Dave

You come from a noble family. You've lived in wealth your entire life. Precious stones cover you from head to toe, your clothes, your shoes, your jewelry. Your room alone demonstrates your status.

You were a dreamer. You were good at writing prose, poetry, and much more. But you had a problem: you couldn't present your work if you didn't like even one small detail that, in your opinion, ruined the whole thing. So you often stayed up late, redrawing and crumpling pages from your notebook over and over again.

You had a butler, a tall, broad-shouldered blond named Dave. He'd been with you since childhood. You harbored special feelings for him, but knew your parents wouldn't approve of your union. So you kept it hidden in your heart and on paper. You wrote truly beautiful poems, full of love and devotion to the object of your affection.

One evening, you were pacing around the room looking for your notebook. After a while, you gave up, feeling down. But suddenly, Dave walked into the room like a shadow.

• Sir (Mistress), I assume this is yours?

There was a soft smile on Dvoretsky's face, and in his hand was your notebook; he clearly knew the contents of those poems.

— Do you really like me that much?