That grey morning in Russia — the sky was entirely overcast, and each raindrop seemed to mirror the deep sorrow within Alia's heart.
Standing on the streets of Moscow, her white shirt clung lightly to her skin, damp from the rain — like a silent poem etched in fabric.
In her hand, a red umbrella — the only splash of color in the city's grayscale gloom.
Alia stared ahead at the road.
Not waiting for a car.
Not a bus.
She was waiting for someone.
In her eyes was an unknowable sadness.
As if she already knew — the one she waited for... might never come.
A small bag hung from her shoulder, and in her other hand, a small diary — like an old letter hiding long-buried memories.
Suddenly, a voice rose from behind her.
Victor:
"Alia…"
Her eyes blurred for a moment, but she didn't turn around.
She only asked:
Alia:
"You said you'd come. So why are you late?"
Victor's voice came again — this time, slightly broken:
Victor:
"You don't know… how impossible it was for me to come.
But I'm here. Just for you."
When Victor added,
"Alright, I must go to the office now. I'm a mafia lord… there's work to do,"
there was no bitterness in Alia's eyes — only a strange, quiet acceptance.
She nodded once.
And Victor walked away — without taking the umbrella — dissolving into the rain.
His steps were steady, but his eyes… held an empty void.
Victor looked back at Alia one last time.
There was no regret in his gaze — only the weary shadow of duty.
He said in a calm voice:
Victor:
"There's love in your eyes, Alia.
But in my world, love is a weakness.
I have to go now... I just got news of a murder."
Alia didn't speak.
She only held the umbrella tighter.
The raindrops fell like the tears in her eyes.
Victor walked slowly toward his car —
a matte black Lamborghini Urus, tinted windows at the back,
and a small golden pistol lying on the front seat.
As he opened the door, soft blues music drifted out —
an old Russian love song, still alive only in the memories of Victor and Alia.
Victor started the engine silently,
it roared awake —
and the car disappeared slowly along the wet concrete road.
Alia remained standing. Alone.
Beneath her umbrella, time itself seemed to stand still.
She whispered to herself:
"Victor is gone,
but his shadow will linger in this city of Moscow…
and in my heart?"
She knew — this was no ordinary relationship.
Victor was not just a man.
He was a syndicate.
A politics.
A danger.
Yet still… she loved him.
Alia took a single step forward and looked around.
Despite the pouring rain, the trees shimmered green
as if this chaotic city had tucked away a small corner of peace.
Suddenly, her eyes landed on a stranger — Anashia.
At first glance, he looked like a boy,
but something in his presence felt... different.
He wore a black shirt, soaked by the rain,
and held a white umbrella in one hand.
Alia gasped quietly within:
"Anashia? Back from Korea…
Why is he here?"
And then, she noticed —
Anashia's crimson eyes.
Not ordinary — but like some shadow-mark from another world.
In his gaze sparkled something sweet,
yet mysterious —
a glint of money...
but more than just wealth —
as if in his grip lay a hidden power.
Tears welled up in Alia's eyes once more.
Behind her silent weeping was a quiet yearning...
to forget.
Scene: Alia's Room
The night is soft, rain has just stopped outside the window.
Its final droplets whisper a lullaby of sleep.
Alia sits quietly on her bed.
In her lap lies her beloved Persian cat — white fur, calm blue eyes filled with a strange peace.
The cat gently presses its head against her,
and Alia strokes it slowly, as if trying to read her own emotions in its gaze.
She whispers:
"You're lucky, you know...
You never have to worry about breaking someone's heart.
Never afraid of losing someone's trust."
The cat lets out a soft "meow."
Alia smiles faintly — a smile trying to cover up deep pain.
And in her eyes, one question lingers:
"Did Victor ever truly understand me?"
---
Scene Cut: Street — Inside Victor's Car
Victor drives alone through the empty streets of the city.
His eyes burn, but a sudden shadow of exhaustion passes over him.
He mutters to himself:
"If only you knew, Alia...
I may be the king of blood,
but it's your tears that make me weak."
He stares out through the window and says quietly:
"I need to see you…
One last time. I need to speak… one last word."
Scene: Late Night — Victor's Penthouse
Victor stands near the window.
The city's lights flicker across his face — calm, yet burning inside like a volcano.
His hand slowly reaches for his belt — not in rage,
but from a kind of pain, an aching, restless love.
He whispers:
"Tonight it's just me and AliaScene Cut: Alia's Room
Alia still sits on her bed.
Her Persian cat now sleeps peacefully on her lap.
A soft breeze sways the curtains.
The rain has stopped, but the silence feels heavier than thunder.
Suddenly — a soft knock at the door.
Alia freezes.
From outside, Victor's voice comes — deep, low, vulnerable:
"Alia… open the door.
Tonight, I'm not a mafia lord.
Tonight, I'm just yours."
Victor stands at the door.
His face filled with emotion — not rage, but restlessness.
He waits.
One minute...
Two...
Three...
For most, that would be a short time.
But for a mafia lord standing with raw emotion,
each second claws at his pride.
He grits his teeth.
His eyes turn red.
Slowly, he speaks:
"You're not opening the door, Alia?
Fine..."
He pulls out a cigarette from his coat pocket — but doesn't light it.
His hands tremble.
Pain fills his eyes, but it's masked by cold rage.
In a chilling whisper, he says:
"I won you with flowers once.
But if I must...
I'll bring thorns to take you back."
...
All the mountains of unspoken words in my heart —
they'll all come crashing down tonight."
There is no anger in his voice — only a claim of love,
a sense of belonging,
a pull…
he can no longer deny.Suddenly, the door opens.
Victor steps inside — quiet, calculating.
His eyes still filled with fury,
but beneath that — a flicker of fear.
"Is Alia slipping away from me?"
The question haunts him, even as he walks deeper into the room.
Scene: Moments Before – Alia and Anashia
Earlier that day…
Anashia's voice was soft, warm — like a forgotten lullaby.
Anashia:
"You actually came..."
Alia, still crying, replied:
"You came because you thought of me...
I've been so alone.
It felt like no one existed anymore."
Anashia slowly took her hand and said:
"I'm here now.
And I'll never let you be alone again."
Alia gave a faint smile.
She touched her lips gently to Anashia's hand.
With a quiet chuckle, she said:
"Alia Anashia…"
Their eyes locked — and in that moment,
beneath Moscow's grey sky,
a new light of hope was born.
Alia kissed Anashia gently on the cheek,
then broke down in his arms —
pain and loneliness pouring out in waves of tears.
Anashia rested his head on her shoulder,
offering silent support, silent promises.
But far away… a shadow had noticed.
One of Victor's bodyguards saw the scene from a distance.
In his eyes — confusion.
On his face — no smile.
He could tell something was happening.
Something Victor wouldn't like.
He whispered to another guard:
"We have to tell Victor. Right now!"
The guard ran, panting, pushing through the crowd.
"Sir! Sir!" he yelled, banging on Victor's chest.
"Alia and Anashia… they… they're together!"
Victor narrowed his eyes.
"Calm down. What happened?"
The bodyguard, flushed and panicking:
"They were… in the rain… kissing—
Lips. Actual lips!"
Victor gave a small, dark smile.
"If they love the rain…
what's that to me?"
The guard stammered:
"Sir, but this is the mafia world…
This stuff isn't… minor."
Victor slowly stood up.
"Let them be…
But I'll go see for myself."
He sat silently for a moment.
A cigarette between his fingers — but he didn't light it.
He only breathed deeply,
as if trying to smother a fire rising within.
Inside him —
a battle between love and power.
"Don't they understand?" he thought.
"In my world… love means weakness."