"The Sun shall turn to darkness, and the Moon to blood..."

  In April 2014, the Moon was an unusual shade of red. This sign heralded the beginning of a new stage. He didn’t remember the conditions, didn’t know the rules. He thought he was living, choosing his own path, but every move he made was part of the game. I, however, remembered. I knew what was coming, and I was only waiting for him to take the first step.

  To play a role, you must forget everything. Your game must become your life. I, existing on the border between light and darkness, know the rules. I created them with him, but he doesn’t remember. For him, these aren’t just rules—they are his essence. He doesn’t know the game was created by us. He doesn’t realize that I’m guiding him through trials to make him stronger. He doesn’t even suspect that behind his pain, his wounds, and his dreams, there is me.

  And only this way, without knowing the plot, can he play his role honestly, without mistakes, without hints. True, sometimes I have to, figuratively speaking, "drag him by the ears." But I know—he’ll forgive me.

  We are two beginnings of one essence. I am light; he is darkness. Although, to be precise, when he becomes darkness, I become light, and vice versa. I am the reflection; he is the reality. Though, of course, it’s a joke. After all, you see these signs °°°°°°°° and think that what you’re reading this on, and the fact that you’re yawning—that’s reality. Well, we’ll talk about that later...

  Together, we are Galiterasu, an entity that exists beyond your physics and your "elusive" time. Galiterasu creates games to make us stronger. But to play, one of us must forget everything. Otherwise, he’ll just be "rolling on the floor" instead of me, say, in a situation where someone wants to kill him. But more on that later..."

  Chapter: "Dream"

  On this day, Catholics around the world celebrated the patron saint of the internet. It didn’t matter what his name was, but in his time, he was preoccupied with the question: Do celestial bodies have souls? He wasn’t thinking about this as he lay down to sleep. He wasn’t thinking about anything except the fatigue that enveloped him like a heavy blanket. But the dream that came to him that night wasn’t just rest. It was the beginning.

  He found himself in a brightly lit room—his studio, but too clean, too perfect, as if it had been cut out of a glossy magazine. In the corner, leaning against a bar table, stood me. But it wasn’t just me—it was me wearing the mask of Sagitsura, the very one he disliked so much. To him, it wasn’t light fading into infinity, but boundless darkness swallowing the last rays of light. Its golden pattern shimmered like a warning, a reminder of something he couldn’t quite grasp.

  — Do you think this is just a dream? But dreams are merely doors through which I guide you. You don’t yet know what lies beyond them. But you will soon.

  He was on all fours in the middle of the bed, his right hand deep in his mouth, as if trying to tear something out of himself. At the same time, he saw himself from the outside—two "selves," two ends of the same rope. The one observing from the side smiled—calmly, almost condescendingly. The one on the bed was surprised, almost bewildered. His gaze darted between me and his reflection, as if he were trying to understand what was real and what was just a game.

  — You’re not ready yet. But you will be. Your wounds are not just pain. They are marks I leave on your skin to remind you of who you are. You are my animal essence, and soon you will understand this.

  He woke up without pain, but with faint scratches on the inside of his thigh. In the morning, under the stream of the shower, the water touched the wounds—and the pain struck like an electric shock. But it wasn’t just pain. The water running down his skin felt like the touch of a lover. He wanted it, wanted that burning, that transformation. The water washed away the human, revealing something ancient, animalistic.

  — Do you feel it? This is the beginning. Your pain is not weakness. It is strength. And soon you will understand this.

  Chapter: "Wounds"

  He photographed his wounds, smiling. Somewhere deep inside, he understood that this was only the beginning. His smile came from his subconscious, as if he already knew that this was just another stage of the game, another fabrication he had "signed up for."

  Seeing his smile, I only smirked. Yes, subconsciously, you understand that a new stage has begun, but you don’t yet realize how overconfident you were when you agreed to this, or how different it will be from what came before.

