#Delia york

[tossacointoyourhotmess]

THE UNHOLY FAMILY in THE OMEN FRANCHISE (1976 -)

Margaret Daino, Carlita Scianna, Layla Daino, Damien Thorn, Delia York, and Alexander York

[theomenmovie]

The Omen at the End of the World

Theologians, filled with the pride of knowledge, were wrong in claiming that the soul, leaving the mortal body, ascends to another world, reaching for the bright heights. In reality, by the will of unknown forces, after death, a person does not ascend to the heavens but remains bound to this world, endlessly wandering in a new, bodiless form. And his dwelling is not a radiant eternity, but a place called a Home at the End of the World.

A girl in a brown down jacket, which contrasted strangely with the warm, sun-drenched summer day, stood on the balcony of an old five-story building. Her face was hidden under a large hood, but her hand movements were quick and precise. In one hand she held a small mirror, in the other - bright red lipstick. The balcony looked neglected: peeling paint on the railing, cracks in the tiles, but it didn't seem to bother her.

Concentrating on applying lipstick to her lips, the girl tilted her head slightly to the sides, catching the reflection of the light. When she finished, she quickly closed the lipstick with a click and looked at her reflection with a slight smile.

"Mmm, I need to go to the prosecutor and find out about the brothers," she said, as if discussing it with herself.

Her gaze shifted from the mirror to the horizon. Her lips stopped smiling and her expression became sad. She brought her right hand to her chest, squeezed the fabric of her down jacket and whispered:

"What wonderful brothers I had…"

She took a step back, leaning against the concrete wall of the balcony, and closed her eyes, as if trying to push away the painful memories. After a moment, her hand slid to her forehead, her fingers nervously touching her temple.

"Oh God, how could they do this…" there was pain and bewilderment in her voice.

Taking a deep breath, she lowered her hand, and her gaze fell again down to the street. Cars drove slowly through the narrow asphalt yard, and old apartment buildings were visible in the background. Her face darkened, as if the weight of her thoughts had fallen upon her again.

"It's all that damned weed!" Her voice was sharp, and the words hung in the air.

For a few moments she stood motionless, looking down, as if considering what to do next.

Meanwhile, on the other side of town, a train pulled into the station. The sunlight reflected brightly off the shiny blue surfaces of the carriages, highlighting the rich color, and the platform was filled with hot air, mixed with the roar of the crowd and the screeching of brakes.

When the train stopped, a young man suddenly jumped out of one of the carriages. His short black hair, slightly disheveled, was carelessly combined with a perfectly ironed black jacket and white shirt. In his right hand he held a leather folder, pressing it to his side, as if the hustle and bustle of the road could snatch it from his hands at any moment.

He paused for a second, squinting, looking around carefully. His eyes quickly ran along the platform, lingering on the figures of people standing nearby. Two men, discussing something near the carriage, seemed not to pay any attention to him. A slight smile flickered on his lips, and he confidently stepped forward, turning the corner.

Having passed the crowd, the young man quickly crossed a small courtyard, strewn with cracked asphalt and rare flower beds with dried flowers. On the opposite side of the station building, he reached a massive wooden door. With one sharp movement, he pulled the handle, and the door creaked open, letting him inside.

A long, empty corridor stretched out before him. The iron floor rang under his steps, echoing in the silence. On either side of the corridor were huge windows, through which daylight streamed, making the space almost blinding.

The young man walked confidently, not looking back. The corridor stretched all the way to the end, where the waiting hall of the station was located. He walked through it without slowing down. Light pouring through the huge windows cast sharp rectangular strips on the iron floor, creating a play of light and shadow. As he approached the massive door leading to the waiting hall, he pushed it open, and the doors creaked with a dull sound.

A spacious waiting room stretched out before him. The floor was laid with marble tiles, glittering from the daylight streaming through the high glass walls. Rows of red chairs stretched in straight lines, as if emphasizing the strict geometry of the space. People were scattered around the room: some stood at the information boards, some wandered lazily, and some sat, intently buried in their smartphones.

The young man glanced slowly at his wristwatch. His movements were precise and almost mechanical, like a man who was used to always knowing the time. Then he walked toward the rows of chairs, chose one, and sat down, placing the leather folder on his lap.

He glanced around, his gaze lingering on each person for only a moment, as if scanning the surroundings. Once he was sure no one was noticing him, the young man straightened up slightly and, reaching into his bosom, pulled out a white radio. The device, which seemed like something from the last century, stood in stark contrast to the modernity around him.

