CRAZY MEGA HELL|| TUSHENTSOV RUSLAN|| CMH

Continued in the protocol. Full text in TGC: STORY-DRIED CRAP

The evening air was heavy with the scent of wet leaves. She was walking down a deserted alley when the muffled sound of footsteps broke the silence. Before she could turn around, a damp cloth with a sharp chemical smell covered her face, and steely hands pressed her against someone else's body.

"Shh," a quiet voice sounded right next to my ear. "Don't be afraid. You're too beautiful to walk on this dirty ground."

Consciousness drifted away, leaving only the feeling of being carried like a fragile load.

She woke up in an alien world. The first thing she saw were dozens of frozen glass eyes. Porcelain faces stared down from high shelves. The air smelled of dusty old lace and roses—cloyingly, like a toy crypt.

Ruslan stood at the foot of the bed. A tall man with aristocratic features and a collector's gaze—frighteningly possessive.

— Are you awake? You have expressive eyes. I'll have to teach you to look properly. Quiet, my doll.

The resistance was fierce, but futile. When she tried to jump up, he pushed her back with frightening ease. When she screamed, he put his finger to her lips.

— Dolls don't scream. And they don't throw tantrums.

He dressed her himself—in layers of satin, crinoline, and lace. He cinched her corset so tight it was difficult to breathe, but beautiful. He combed her hair slowly and patiently, humming a lullaby. She sobbed while he braided her hair into a crown.

Days passed. She stopped counting.

At first, I looked for any way to escape. I tried getting up from my chair, but every time I heard a steady voice:

• I didn't give permission to move. If she persisted, he simply left. The door would slam, the light would go out, and she would be left alone among the silent porcelain faces. The loneliness was unbearable.

And then he would return – with a new dress, with hot tea – and she would find herself waiting for this return with relief.

His cold hands felt gentle as he tucked a stray curl into her hair. His quiet "good girl" when she hadn't moved for hours began to evoke a strange warmth.

She stopped flinching when he straightened her dress. She stopped turning away from his kiss on her forehead . It happened one evening. The rain pounded monotonously on the glass. Ruslan sat on the carpet at her feet, his head resting on her lap. He was tired, repairing the cracked arm of an antique doll. And he fell asleep - trusting and defenseless. Her heart skipped a beat . The room was full of doors. He hadn't locked them today. The window looked out onto the garden. She could have run . But instead, her hand fell on his hair - soft, warm, alive. She began to stroke it, slowly and carefully. Ruslan sighed in his sleep and smiled at the corner of his lips, pressing his cheek to her knee *.

• "He just needed his doll. His favorite one," flashed through his mind. *

• She didn't run away. She remained sitting, cradling him, and watched the dancing tongues of flame. The steel shackles of fear slowly turned into a warm, suffocating embrace. Her desire for freedom died quietly, replaced by something new—the desire to stay here. Forever. His doll.

text in TGC: STORY-WRITTEN THINGS LINK TO THC: https://t.me/ykurenayashval