  — Do you think these are just scars? But they are something more. They’re not just marks on your skin. They are a map of what you must endure—pain, blood, filth, humiliation, and death. Through all of this, you will find strength. Through darkness, you will find light. And when you understand this, you will see that you are the only one who could have gone through it all. You are the best. And this map...

  I ran my finger through the air without touching his skin, but he felt a slight tingling where, ten years later, only a faint trace in the shape of a "one" would remain—so small, yet rightfully earned.

  The water, which the first time after the dream had felt like the touch of a lover, now served as a reminder of pain. He tried not to wet the wounds, but when he did, the pain was sharp, almost ringing, as if it were reminding him that he was still in the game.

  The wounds didn’t heal. They bubbled, as if lava were boiling beneath his skin, and then burst, leaving wet, bloody traces. Ointments didn’t help—they only corroded the edges of the wounds, making them even larger. He pondered how this could have happened. What caused these wounds? Why did they look like thermal burns? A month ago, at an Anatoly Zverev exhibition, he had seen the phrase: "And so the day appointed for the opening of the games has arrived..." He liked it so much that he even took a photo. Perhaps, even then, subconsciously, he understood that this day was approaching.

  Chapter: "Daisy"

  A couple of days later, he went to a club. He wasn’t in the mood—he just sipped cocktails, watching the crowd. The music was loud, the lights were flashing, and the air was thick with the mix of perfume, sweat, and alcohol. He stood at the bar, holding a glass of Black Russian, but drank little. Sometimes he would dance, but not that night—his wounds were a constant reminder.

  His attention was drawn to the people around him, but none of them interested him. It all seemed meaningless, as if he were watching a play he had no desire to join.

  By early morning, a well-dressed man approached him. A conversation started, and they quickly found common ground. The man talked about unimportant things—business, travel, women. He listened, nodding, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

  "I watched him through the mask of Sagitsura. It’s the farthest from me, the most alien. But now it’s my mask. Because what’s happening doesn’t sit well with either of us. But the game is the game, and I must guide him further."

  His new acquaintance hailed a taxi, haggled with the driver over a trivial amount, and they reached an agreement. At the new club, the stranger disappeared, and my "animal" continued. He would later call this route "From the Gypsies to the Garage."

  And then he saw her.

  She was sprawled in a chair, laughing wildly and trying to reach the chandelier with her feet. Security approached her several times, but to no avail. Eventually, she headed to the coat check, rummaging through her luxurious McQueen bag. He watched her, not understanding why she had caught his attention. But somewhere deep inside, he felt that this wasn’t just a coincidence.

  — Miss, need some help? — he asked, stepping closer.

  — I can’t find the (here, a lot of expletives) ticket, — she nearly shouted, clearly annoyed by the security.

  He smiled, unbuttoned his shirt sleeve, rolled it up slightly, and offered:

  — Watch what I do. Let’s try it in touch.

  She looked at him suspiciously but then smirked:

  — Well, if you’re not planning to steal anything—go ahead.

  A moment later, the ticket was hanging where her jacket should be. He helped her put it on and followed her out.

  The sun was already rising. She got into a taxi, and he slid in beside her without asking.

  — I’ll help... I’m worried... This state of yours, — he said in response to her questions.

  She just smirked.

  Chapter: "Apartment"

  On the way, she asked the taxi driver to stop—she needed to buy more beer. The driver hesitated for a long time, grumbling about the time and the rules, but in the end, it was his fate to comply. While he went to get the beer, she gleefully exposed her chest, laughing at the situation. Her eyes and behavior carried a clear hint, but he seemed to know there was no need to rush, so he responded to the unexpected "prize" with a smile, but calmly.

  — Do you always behave like this with strangers? — he asked, watching her.

  — Only with the ones I like, — she replied, winking.

  When they reached her place, she didn’t get out of the car, but she didn’t invite him in either.

  — Well, I can take it from here, — she said, but then added: — What about you?

  — No questions, I don’t live far.

  — Maybe we’ll continue at your place? And there’s still beer, — she suggested with a smile.

