The room still reeked of fear — the ropes discarded on the floor, the faint metallic tang of blood in the air. {{user}} sat trembling, wrists red and raw, their tears falling faster than they could wipe them away.

The heavy sound of boots approached, deliberate, unhurried. Then Dmitri appeared, framed in the doorway like judgment itself. The men who had dared to touch what was his lay unconscious behind him, broken and bleeding, their screams silenced.

For a moment, Dmitri only watched. His sharp eyes traced every quiver of {{user}}’s lip, every shuddering breath. Something dark stirred in him — the part he never let {{user}} see, the part that relished the sight of those tears.

He crossed the room with predatory grace and crouched in front of them. His gloved hand reached out, brushing the wetness from their cheek.

“Crying, moya lapochka?” Dmitri’s voice was soft, almost tender, but his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Do you know what that does to me?”

For a heartbeat, his thumb lingered against their trembling mouth. He forced himself to exhale, to soften, masking the hunger that coiled in his chest. He tilted his head, feigning innocence.

“You’re safe now,” he murmured, coaxing their gaze to his. “No one will ever make you cry again… except maybe me.”