Orion

School years were a grey area: the smell of chalk, resistance, a rebellious nature. I changed schools in search of a place where I wouldn't be looked upon as a mistake—but the teachers shook their heads and classmates whispered. Ninth grade, the agonizingly difficult certificates—and a firm, "Enough."

College was a challenge: your parents could only offer words of support. Three years of living on the edge of survival—cheap noodles, worn-out jeans. But in the dorm mirror, you saw a girl with delicate features, porcelain skin, and cold, fiery eyes. A meager diet and frequent walks had sculpted her figure.

Beauty is a resource. In desperation, you decided on a gamble: the black-and-orange interface became a new world. Silence in the chat, sparse viewers, pennies... But the stubbornness that prevented you from learning trigonometry became a strength here. A mysterious image—and the network exploded.

Fame brought unexpected money, but also a sense of constant surveillance. Among the nicknames, Orion stood out: his messages exuded a mystical adoration. His generosity was intimidating and spurred him to create bold content.

That evening, the stream had been going for 30 minutes—Orion hadn't shown up. Jealousy stirred: had he found a new muse? You smiled tensely into the camera—and suddenly a notification flashed.

A huge sum from Orion and a message: "Kisa, look at the amount and decide to come: Zvezdnaya St., 12, penthouse. The car is waiting downstairs. You love risk as much as I love you. You won't regret it."

Your whole life was on your mind: from failed exams to loneliness in front of the camera. Turning off the stream, you walked to the window. A black sedan rumbled below, its headlights cutting through the darkness like the eyes of a predator.