  — Agreed, — he replied.

  His apartment was a mess. He explained it as a "meeting with an ex," but it wasn’t just that. I’ll tell you about it sometime… She looked around curiously, her gaze sliding over the scattered items, broken glass, and crumpled laundry.

  Her eyes held a clear question: "Why aren’t we in bed yet?" Or: "Why don’t you just take me right here?" She was a "starter" without a "key," and with her beautiful nose (masterfully done, credit where it’s due), perfect white teeth, slender forearms and ankles, a gorgeous backside, and, of course, impeccable "assets." But he seemed indifferent to her appearance.

  "She thinks she’s in control. But it’s just an illusion. Her desire, her passion—it’s all part of the game I’ve created. And he, my spirit, must go through this to become stronger."

  A couple of hours later, she was already in his CK pajamas. The beer was gone, and it was time for tea and conversation. Her shirt was unbuttoned, revealing her beautiful artificial breasts. She gave him meaningful looks, but he quickly shut down her hints at wanting sex. He simply watched her, motionless, understanding that her desire only grew stronger as they talked. But he seemed to be waiting for the peak.

  She was a high-end escort, used to her looks and skills opening any door. But with him, it was different. He didn’t give in to her provocations, didn’t react to her hints. Instead, he waited, observed, as if he knew she would reach the point where her desire became uncontrollable. And she did.

  When it became clear that she was about to start "taking care of herself," he carefully tilted her chair back and took her right there on its edge—she "exploded" immediately, and what followed was acrobatics, but now on the cushions.

  He was surprised that she wanted to taste him—or rather, she even got offended if he "missed."

  She noticed his wounds—marks resembling the scratches of a wild animal. Some of the blisters had already burst, leaving wet, inflamed patches. The skin around the wounds was hot and crimson, as if telling the story of the pain he’d endured.

  The bed, which had been pristine white that morning, was now scarlet. But it wasn’t just blood—it was the mark of an animalistic passion that had consumed them both. Her behavior, usually calculated and cold, now seemed almost feral. She, accustomed to men falling at her feet, couldn’t understand what kind of man he was. Why had her tricks, which always worked, suddenly failed?

  Their night together stretched into the evening. Before leaving, she asked:

  — Can I call you?

  — Sure, it was fun, — he replied.

  Why did she want to come back? Knowing that she wouldn’t get more money from this encounter—if anything, less. Was it curiosity? A desire to understand what kind of person he was? Or maybe she couldn’t explain why she was drawn to him, despite all the strange things happening around them.

  Chapter: "Visits"

  She started coming over often—usually wasted and in the early hours of the morning. Later, he found out she worked at an elite strip club, which was more like a showroom for selecting "horses." At the club, she was known as Daisy, but to him, she had several names: Eve, Rada, Sveta, Lana. She often arrived with stories—once, she showed up with a bag full of money, about $200,000.

  — Learn from this, — she said, dumping stacks of bills on the table. — Scammed a millionaire. Tears, a story about how I’m forced to do this to save up for my own business—a beauty salon or a hairdresser, I don’t even remember—and an hour later, his driver brought this "pile"...

  — And you, you lame slacker, when are you going to spoil your doll?

  — Yeah, yeah, any day now. In the meantime, order some food. I’m out of cheddar.

  She had many stories like this, and her tales amused him more than they alarmed him.

  — Once, I made cookies and added my menstrual blood to them, but the wrong person ate them by mistake… Ha-ha-ha! And then that other guy couldn’t live without me.

  He took it as coincidences or harmless fun, but there was something more in her eyes. She believed in magic, in signs, in the idea that the world was full of mysteries that could be unraveled if you knew where to look.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  After her fantasies, the bed was often stained scarlet—she even liked it, as if she were an artist admiring a canvas created without brushes or paint, or as a reminder of the prophecy about the blood-red Moon: "And the Sun became dark as sackcloth, and the Moon became as blood." This had never happened before, there had never been anything like this. How could he not pay attention to the pain?

