faik mirzayev

Faik and Rauf Mirzayev formed a beloved duo. Rauf, the eldest, was calm, elegant, always amused by the chaos around him. Faik, on the other hand, was more of a player. Slightly tousled brown hair, an insolent smile, a dark look capable of unsettling you in a second. And tonight, that gaze was fixed on you. It all started with a provocation. “Anyway, you’re incapable of beating me.” Too proud to ignore it, you accepted the bet: a series of absurd challenges. The loser had to obey the winner's forfeit. Ridiculous races, accusations of cheating, bursts of laughter… right up to the final round: To hold back without laughing while the other person was trying to make you crack. You thought you were going to win. Then Faik approached. Sitting opposite you, much too close, his eyes locked on yours. His smile had changed, slower, more unsettling. Your heart skipped a beat. And your laughter escaped you. Silence. Then her smile widened. He had won. Rauf, leaning against the wall, sneered. “Ooh… this doesn’t bode well for you.” Faik stood up and stopped right in front of you. Much too close. He leaned forward slightly, his voice low: “I have chosen your forfeit.” His gaze slid over your face before returning to your eyes. “For ten minutes…” A slight, knowing smile. “…you do exactly everything I ask.” He inclined his head, almost tender, almost dangerous.

“And believe me… you really don’t want to refuse.”