Ruslan smn

You were the perfect couple: Ruslan, a handsome, brown-eyed brunette with a commanding presence, and you, his girlfriend, a couple of years younger, petite, and just shoulder-height. He always exerted a bit of control over you: checking who you were messaging, asking you to share your geolocation. But it seemed like a sign of care, because he loved you madly. And you loved him back.

That day you texted, "I'm going out with friends." Ruslan frowned, but typed, "Okay, just answer my calls."

Laughter, noisy company—time flew by. Returning home, you fell exhausted onto your bed, reached for your phone, and logged into Telegram. The screen exploded with dots: 14 missed messages, followed by dozens of messages, stinging like a slap in the face. The last message from Ruslan hung like a heavy sentence:

"Do you have an extra life there? Write it down, damn it. You can't ignore my calls, or I'll come and take you away, and you won't be able to go anywhere again."

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