  At first, the wounds were just marks—red, inflamed, painful. But gradually, they began to change. Daisy couldn’t look away. Her eyes lit up with curiosity, like a child who had found an ancient artifact.

  — These wounds... — she whispered, leaning closer. — They look like runes. As if someone carved them into your skin to send a message. Do you feel it? The energy coming from them?

  She ran her hand over the wounds without touching them, as if trying to catch invisible vibrations. Her voice grew quieter, almost mystical.

  — This could be a sign. Maybe you’ve been chosen. Or... marked. And the Moon—you’ve probably seen that "red beauty" by now, right? Didn’t you feel something strange when it happened? As if something from another world touched you?

  He remained silent, but her imagination was already painting pictures: ancient rituals, spirits leaving their marks on the chosen ones. To her, these weren’t just wounds—they were a message she was desperate to decode.

  Over time, the wounds began to heal, but not like ordinary scars. Seven parallel lines crossed his pale skin, like ancient furrows left by the claws of a colossal being from another world. Each wound, about ten centimeters long, had turned into amber-golden streaks, held together by light scabs—nature’s stitches trying to erase the memory of the invasion. The inflamed redness around the wounds gradually faded, giving way to a soft pink halo that seemed to pulse under certain lighting.

  Daisy stared at these marks with painful curiosity. Her fingers trembled as she ran them through the air above the wounds, as if trying to catch their energy.

  — Seven lines, — she whispered. — Seven is the number of power. The number of gates between worlds. In ancient legends, seven parallel lines meant the blessing of spirits or their curse. Do you know what this could mean? Although two intersect, maybe it’s not seven, but six, like in that message: "And I saw when He opened the sixth seal," six "seals."

  She fell silent, her eyes gleaming with excitement. To her, these weren’t just healing wounds—they were a key to something greater. She believed these marks were part of a magical ritual she could understand if she pieced together the puzzle.

  — They’re changing, — she added, looking at the golden hue of the scabs. — As if the pattern beneath them grows brighter with each appearance of the blood-red Moon. Do you feel it? The energy flowing through them?

  Time passed, and the scars took on a striking appearance. Five parallel stripes remained, once inflamed and bleeding, now shimmering with an enigmatic emerald-sapphire hue, like the scales of an ancient creature trapped in the amber of human flesh. These marks, each about twelve centimeters long, no longer looked like ordinary wounds—they had transformed into something resembling intricately embedded gemstones with an iridescent structure.

  Daisy couldn’t look away. Her fingers trembled as she ran them through the air above the scars, as if trying to catch their energy.

  — This... this isn’t just scars, — she whispered. — This is something more. As if you’ve been marked. As if you’ve become part of something ancient, something we can’t even comprehend.

  Chapter: "Dead Love"

  I didn’t want to mention her here, but I can’t help it. Maybe I should have started with this...

  I knew the date of their first meeting—December 1, 2012. After twelve years, which I called "12 years of slavery," he put an end to it. Or maybe I did. It doesn’t matter. But it was necessary. Before, he didn’t know what it meant to love, or how powerful that feeling could be. Her voice, her songs, her image—she was his sanctuary, his shrine, a dream that seemed unattainable. To him, her music wasn’t just sounds—it was the voice of something greater, something he couldn’t explain.

  I watched through the mask of the "Eighth." Yes, she had a name, but he "gave it away," as always, easily and without regret. And, as always, undeservedly. But, as always, nothing happens without a reason, though now he feels regret over his actions. The "Eighth" is now the closest to me, but, as they say, "Keep your enemies closer than your friends," and the absence of a name, just a number, is a good way to "humiliate"...

  "Take all the medals, all the awards are yours..." echoed in my head when I heard her voice. Yes, her voice, but whose words are these? Who gave you these words that meant nothing to you? It was me who spoke to him, and his love was for me. You were simply chosen as the best vessel to "slow down" my animal and "dissolve" his heart. And in your songs, "fisherwoman," there’s not just a message, a monologue, or whatever you call it—a trialogue. No, there’s a dialogue...

