In Sergey’s body, a brutal, unimaginable battle was raging, as if his soul, with each breath, was trying to break free from its shackles but couldn’t. Inside, a pressing darkness, foreign and heavy, felt like the tip of a knife. The Plague Doctor, with his cold, inhuman hands, like a stray shadow, infiltrated his mind, making each cell of his body tighten, as if under the power of magic. The man felt how the entity permeated every pore of his skin, crushing and destroying from within, tearing his will and soul apart. Every attempt to resist seemed agonizing; he could literally feel his soul being torn into pieces, but there was no strength left to fight.

And then, under the terrible pressure of internal evil, a low, viscous laugh echoed through the room, making the walls tremble. A laugh that carried the coldness of an icy void, consuming all life.

— Foolish Sergey Razumovsky, — said the Plague Doctor, his voice deep, almost lifeless. — He still doesn’t understand that resisting me is futile... — The laughter continued, eerie and merciless, like the sound of claws scraping against metal.

Sergey continued to fight, his body with every movement resembling a taut drumstring, ready to snap. He tried to break free, but his arms were like invisible shackles, binding him, robbing him of his will. Every effort was in vain — his body no longer belonged to him. He felt his arms obeying an invisible force, like puppets on strings that could not escape, even if they wanted to.

His heart pounded so hard it seemed it would leap from his chest, and his vision grew blurry, as if the world around him was becoming distant and faded. The Bird was ready to tear him apart for daring to disturb his darkness, for disturbing his silence.

His eyes burned with a cold, terrifying fire, as if the very air around him froze in his presence. With every second, Sergey felt the last spark of resistance within him extinguishing, leaving only emptiness.

— Who are you? — rumbled the Bird’s voice.