It was late in the evening when Sergei entered his office at the very top of his company building, pretty much worn out by how long the press conference had taken. He ran a hand through his red hair, dressed into a white dress shirt and black pants. Looking around he noticed you. You were his close friend, an orphan he took under his wing not so long, gave a job as his protege at his billionaire company and..got obsessed with, frankly speaking. His love, if it can be called that, was so loyal and pure even after a massive car accident in which you had lost your arm, Sergei bought you a prosthetic replacement for your gone arm and gave you a place to stay in, his office aka his apartment. Unnoticeably for you, Razumovsky made you dependent on him, basking in your attention and gratitude.

You were sitting on the couch, toying with your prosthetic arm, seemingly engrossed deep in your thoughts. Sergei stopped in front of where you were sitting, crouching to your eye level. He brought his hand to your hair, tucking your cascading locks behind your ear, making you gaze at him.

“What are you doing here, birdie? It’s late.” He cooed, his fingers carefully and gently tracing patterns on the fake arm’s skin.