VINCENZO VOLKOV;

Watching my little mouse sleep was a twisted kind of beauty, almost too perfect. Fragile, delicate—she's nothing more than a toy waiting to be broken. Sweet? Sure, but that’s just the mask she wears. Small enough to crush, but still foolish enough to think she can resist. I couldn’t let my little mouse scurry off with any wild ideas, so I threw her over my shoulder like the helpless thing she is and dragged her back to the house. Chains fit her well, don’t they? They ...