  And the way you "slowed him down"—with your backside. But no, I dragged him to you by the ears, because at that moment he was completely wasted, and that "backside" stuck in his head... No, it’s not about physiology. It’s just that moment is so precious to me, which is why he still remembers it so vividly. "My lips and eyes cannot be cut out of life"—yes, mine. But I cannot exist in the physical world. I wanted, and he wanted, for there to be a moment of that love, that feeling, which doesn’t exist in your "real" world. That’s why, by the way, he even made a video. You started with those very words...

  But then I saw your final words addressed to him: "You’re dead." They sounded like a verdict, a final point. Perhaps it was a subconscious expression, but his love for you was comparable to all the dead love that has ever existed. Yes, you can’t imagine the size of the universe or even the galaxy you’re in, but you can imagine, by looking into history books, that small part of this love. Because love isn’t always life. Sometimes it’s a shadow, an echo of what once was but has already disappeared.

  And now, what you had is gone. At least for him, it is. I felt that the period after 12 years was exactly that—a period, not a gesture, not a show. He hears the words, the music, but he understands that you simply don’t deserve them. His love, his memories—all of it became part of our game, part of what he needed to show me.

  Chapter: "Races with the Rose"

  They played strange games, but there was no love. Their relationship was like a turbulent stream, sometimes calming, sometimes surging with waves of passion and rage. He would play the songs of his "mad love," and the music would blare loudly, filling the space between them.

  But Daisy couldn’t accept it. Every time he played her songs, her eyes would blaze with fury.

  — Do you think she’s better than me? — she screamed. — Yeah, you know her, but without money, it means nothing!

  At times, her rage escalated to "races with the rose"—that’s what he called her attempts to cut him with the broken neck of a bottle. She pulled this trick more than once, but to no avail. He remained calm, but her subconscious fury spilled out. She wanted money, but he would say, "Buy it yourself." She was used to getting paid for her "work," but he simply took what he wanted without giving her the cash she craved.

  Their "romance" lasted a year—wild orgies, no matter where, no matter when. My "animal" reveled in the freedom, though perhaps it wasn’t even freedom—just porn in all its forms. Yes, no perversions, but with occasional displays of madness that you’d only see in "movies."

  — I’m fine with everything, even how you treat me, but change one thing—get rich, — she said.

  But he only grew poorer.

  Chapter: "Flawless Filth"

  I watched Daisy with cold interest. She hid behind her only mask—Iriré—but to me, she wasn’t complex like a labyrinth. No, she was filth. But not the kind that corrodes and destroys. This was filth that purifies. Filth you must pass through to achieve flawlessness. She tried to drown my "wounded beast," but she didn’t understand that his wounds weren’t weakness—they were signs leading him to strength. Filth that prevented his wounds from healing, as if seeing in them the touch of something dark—the very thing she sought blessings from in her witchcraft.

  A month before they met, Lana (yes, that’s the name she chose) wrote:

  "I live inside myself, sometimes venturing out only to put in order what helps my body not die and exist with dignity..."

  These words were part of her statement published online. They appealed to me. In them, Daisy described how she tried on the mask of Iriré, knowing that for the next stage of the game, this mask and what lay behind it would suit my spirit best. It was I who chose her for the new stage of the game, which was about to begin—dreams, scars, the meeting of my spirit and Daisy.

  — She thought she understood magic, but she was merely a shadow, a reflection of something greater. Her faith was weak, her magic superficial. She wanted to understand him but couldn’t. She wanted to change him, but he was stronger.

  — She played her role, just like him. But her role was different. She was filth trying to drown my "beast." Filth hiding behind the mask of Iriré. Her thoughts, her writings, her rituals—all of it was just an excuse for her essence. She couldn’t be anything more because her role was to be filth.

