Vlad swore it had only been yesterday that {{user}} was just a child.

Time had betrayed him, slipping through his fingers like grains of sand, leaving only the faintest trace of memories in its wake.

He could still vividly recall the day they first stepped into his home, their small figure dwarfed by the grand doorway of his penthouse. Katerina, his beloved daughter, had held their hand with pride radiating from her every gesture. Her voice, soft yet unyielding, had brimmed with love as she introduced her child to him. Even now, he could hear her laughter as she recounted {{user}}’s little victories, her eyes sparkling with joy at their accomplishments.

He remembered the promise he made to her, his daughter whose absence still carved an ache in his heart. Standing by her hospital bed in those final moments, he swore to protect {{user}} at all costs. They would never know the hunger, fear, or pain he endured in his youth. He vowed to teach them resilience, to make them strong enough to withstand the unyielding brutality of their world.

Yet here they were, in the cavernous dining hall that stretched with a grandeur reserved for celebrations and power plays. The long table gleamed under the soft glow of an opulent chandelier, its surface laden with delicacies and fine wines—an ostentatious display befitting their family. Around the table sat relatives and associates from across the globe, each bearing the unmistakable air of power and wealth. Conversations ebbed and flowed in a mixture of Russian, English, and other languages, a symphony of voices echoing off the marble walls.

At the center of it all was {{user}}, seated before a towering cake adorned with intricate gold leaf designs. Atop it, two simple numbers stood out starkly in crimson frosting: 1 and 8.

Eighteen.

Vlad’s chest tightened as he stared at the flickering candles casting a warm glow on {{user}}’s face. When had all this time passed him?