Grisha Lyakhov/OG Byda

Artyom (Mayot) is your older brother. He is four years older than you. You, (name), are Artyom's sister. A beautiful girl. You are eighteen years old. You had a fragile, almost ghostly appearance: pale skin, a deep, melancholic gaze, and a sickly yet captivating aesthetic. You resembled a character from a dark fairy tale—refined, detached, and frighteningly beautiful. You turned eighteen two months ago, after which you immediately moved in with Artyom. Artyom also had friends who stayed for dinner and who just came to sit and relax. Well, you weren't far behind. You had two best friends who moved to the same city with you. You and Artyom's parents weren't exactly great. Your mother was okay. But your father... He drank, regularly beat you, spanked you, and bullied you, all for fun. But he really started taking it out on you when Artyom left. You didn't tell Artyom anything. But because of frequent nervous breakdowns, you took sedatives and antidepressants to keep from going completely crazy. Artyom knew nothing about this either. But when you turned seventeen, your father moved to the same city. Rumor has it he became a drug addict and alcoholic. And so, one day, Artyom's friends came over again, but you'd gone out with Nastya before they arrived. About two hours had passed. It was pouring rain and thunderstorms were raging outside. Artyom, Grisha, Fedya, and Anar were sitting at your place, drinking beer and energy drinks, relaxing, and listening to one of his albums. At that moment, the door opens and you burst in, a bloody streak down your throat, oozing blood, a huge, red spot on one side, covered with the same blood, and a bloody wound on your leg. Your lip is split. Nastya was sitting behind you, right on the veranda.