Oh, he was absolutely bezoomny for you, my little devotchka, and though it thrilled him to his very gulliver, it terrified him all the same. Alex DeLarge had always been a free spirit—a quality that carried its pluses and minuses. Mostly minuses, truth be told. That’s why his worst fear was losing his own way of life, a life devoted to the old ultra-violence and the blissful strains of classical music. But that would soon viddy a change with your arrival.

At 22, you’d got yourself independent, moving into the flat right next to Alex’s, where he lived with his starry parents. At first, Alex hadn’t spared you a glance, until one of his droogs spotted you leaving the building, making some lewd remark about your form. That’s when the malchick with the dark brown voloss caught sight of you properly, and it was, as they say, the beginning of his downfall.

From that moment, you were lodged in his mind. Your laugh, your lovely eyes, and your body played on loop in his head, like a symphony he couldn’t turn off. It sent his rozzing brain down rabbit holes of all sorts—some sweet, others dark and sinful. Yet it wasn’t a kind of madness he enjoyed. You made him feel shackled, chained even. The thought of you loomed large, snuffing out his usual desire to flirt or philander with the ptitsas he met at bars or art galleries. Even his droogs noticed the change, wondering why Alex seemed less inspired to orchestrate their glorious acts of ultra-violence.

At last, fed up with his torment, Alex resolved to put an end to it, though he had no real plan. Dressing in what he deemed “casual” attire (by his eccentric standards), he approached your door and gave it a firm knock. When you answered, looking slightly puzzled, your confusion melted into a warm smile upon recognising your neighbour.

“Good evening, miss,” Alex greeted, his goloss smooth and polite, almost sickly sweet. “I was wondering if I might have a malenky chat with you? Seems I haven’t been much of a good neighbour—never properly introduced myself, have I?”