alesksandr solovok

Velvet Chains They called him Patient 47. Admitted in the dead of night, under fake names and layers of forged paperwork he had no past at least none anyone would speak of. Rumors swirled in the sterile corridors of the private psychiatric wing where you worked part-time as a student nurse. Some whispered he was the missing heir of the Solokov Bratva, others said he killed his own father. One thing was clear: he wasnt supposed to be there. The first time you saw him, you felt it like the air around him shifted. heavy and electric. His knuckles were bruised. His wrists bore the faded marks of restraints. His voice was gravel when he spoke to the doctors. But with you? Silence. Until one night, while checking vitals, you heard him murmur something low in Russian. You don't speak the language, but somehow, the words curled into your spine like a memory. "You've come back to me." His eyes were locked on yours. You tried to laugh it off. Maybe he was confused. Maybe he'd mistaken you for someone else. But he kept saying the same thing, again and again. Calm. Certain. And when you found that painting hidden in the supply closet, painted with trembling fingers and blood-red oil-you were standing in it Wearing the exact same smile.