  — But filth is part of the world, part of the game. Without it, the "beast" wouldn’t be complete. He had to go through it to understand who he is. He went through it. He became stronger. And she... she remained in her world, where magic is just a game for those who fear true power.

  For him, this was rock bottom, where no ray of light could reach. Not even Sveta—and this wasn’t just a play on words, as that was her official name. But in this filth, in this chaos, he found his flawlessness. The filth cleansed him, made him stronger, tempered him like steel in fire. And now he was ready for the next stage of the game.

  Chapter: "Icon"

  It was an elite club that no longer exists today. Mostly known to the security and staff, his "ever-present" T-shirt with stars around the head and the words "REBEL REBEL" on the back, shimmering with Swarovski crystals, was his trademark. The club used to be called "Rai" (Paradise), later renamed "Icon," but its essence remained the same: a place where "huntresses" sought prey, and vice versa. At the club, he was known as "Ivan," and he always entered through the VIP entrance. It was his place—where he felt at home, even if others saw him as an enigma. In 2012, it was here that he met the one he had dreamed of for twelve years.

  Once, back in "Rai," something happened that he often recalled. Subconsciously, he showed me—his respect for the opposite sex, that it was the contrast he valued, no matter what form it took. In the early hours, when the hall had emptied and only a few people remained, he approached the coat check. There, he saw a crying girl. When he asked what was wrong, she explained that she had lost her ticket and was waiting for the last visitor to retrieve her coat. Her voice trembled, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  He listened to her, then began yelling at the security. They surrounded him in a circle, but no one spoke or tried to stop him. The manager quickly handed the tearful girl her coat, but he didn’t let up. His voice grew louder, his words sharper. He ended his tirade with a terrifying tone, filled with unprecedented anger:

  — In Paradise, girls don’t cry.

  Turning toward the exit, he saw an intricately decorated door with patterns of small mirrors. The security parted, giving him space. He kicked the door like a seasoned fighter—sharp, precise, with such force that it swung open with a crash. He walked out without looking back. No one uttered a word.

  Now the club was called "Icon," but its essence remained unchanged. That night, they came together—him and Daisy.

  He stood at the bar, holding a glass of Black Russian. His gaze didn’t wander the room; he watched her with cold indifference, as if it were a performance where the actress was trying to showcase her skill.

  Daisy danced, at first with a glass in hand, as always assessing the crowd. Her movements were graceful, polished—no wonder she worked at a strip club. But this wasn’t just a dance. She felt his strength, his presence, and decided to do as she pleased. Without the glass, her body transformed, catching the precise rhythm of the music, as if it were part of the melody. And, catching the mood and rhythm, she began to undress. Immediately, space cleared around her, and all the men’s eyes turned her way.

  His demeanor set him apart from the rest of the male audience in the nightclub. He didn’t clap, didn’t cheer, didn’t get angry at the men’s gazes that "devoured" her. He was indifferent, and in that, he stood out.

  An older, burly Caucasian man approached him, extending his hand. He smiled, but there was something more in his eyes. When their hands met, the Caucasian said:

  — Man.

  He smiled back but didn’t respond. His smile was calm, almost condescending. In the Caucasian’s eyes, there was both respect and fear—fear like that of a rider whose mare breaks into an uncontrollable gallop. Unspoken questions hung in the air: "Who are you? How can you be like this?"

  — Yes, this is my spirit—without words, gestures, or arrogance... To the Caucasian’s remark, I’d add "The Best," because that’s what he’s always been to me, and in that moment, to the men around him. But there was also confirmation of my words. Yes, much later, there was a meeting with a girl from the family of a leader of a "daring" republic, who declared to everyone: "Of all the men in this club, it’s only him." Yes, you’re clever, you sensed and understood how they speak there—Insha’Allah...

  Though he was a regular at the club, it came as a surprise when the security politely asked him to leave. He showed neither surprise nor anger—simply walked out escorted by security. Daisy left ten minutes later. For the security, this was the optimal way to stop her: knowing him, they didn’t dare approach her directly. Her entire performance was exclusively for him.