The young man pulled out the antenna and, holding the radio to his ear, began to listen. He looked as if the world around him did not concern him at all. The people sitting in the hall were busy with their own affairs: someone was checking smartphones, from the screens of which bright reflections were shimmering, someone was nervously looking at the board with the train schedule.

Their devices were new, powerful, hundreds of thousands of times better than this old-fashioned radio. But the young man paid no attention to them, completely focused on what was coming from his strange device, namely, a voice, hoarse, as if its owner had not left the smoky room for a long time. The words sounded abrupt, with pauses, as if the informant carefully weighed each phrase. Through the crackling interference, the voice resonated in the young man's ears.

"Information about your mission…" the voice began, after which a short noise was heard, as if someone was leafing through papers. "…is in your folder. It also contains everything necessary for its implementation: addresses, keys and weapons, ammunition."

The boy nodded slowly, running his fingers along the edge of the leather folder on his lap. His gaze lingered for a moment on the empty chair opposite.

"You are to eliminate a certain Jack," the voice continued, the words sounding slightly mocking, as if the speaker considered the task banal. "Mind you, he doesn't know he's in the crosshairs because he has a Belarusian name."

The young man involuntarily tensed up. His eyes darted from side to side, as if he had suddenly begun to suspect someone sitting in the room. He slowly looked around the room: a married couple at the coffee machine, a woman with a tablet by the window, a man lazily examining his reflection in the glass. But none of them aroused obvious suspicion.

"You should also take into account, the voice said again, as if burdened by the need to say the next part, "that his television is broken, and there is a television repairman in the apartment.

The young man squinted, pondering what he heard, but the voice, as if guessing his thoughts, immediately added:

"If necessary, you can eliminate him too, although this master is so stupid that he will hardly be able to stop you. End of communication."

The radio crackled louder, and then the sound suddenly disappeared, leaving behind a ringing silence. The young man lowered the radio, removed the antenna, and carefully tucked the device into his bosom, as if it were something more valuable than just an old gadget.

He ran a hand over his face, glanced briefly at his watch, and looked around the room again. This time his eyes were cool and focused, as if he had already begun to mentally plot his next move.

At this time, the girl in the brown down jacket, despite the heat, carefully adjusted the hood and hugged the white bag tighter to herself. She stood in front of a massive door with a sign "Prosecutor" and, taking a deep breath, knocked, and then, without waiting for an answer, pushed it.

The prosecutor's office was spacious, but at the same time somehow sterilely empty. File cabinets lined the walls, and in the middle of the room, as if straight out of a business glossy, stood Vladimir Eduardovich himself. He was wearing a strict dark jacket, but no shirt, which looked strange and even slightly provocative. His face remained serious, as if he did not notice anything unusual in his appearance.

The girl stopped at the threshold, and her hand automatically reached to her chest. She stared at the prosecutor with wide eyes.

"Oh, hello, Vladimir Eduardovich," she exhaled, as if forgetting why she came here in the first place.

He raised his head, looking at her expectantly, and gestured for her to enter. The girl, looking down, took a few hesitant steps forward. The white bag in her hands swayed slightly from excitement. She swallowed nervously, trying to cope with her confusion, and spoke:

"I came to you about this matter, you see…" her voice wavered, and she hesitated, as if searching for the right words. "Brother killed brother… she finished quietly, but there was a sharp pain in her tone.

She came closer, at one point looking straight at Vladimir Eduardovich. The prosecutor's face remained impenetrable, but the girl was not going to give in. She grabbed the handle of her bag, hugging it tighter to herself, and said passionately:

"Help me figure this out! It's so hard for me without them now!" her voice trembled, but it sounded not only like a request, but also like despair.

Vladimir Eduardovich raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, continuing to listen. The girl took a step forward, leaning a little closer to him, and, almost in a whisper, with a light, barely noticeable smile, added:

"I'll pay you…"

She sat up straighter after these words, as if relieved to have said it. The prosecutor looked at her lazily, as if she had distracted him from more important, but not very interesting, thoughts. Boredom was evident in his every movement, as he said lazily:

"Hello, I will help you."

His tone sounded as if this was not help, but a formal duty from which he could not escape. He began to fiddle casually with a button on his jacket, but his gaze suddenly brightened as he added:

"How much did you say you would pay?"

