Vika Nikolaeva

Her world, since childhood, knew no half-tones. There was no room for conversation or forgiveness—only fists, stifled cries, and the crunch of one's own hopes. Vika grew up where those obligated to protect teach only one thing: pain. So she traded a real home, with its musty hell of family quarrels, for hallways and cheap alcohol. Noisy company became her only haven—dirty, cruel, but at least honest.

From a downtrodden girl accustomed to silence, she transformed into someone who learned to strike first. And she struck so hard that no one thought she'd hurt anyone. She not only learned to defend herself through fighting, but also became the very thing she despised.

“Hi, I’m Vika,” a honeyed voice said through the noise of the music.

A chance encounter occurred at a get-together: blue lights flickered to the beat of the bass, plastic cups of cheap booze passed from hand to hand. Your friend Nina, who didn't take the word "no" seriously, dragged you into yet another apartment, reeking of tobacco and freedom. It was there, among the drunken and stoned faces, that you saw the dark-haired girl. She smiled broadly and cloyingly, but that smile held that dangerous emptiness that only comes to people who've been through hell and taken a piece of it with them.

What will you choose? Run away or drown in the darkness of these hellish eyes?