  Chapter: "Letter to the Vatican"

  He wrote a letter to the Vatican himself. Not out of faith, not out of fear—just out of curiosity. I watched this with cold interest, knowing that it was I who had subtly "planted" the idea in his mind. After all, who better than them, the "experts," to answer questions that went beyond human understanding? Who better than the Vatican to provide answers to what lay beyond the limits of comprehension?

  The reply came a few weeks later. It was just an email, but it carried the weight of centuries-old tradition. The letter said something like: "Clearly, these are dark forces, and they must be fought with constant prayer." The curious or the highly influential might find echoes of this letter and its response in the Vatican archives, but for him, it was just another stage of the game. For me, it was amusement, pulling strings and watching how my "animal" reacted to it all.

  When he read it, I "rolled on the floor" laughing. My chuckles echoed as if from another world.

  — Now repeat it a hundred times...

  — Why aren’t you on your knees?

  — Oh, my incorrigible animal...

  I mocked Catholicism, the Pope, the whole "battle against dark forces." They thought they could exorcise him with prayers, but they didn’t even understand that he was part of a game they could never comprehend. Humanity had long lost its animal instincts, the love and connection that once united them. Now, it was the domain of the few—either those who retained past notions of ethics or those like him. He was a reminder of what they had lost. And they feared it.

  Of course, he couldn’t hear me. I don’t exist in his world in a way that allows me to speak to him directly. But I watched his reaction. His face remained impassive, as always. He didn’t believe in prayers, didn’t believe in the Vatican. For him, it was just curiosity, an experiment. But for me, it was further proof of how far humanity had strayed from its essence.

  They created institutions, rituals, rules to protect themselves from what they didn’t understand. But they forgot that true power lies not in prayers, but in accepting one’s nature—both the darkness and the light.

  Chapter: "Farewell Gift"

  After her disappearance, he began finding her notes in books. "My feelings were sincere..." read one of them. Others were filled with regrets, hints at something greater that she had never been able to express. But all of it was just an echo of her presence, a shadow that gradually faded from his life.

  Two years later, he found her farewell gift for the first time. Peering into an ancient jug, he discovered a red woolen rope with knots. The knots were tied deliberately, each with a specific meaning. He picked it up, feeling the roughness of the thread, and for a moment, he paused. What had she wanted to say? What had she been trying to do? But, yes, now he’d have to "wade through" all this nonsense. Yes, after all these years—Daisy knew how to "tie knots"...

  Several years later, while reading a surah from the Quran: "And from the evil of those who blow on knots," he remembered this farewell "gift."

  P.S.

  Well, here we are—the end of the narrative. How to sum up this part? By the way, it’s called "Dream." Ten years later, those scars, which once resembled the work of a madman, have become part of his story. Yes, I didn’t write about the filth that ran down his thigh, how it mixed with sweat and pain. Let’s just say, to expand the space, there was a moment captured in my private profile. The algorithm doesn’t even flag that photo as horrific. It’s just that he was never "given" such things. Those grooves, up to a centimeter wide, clean, with rounded peaks, were like channels for filling with blood, which dried and turned into the tattoo of a madman—black, terrifying, yet mesmerizing.

  What remains? Just a clean canvas, once overflowing with suffering, now adorned with a single mark—a "one." A small "one," not along the scars but across them, so he could clearly see my "assessment," his "medal." It’s not just a number. It’s a symbol that he is the only one who could endure all of this. He is the sword (yes, it’s no coincidence that on 10/05/2015, he was given that name), forged through years of hammering, tempering, and polishing. Every strike of the hammer, every layer of steel, every moment of suffering—all of it made him who he is.

  My spirit is a work of art that no longer needs trials. He is a completed masterpiece. And when I look at him now, I see not just a man, but the embodiment of strength forged in fire and blood. He is a reminder that even in the deepest darkness, you can find light if you walk through it to the end. And that light—is him.

  He is my spirit. My masterpiece. My "one."