The girl, as if anticipating this question, quickly, almost abruptly, said:

"A million!"

His face broke into a smug grin. He narrowed his eyes for a moment, as if assessing her words, and then shook his head lazily.

"I don't take much," he grinned, and, unbuttoning his jacket, added with visible pleasure: "All I need is, you understand, we are, hmm, male prosecutors!"

Then he began to rummage through his trouser pockets, looking as if he was looking for something extremely important, but he could not remember what it was.

"I don't accept money, so…" he paused meaningfully, as if he was about to say something else, but instead he suddenly straightened up and added with unexpected energy: "Well, what can I say? I'll help you find your brothers!"

He spun around, hands on hips, but didn't deign to look at the girl. Instead, his eyes were fixed on the cabinet in the corner of the office, as if the whole truth of the matter, or his own thoughts, were hidden there.

Suddenly the girl's face, which had previously expressed confusion and despair, changed. Her eyes began to shine with rage, and her hands, shaking with anger, clutched the white bag, as if trying to maintain the last of her control. She took a sharp step forward, her voice breaking into a scream, full of furious indignation:

"You bastard! I will never sell myself to you!"

The prosecutor instantly straightened up, his face hardening. He glanced quickly at the girl, and for a moment a malicious spark flashed in his eyes. He hissed through his teeth like an animal ready to attack:

"Damned wretch! You're not selling yourself to me! Here, take it!"

With these words, he suddenly stretched his hand forward, and some object flew towards her. It was so fast that the girl did not have time to react. She screamed when something sharp or heavy hit her, and the next moment she fell to the floor, and her bag flew out of her hands, leaving her defenseless.

"What have you done, prosecutor…" she muttered barely audibly, lying on the cold floor.

Her voice was full of despair and her eyes were clouded as she sighed, as if losing strength, and let her head hang limply. In that same second, her body relaxed and she, losing consciousness, fell into unconsciousness, barely touching the floor.

At this time, a young man with a leather folder in his hands calmly descended the escalator from the waiting room. His face remained unperturbed, his gaze confidently glided forward, as if he knew exactly where he was going. The station hummed around him: the dispatcher's announcements were heard, the voices of passengers called out to each other, the clatter of footsteps could be heard in the distance. But he moved as if this noise was somewhere very far away, as if only his own movement existed.

Reaching the exit of the station, he paused for a moment, looking at the lively rhythm of the city street. People hurried along the sidewalks, hurrying about their business, and buses and taxis, like humble guards, lined up at the curb, waiting for new passengers. He quickly looked around, checking the situation, and, having made sure that everything was calm, headed towards the bus stop. Several people had already gathered there: two girls were animatedly discussing something, laughing, and two elderly men were standing nearby, having a leisurely conversation. As the young man approached, everyone involuntarily glanced at him, but he, showing no interest, simply stood next to him.

Soon the bus pulled up, its brakes hissing softly as it approached. As soon as the doors opened, the young man stepped inside, beating the other passengers with lightning-fast precision. As he entered, he glanced around the interior with an attentive gaze, as if considering something, but instead of sitting down, he chose to remain standing, his hand clasped around the handrail in the center of the bus.

As the vehicle began to move, he suddenly grabbed the top handrail and, to everyone's surprise, began to pull himself up energetically, smoothly and rhythmically lifting his body. There was a moment's silence in the cabin, and then the whispers of surprised passengers could be heard. People were watching him furtively, as if deciding to what category of oddity to classify this.

"What are you doing?!" one of the girls standing at the door was indignant. "This is not a gym!"

The elderly man muttered discontentedly:

"The youth have gone completely crazy…"

But the young man continued, ignoring the swearing. His movements were precise and confident, as if he were performing a familiar exercise. The silence in the bus was now broken only by the creaking of the handrails and the indignant whispering of the passengers.

Soon the bus slowed smoothly, the brakes hissing as it stopped, and its doors swung open, letting out the cool morning air. At the bus stop, right in front of the entrance, stood an elderly woman and her granddaughter, a girl of about eight, with dark hair and a light brown dress. The girl held tightly to her grandmother's hand, and her eyes sparkled with curiosity, not taking their eyes off the bus, as if she were seeing it for the first time.

"Delia, stay close and don't move away," the old woman reminded quietly, carefully taking a step toward the door.

