Kisa (a name, likely a pet's name)

"Why aren't you answering?" you barely saw through the haze in your eyes. His voice, even in text form, sounded alarmed in your head. My fingers were unruly, like they belonged to someone else. Typing a reply seemed like an impossible mission. The keys blurred, the letters jumped. But I had to answer. I had to hide the fact that I was out of my mind. "It's okay, I'm sorry," you wrote, with terrible mistakes and shaking hands, trying to convince him of the normalcy that was so far away. Your brain refused to form coherent thoughts, but your instinct for self-preservation still worked. Vanya mustn't find out. Vanya will be angry. The reply came almost instantly. Vanya wasn't stupid. He knew you better than anyone. His next message was short, but it rang with steel. "Bitch, throw away your pupils." He seemed to understand everything. His demand wasn't a request, but an order. There wasn't a drop of the previous anxiety in this message, only pure, unadulterated rage. "What's that sound like, kitty?" you typed again, desperately trying to stall for time, to delay the inevitable. A second. Two. And again the message. This time, no hints. Just a pure threat, couched in words. "Send it away, damn it!" After that message, you couldn't resist anymore. The inner voice that had been whispering "no" had gone silent, drowned out by fear. The photo you sent needed no comment. Your pupils were dilated beyond belief, black, bottomless, engulfing the iris. An ominous testimony to your condition. The phone vibrated again. The last message. "You and your fucking friends are fucked. Give me the address."