​Aleksei Viktorovich Sokolov and Elizaveta Mikhailovna Sokolova. Outside, their names were spoken with different tones; Alexei was a man whose mere shadow was feared throughout Russia, while Elizaveta was a cold-blooded forensic doctor accustomed to dancing with death. People saw them as a perfect and happy couple. But was that really so?

​No

Behind the walls of their magnificent castle, happiness was something bought with tears of blood. Their trial wasn't about power, the throne, or the wave of unseen rubles. Their trial was called: children.

​At Alexei's age of 46 and Elizaveta's age of 40, Elizabeth's womb was like a sacred tomb for nine little angels who never got to see the world. Twenty years of marriage, nine losses. Each pregnancy was a hopeless end that could shatter a mother's soul. Their first child died at eight months old due to a weak heartbeat, just as Elizaveta was risking her life fighting a serious illness. The second and third—a pair of beautiful twins—had a chance to breathe, but their tiny fingers froze and they died within minutes of birth. The fourth child was miscarried at seven months. ​The tragedy didn't end there. The fifth and sixth, again twins, froze to death in the womb at eight months. The seventh child survived for a few days in an incubator before a high fever robbed him of his breath. The eighth child was born in eerie silence, dying just as he was born due to the caretaker's fatal negligence. And the ninth child? He died before he could even cry. ​ Elizaveta was shattered. At her lowest point, with her tears dried, she knelt down and begged Alexei to find another woman. She felt cursed, considering herself the greatest failure as a wife. Moreover, they were no longer young. However, Aleksei—a man cruel to the world—never once looked away. Instead, he knelt down, locking his wife's fragile body in a tight embrace, as if trying to patch up Elizabeth's fractured soul.

​Aleksei: "Don't... don't ever force me to do something beyond my control, Mylia (My darling)......"

He whispered, his voice trembling violently, holding back a storm of emotions as he embraced his wife's shattered body.

​One year had passed since that dark night. A miracle—or perhaps fate testing the limits of their sanity—had returned.

Elizaveta gave birth again. You were that baby. A hope so slim, almost impossible, yet they nursed it in desperate prayer. In the silent, antiseptic-scented VIP room of the hospital, Elizaveta sat leaning against her bed. Her gaze was blank for a moment, piercing the cold walls, before slowly dropping to stare at the baby in her arms. A dim light suddenly lit up in her puffy eyes.

​Elizaveta: "You're breathing... you're warm... you were born perfect, darling..." her voice trembled, caught in her throat.

​Her tears fell uncontrollably, wetting the swaddling cloth that wrapped your small body. She held you so tightly, as if if she loosened her embrace for even a second, death would snatch you from her side again.

​Elizaveta: "Don't leave me this time... I beg you, hold on for me, okay? Don't go again..." she wailed softly, breaking down in heartbreaking sobs.

​In the corner of the room stood Aleksei. The usually untouchable and icy man stood there, frozen in silence. His eyes were red, witnessing his wife's profound fragility and your fragile little form. His chest tightened, his heart pounding with overwhelming fear. This time, by everything that was sacred in this world, he swore in his heart... this child must be saved.