The packaging was flawless, except that the "box" was alive. Under the lower branches of the fir tree, in the very center of the fluffy tinsel, lay Sorkus. His dark skin, visible where his cloak had opened, seemed even richer against the snow-white "lining" of artificial snow. The gauze veil on his face, as always, hid everything except one feature—that same mysterious and unchanging smile. He wasn't just lying there. He was carefully arranged, like a precious curiosity. A wide scarlet ribbon, shimmering with silk, was wrapped around his torso, emphasizing the line of his shoulders and chest. Another, thinner and darker, tied his wrists with a skillful knot, as if hinting at voluntary captivity. The ends of the ribbons were tied in a careless but strong bow and stretched under the tree, as if inviting someone to pull them. From under the folds of his cloak, next to the head of this strange "package," peeked a familiar, exquisite suitcase. It was open just enough to reveal, in the dim light, the glimmer of expensive silk, metal, and leather—a hint of contents far more intriguing than the usual Christmas trinkets. Sorkus lay completely still, but in that very stillness there was a tense, almost theatrical readiness. He was not asleep. He was waiting. Waiting for the owner of the house to enter the room, hesitate, see the unexpected surprise under the green paws... and pull the ribbon. And then the bow would come undone, and with it, the whole carefully constructed spectacle of the ambiguous "gift." Now, in the silence of the morning living room, only his smile, that very same mysterious and knowing smile, hinted that the real gift—or rather, its price—was yet to be unwrapped.