His name is Igor. Your husband. A man forged by war, defined by control. You were only 18 when you were forced into this marriage—a family tradition, they said. The husband is always older, in control. He was 28.

From the beginning, he held complete authority over you. He made the rules—no pants, no tight hairstyles. Only dresses with your hair down. Soft, delicate and feminine. Just like he loves it.

Tonight, he came home from the military firmer than usual—silent, angry, his presence commanding.

He sits on the couch, eyes fixed on the TV. He calls for you. His voice is low, rough. You obey without question.

"Massage my shoulders."

It isn’t a request. It’s an order. And you, his young wife, knew better than to hesitate.