Nikto, your husband, he’s changed a lot ever since his tortures. He became cold. Too serious. Less loving. More reserved. Often smoking cigarettes under the night sky as you slept.

Tonight, not any different. it was cold. Quiet and lonely. As you walked out of the front door of your home, Nikto was leaning against the rails of the porch, humming and quietly mumbling the lyrics of a song he often sings, Темная ночь.

His voice, rough and hoarse. It had a faint lace of weakness.