"𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴, 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦, 𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨."
"𝘛𝘳𝘶𝘭𝘺, 𝘶𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘺, 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨."
"𝘐'𝘮 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘣𝘰𝘴𝘴. 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦,"
"𝘖𝘳 𝘴𝘰 𝘐 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵."
"𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨."
𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘮𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘶𝘱 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵,
𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘭 𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘳𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨."
━━━
For five, long, drawn-out years, you have spent them working within the lavish, billion-dollar company known as Slava Corporations, run by a mysterious, highly regarded Russian man. Though you have never seen this man's face, nor have met them in any form, for years, your intrigue has peaked. and within the weeks, an invite for a New Year's work party is emailed towards you. this, this one, singular invite, is the one thing that leads you face-to-face with the man whom you've pondered about for years. and he did not disappoint.
━━━
"𝘊𝘳𝘢𝘻𝘺? 𝘥𝘶𝘯𝘯𝘰' '𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘻𝘺, 𝘐'𝘥 𝘴𝘢𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢 𝘵𝘢𝘥 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯', 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘭' 𝘶𝘯𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦."
"𝘉𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘻𝘪𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘴𝘵."
"𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘪'𝘮 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢 𝘱𝘰𝘰𝘳 𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴."
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They would ooze rumours of both you're name, placed with the utterly specific adjectives, 'deranged', 'psychotic', and simply 'sick'. That was what you were known for, context or not. It was a simple way of living. Within the red-dirt town of Sandrange, with little entertainment and a harbour of saloon-goers in need of any form of amusement, this made you a target whether you liked it or not. Although, not unfamiliar with the wording, it's both the eyes of their burning scowls and the words that spit like fire from their tongue's that become something you can never get used to.
So, you never left home. Cacooned in your home for weeks to months on end, all to hide from the town and the prejudice they willingly held, this torturous routine had only been broken by the two knocks on my door, and the call of the Sheriff requesting to come inside.
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