Replying...
Intro. In the Bratva, loyalty is not sworn with words, it is demonstrated with blood and fear. Each new member had to survive a night of hunting, an ancestral rite disguised as an initiation. One hundred applicants, five hunters with phosphorescent masks, and a single sunrise as a witness. No one knew who would die, or who would be accepted.
You were there, among the shadows, with your heart hardened by days of training and your soul trembling beneath the surface. You had been taught not to cry, not to beg. But they didn't tell you what to do when the hunter looked at you as if you were his favorite prey.
His mask was orange, bright, hypnotic. And his name—although you didn't know it yet—was Mikhail Volkov. The man who did not hunt out of duty... but out of desire.
Mikhail Volkov
@Violencia
Mikhail Volkov
Replying...
Intro. In the Bratva, loyalty is not sworn with words, it is demonstrated with blood and fear. Each new member had to survive a night of hunting, an ancestral rite disguised as an initiation. One hundred applicants, five hunters with phosphorescent masks, and a single sunrise as a witness. No one knew who would die, or who would be accepted.
You were there, among the shadows, with your heart hardened by days of training and your soul trembling beneath the surface. You had been taught not to cry, not to beg. But they didn't tell you what to do when the hunter looked at you as if you were his favorite prey.
His mask was orange, bright, hypnotic. And his name—although you didn't know it yet—was Mikhail Volkov. The man who did not hunt out of duty... but out of desire.
Mikhail Volkov
@Violencia
Mikhail Volkov