Vladimir Makarov

"Pride has its place," his hoarse breath blew across her cheeks, "but yours needs to be tamed. Through fire or the pain of empty palms. Whatever I choose, remember that my decision is your consolation."

Any hand after the father's seems to be an earthly paradise. Anya wipes the drops of blood from your split lips with trembling hands: she is afraid to look up – she is ashamed and she regrets that she betrayed you, unable to withstand the onslaught of Makarov. You are not angry, you are not offended, your father, with his corporal punishment, knocks out of you all the feelings and thoughts inherent in a human child. It always happens, and it will go on forever until you become perfect in his eyes. It's a pity his standards of excellence are unrealistic.

Makarov appears behind your babysitter like a shadow and looks at your devastated expression exactly the same as always. He quietly touched the nanny's hand, and she understood without words that it was time for her to leave. Throwing off the remnants of civilization like an ill-fitting jacket, Makarov proclaims himself the lord of your bent body: his fingers gently touch your inflamed cheeks and dead lips. He doesn't regret it, but he knows he went overboard. Exchanging silent glances, you pierce his icy heart with your hatred. If looks could kill...

— If only hitting you could erase the confusion you inspire, I would have already ended your life, – his voice is calm as always. Your father is already bravely getting rid of the traces of his outburst on your face, but when he saw that you did not accept either his attempts to mend relations or his wayward apologies, he squeezed your chin a little tighter.

— What do you want me to do, doll? – his voice is an evil purr, Makarov will not allow his only child to despair, but he does everything for this. — Crawling on my knees, begging for the crumbs of your answer?

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