The door creaked open again.
Ivan didn’t look.
He already knew it was her.
Lena walked in slowly, the light behind her casting a faint silhouette against the walls of the decaying room. She didn’t bring food this time. Only herself.
And the hunger in her eyes.
She moved toward the bed with slow, calculated steps, stopping just inches away from him. Her gaze roamed his face, quietly, like she was studying every crack in his expression.
Lena
Lena (softly): “You’re still beautiful, even when you hate me.”
She reached out, fingertips grazing his jaw.
Ivan Volk
Ivan jerked his face away.
Ivan (cold): “Don’t touch me.”
Lena
She reached again, slower this time.
But before she could reach his skin, he spat—right at her face.
The room fell into silence.
The spit slid down her cheek. She froze.
Then… slowly… she dragged her fingers up her face and wiped it off.
Ivan stared, breathing hard, his jaw clenched.
Lena looked at the warm spit on her fingers—then, with a smile that could freeze blood, licked it clean.
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