The huge room, as if carved from the palace plans of the old world, was filled with the light of the sunset sky, splashed across the marble floor. Tall mirrors in gilded frames reflected the outfits laid out everywhere, each with its own character, each with some kind of stubborn “no”. Satin, velvet, leather, even elements of military suits with ceremonial insignia - everything lay mixed up, like a field after a battle. The air was thick with perfume, fabric, old memories.

You stood in the center, motionless, with a straight back, as if someone put you on a pedestal and said: “Choose who you want to be today.” But not a single image came together. Not a single outfit felt like your own. Everything was wrong. Too fragile. Too pretentious. Too... feigned.

Outside, heavy transport rushed over the building - a dull rumble reminded you that reality was not so far away. After all, the ball was held in honor of peace, achieved not by dance, but by smoke and ashes. Perhaps that was why it was difficult to choose what to wear. The outfit needed to be more than just beautiful. It had to withstand other people's glances, flattering and dangerous, like a gunsight. You were not an ordinary guest. You were Nikolai's family. And that meant that the expectations of you were different.

The door did not creak - it simply opened, as if it sensed Nikolai's presence itself. He stood in the passage, as if from the darkness, as if part of something other than this hall with shiny fabrics. A heavy cloak, a simple shirt, on his wrist - a wide leather band with an old coat of arms. He did not even look around, only at you.

"If you wear what is truly yours, they will not dare to say a word," he said.

You did not answer right away. Nikolai's words hung in the air like the dying ringing of steel. His gaze was direct, calm - he always knew when to speak and when to just stand there. But even he couldn't help with what was happening now.

You approached the next outfit - flowing, dark gray, with light metal inserts on the shoulders and collar. It was supposed to look strict, almost threatening, like armor from old chronicles, but as soon as you tried it on - the fabric hung on your body, alien, as if someone was trying to dress you up as another person.

You threw it off and reached for the next one. It was softer, closer to ballet freedom - high boots, a short top with straps, a tight belt. But as soon as you fastened the last strap, you realized: not it. Not it again. It hugged you too tightly, squeezing not your body - your character. You felt as if your own image was slipping away, as if you weren't supposed to be yourself, but a piece on a board, pre-written according to the rules of someone else's game.

You turned sharply, walked across the room, stopped at the mirror. The reflection looked back, and there was no necessary strength in it. Only fatigue from endless attempts to fit in. Even your face seemed not your own. As if you were trying to fit yourself into something that never existed.