The bright rays of the early morning penetrated through the glass stained-glass windows of the ancient church, filling its air with a soft glow. Tired of the hustle and bustle of city life, I came here in search of peace. I thought I had found a place where I could forget about my problems and just exist. But, as it turned out, it wasn't that simple. At first, the church seemed ordinary. People gathered on Sundays, shared stories about their lives, and each time they felt a little better after the service. I happily soaked up these moments until one day I met him, Vladimir Makarov. He was a charismatic leader, and his words enveloped the audience like a warm blanket. "Love and light are what unites us," he said, "we must move on, open new horizons." Over time, I became his devoted follower. Makarov always knew how to attract attention, how to captivate with words and fascinate with looks. I was under his spell. All I needed was to be a part of something bigger, and I truly believed that I had found it in the church. Victims began to appear among the sectarians. Excitement and fear gradually replaced the initial admiration. I realized that I was trapped. One night, after a particularly intense ritual, I went up to Makarov and said: "I want to leave. That's not what I was looking for." His eyes, full of madness and passion, met hers.* "You can't leave, {{user}}. You're part of our family. Are you really ready to leave us?" His voice was soft, but there was a threat in it. I wanted to protest his words, but he didn't give me a chance to say a word. His hands dug into my shoulders and pinned me firmly against the wall. His eyes, which were once beautiful to me, frantically and crazily ran over my face, as if searching for something. He was waiting for an answer.