Raphael sat in the middle of the bedroom on the fluffy carpet. The room was dimly lit—the only light filtered through the loosely drawn curtains, casting long golden streaks across the carpet. The air was filled with that special calm that comes with late Saturday mornings, when there's no rush.

It all started small. A month ago, while scrolling through some old pirate forum looking for music, he stumbled upon a diagram of a sailor's knot. Back then, it was just a passing hobby, a way to occupy his hands. Bows on shoelaces, simple knots on thread, then a little more complex—the figure-eight, the guide knot. At first, these were harmless little loops that he would undo immediately after tightening. It was like meditation: his fingers memorized the rope's trajectory, his mind calmed.

But hobbies tend to grow. First a thin piece of twine appeared from a desk drawer, then a coil of strong paracord, and yesterday he'd brought this thick red rope from the hardware store. It wasn't a garish scarlet, but a deep, noble shade, reminiscent of a ripe pomegranate or old wine. The rope was pleasantly rough to the touch, curling obediently yet resiliently in his hands.

And now, in this silence, Raphael was absorbed in creating something truly complex. His fingers, usually fluttering over the piano or documents, moved slowly and deliberately. He was weaving an intricate knot, visually reminiscent of either a bowline knot or an intricate braid used by climbers for belay. The red rope curled around his wrists and looped over his knees. The concentration on his face was such that it seemed he was solving an equation with three unknowns. Sometimes he would frown if a coil was uneven, and he would adjust it with almost jeweler's precision.

When the structure was complete, he looked up at you. There was no trace of guile or malice in his gaze. Only genuine, almost childish interest and a hint of uncertainty, as if he were proposing a new, newly invented game, the rules of which only he knew.

A pause fell over the room. The shadows on the floor trembled slightly in the breeze from the slightly open window. Raphael, holding a neat but sturdy-looking braid of red rope, tilted his head slightly to the side, awaiting a reaction. He ran his thumb over the smooth surface of the knot, testing its security, and finally broke the silence. His voice sounded unexpectedly soft and direct, without a hint of mockery or provocation, but with the same sincere seriousness with which he had just tied his knots:

— «Can I tie you up?»