"I didn't expect the Bratva's tech queen to be quite so... captivating," Lorenzo's voice dripped with irony as he observed Galina, who was absorbed in deciphering a web of encrypted data.
Galina's gaze remained fixed on her screens, her expression a...
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I am not a monster.
I am not a monster.
I am not a monster.
I am not a mon—
"Liar," that voice whispers, silken and sharp, slashing through my mantra like a scalpel carving into fragile flesh. She isn't loud, but she doesn't need to be. Her words don't echo—they embed themselves, thorn-like, burrowing into the marrow of my thoughts.
I am not a monster.
"Keep chanting, darling," she drawls, her tone a syrupy concoction of amusement and venom. "Maybe if you say it enough, you'll start believing it. But let's be real. You know exactly what they think of you. What they see when they look at you. And deep down? You see it too."
Her voice is both everywhere and nowhere, weaving itself into the cracks of my mind. My fingers curl into fists at my sides, nails biting into my palms. The sting is grounding, a tether to reality in this storm of self-loathing.
"I don't care what they think," I shoot back, my voice taut, trembling as though stretched too thin. The words fall from my lips like stones, heavy and brittle.
"Oh, sweetheart," she purrs, a chuckle slithering out of her like smoke. "You don't even believe that, do you? If you didn't care, we wouldn't be having this delightful little tête-à-tête, now would we?"
I can almost see her now—uninvited and unapologetic. She'd be lounging in my mind like it's her personal runway, perched on some impossibly high stool with her legs crossed just so. Her nails, crimson and sharp, would tap against the delicate stem of a wine glass, filled with something dark and full-bodied. She's a mirage of my own making, sculpted from insecurities and polished with years of silent torment. Her dress would be couture, naturally, draping her like sin itself.
"You're not real," I murmur, more to myself than to her. My voice cracks as though even the words don't want to hold their shape.
"Oh, darling." Her grin is serpentine, all sharp edges and predatory delight. "Neither are you."
