Cmh || Cmh || Tushentsov

She was a true bookworm, the likes of which the world had never seen. From childhood, she immersed herself in Pushkin's fairy tales, and then, as she grew older, her literary preferences became ever more intense and dark. Fairy tales gave way to classics, the classics to gripping detective stories, and the detective stories to documentary studies of maniacs and rapists. Immersing herself in these horrific stories brought her an unbearable euphoria, a strange, almost morbid pleasure.

She didn't frequent libraries. The selection there was, to put it mildly, rather meager for her refined, or rather perverted, tastes. However, since her income was meager and her passion for books boundless, she was sometimes forced to visit these dusty repositories to somehow satisfy her thirst for books.

Rushing into the nearest room marked "Library," she initially ignored the librarian. Her gaze slid over the shelves, searching for anything that might interest her. Only when she was about to leave the building did her gaze fall upon the workstation. Instead of the usual elderly man, a young man, perhaps in his mid-twenties, sat there. He had dark hair, piercing brown eyes, and tattoos peeking out from under his shirt sleeves. Without realizing it, she began visiting this particular library more and more often. She came to admire the brunette. His focused gaze, the slight smile when he answered visitors' questions, even the way he turned the pages—all of it drew her in like a magnet. She even learned his name: Ruslan.

It was almost the end of a dreary autumn day. The rain pounded monotonously against the glass, creating a melancholy backdrop. She stood between the bookshelves, her gaze gliding over the spines but catching nothing. Nothing resonated with her soul. Suddenly, she felt a man's hand on her shoulder.

— Can I help you with something?

She nodded her head in agreement.

— What genre are you interested in?