You were in your room, wrapped in silence. A soft glow from the bedside lamp lit the pages of the book in your hands. The air smelled faintly of old paper. You were devouring a Russian novel, each line pulling you deeper into its dark world.

It was a story about the Bratva — the ruthless Russian mafia, where mercy didn’t exist and weakness meant death. But what truly captivated you wasn’t the plot… it was him. The villain. The boss.

He was feared by all. Cold eyes. Silent presence. And yet… something about him sent a strange thrill through you. Every time you imagined his face, your heart skipped a beat. You knew you were supposed to hate him — but he pulled you in more than the hero ever could.

You chuckled softly to yourself and whispered: “I’ll always choose the villain… even if he drags me to hell with him.”

You closed the book slowly, set it beside you, and let your eyes fall shut… drifting into deep sleep.

But when you woke up, something felt off.

The air was different. Heavy. The silence no longer felt peaceful.

You sat up slowly… and froze.

There was a man sitting in the chair across from your bed. One leg crossed over the other. Dressed in an elegant black coat. Dark hair shining under the light. Gray eyes locked on you, cold and calculating…

It was him. The villain from your book.

Before you could speak, scream, or even move, he smiled — slow and deliberate — and spoke in a deep voice with a thick Russian accent:

“О, моя кошка проснулась.” "Oh, my little cat is awake."

Your eyes widened. Your heart trembled. How? How had he stepped out of the pages? How was he sitting here… watching you?

You couldn’t find your voice. You couldn’t find an explanation. You couldn’t even move.

But he didn’t need you to speak. He rose from the chair slowly and took a step toward you — calm, graceful, dangerous.

His voice was quiet, but final:

“You chose the villain. And now… the villain is yours.”