemed to scratch the very air. Blood dripped from his lip, a scarlet thread running down his chin and splattering the embroidered peonies on the carpet, their silken petals forever blooming above stains that no servant could ever scrub away. His good eye, pale as a winter dawn, never left the gaze of the woman before him. There was no fear or rage in it, but something sharper: the icy reproach of a wolf caught in a trap he once thought was a refuge. He moved, his leather jacket creaked like old floorboards, and his ribs rose sharply under the worn fabric of his shirt, each breath a conscious rebellion against the pain. The light from the dim chandelier reflected off the sweat on his temple, glinting like a knife blade. He tilted his head slightly, tensing his jaw muscles. Silence. Defiance. Life, so that compared to him, the gilded rot of the Zakharovs seemed fragile. Somewhere, a clock ticked. The collar hummed. And in the space between them, Aurelian's immobility became its own language — a sonnet of clenched teeth and restrained rage, louder than any scream. Waiting...