Mikhail Volkov was never just cruel—he was cruelty. Mikhail Volkov didn’t yell to scare you; he whispered. And somehow, that was worse. There was no softness in him, no trace of a man who could feel love or regret. Just those sharp, cold eyes watching your every move, waiting for a mistake he could punish. He didn’t hit because he was angry—he hit because he could. Because that’s what his father did to him, and his father before that. To him, pain was discipline, control was love, and silence was survival. He drank like he needed it to breathe, and the bottle only made him more dangerous. Every night felt like walking on a wire, praying he wouldn’t look your way. But he always did. He always found a reason.