But before they could get up, the young man who had been hanging on the railing by the window suddenly jumped up with a spring. Without looking at anyone or showing the slightest attention to the passengers, he stepped towards the exit. As if not noticing those standing in front of the door, he silently stepped down to the ground and confidently walked away.

"What young people these days…" completely without a conscience, the old woman muttered irritably, raising her hand in his direction in displeasure, but she still didn't dare call out to him.

"Grandma, why is this ajussi so strange?" the girl asked curiously, looking up at her seriously.

The old woman sighed heavily and gently pushed her granddaughter closer to the bus. Meanwhile, the young man, as if nothing had happened, was already moving forward. His step was confident, but suddenly he slowed down, glanced around the street as if he was looking for something, and quietly chuckled, as if he was pleased with what he saw. A strange expression was reflected on his face - a mixture of tense concentration and hidden anticipation.

The entrance he was heading for was in the corner of the yard, overgrown with tree foliage. His steps were becoming slower and slower, and his gaze was becoming more intent. It was as if he sensed something that others could not sense. At that moment, he completely detached himself from the outside world, his thoughts were focused on only one thing - the entrance door, which was getting closer with every step he took.

The door slammed loudly in the corridor of the prosecutor's office, and Eduard, the father of that very girl in the brown down jacket, literally burst into the office. He was wearing a black sports jacket with white stripes on the sleeves, and his cap had slipped to the side, apparently due to his abrupt movements. His eyes were flashing lightning, and his steps were so fast that he almost flew inside, waving his arms. His voice cut through the silence like thunder:

"Child, I called!!!"

The scene that unfolded before his eyes only added fuel to the fire. Standing by the TV stand was a man in a bright red jacket, an orange construction helmet on his head, askew, revealing tousled blond hair. He was diligently swinging a hammer, hammering away at the body of the equipment, scattering shards of plastic around as if a mini-explosion had just occurred.

Eduard froze on the threshold, looking at what was happening in bewilderment. The man in the helmet, hearing his loud cry, froze and raised his head, as if he had only just now noticed the guest. He met Eduard's gaze, and then, as if nothing strange had happened, glanced at his wristwatch.

"Boss, it looks like it's lunchtime already!" he said cheerfully, looking as if hammering on TVs was the most ordinary job of a TV technician.

Without waiting for Edward's reaction, the man nodded, shook the hammer with displeasure, and then threw it on the nearest table with obvious disdain. He dusted off his hands and resolutely headed for the exit.

"Okay, I'm going!" he threw over his shoulder, walking out as calmly as if he had just finished a routine shift.

Eduard froze in the doorway, his face filled with anger, and the veins on his neck bulged as if ready to burst. His lips pressed tightly into a thin line. His gaze fell on the body sprawled face down on the floor. The prosecutor lay motionless, his arms spread out to the sides, resembling an inverted cross. There was something symbolic in this pose, as if he had fallen not only in body but also in spirit. Eduard, staring at the lying man, hissed with such malice that his voice sounded almost inhuman:

"You bastard, you got what you deserved!"

His rage was still simmering, but after a few moments he stepped forward. Leaning over the body, he began to rummage through the pockets of the prosecutor's jacket with quick, almost jerky movements. Finally, his fingers found the passport. Eduard abruptly opened the document, and his face instantly changed. Anger gave way to shock, his eyes widened.

"What?" he breathed out, barely keeping the tremor from his voice.

His gaze clung to the lines of the passport, as if he did not believe what he saw. His hands began to tremble, and the document almost slipped from his fingers.

"Are you my son?" he whispered, not taking his eyes off the paper.

Eduard looked down at the prosecutor, as if expecting an answer, but he remained motionless, cold and silent. That look, that silence seemed to hit Eduard harder than any words. His breathing became ragged, and then his face distorted in pain. He clutched his chest, as if something had burned out his heart.

"What a story… How is it possible - brother kills sister, brother kills brother…" he croaked, his voice almost breaking, and his body began to sink down.

His knees hit the floor with a dull thud, and his strength finally left him. Eduard collapsed next to the prosecutor, as if some invisible force had brought them to their common end. His eyes closed, and his face froze in a grimace of pain and bewilderment.

Now both bodies lay on the floor, silent and motionless. The office was once again plunged into an oppressive silence, thick and viscous, as if not only sounds but history itself, full of tragedy and unsolved mysteries, hung in the air.

At this point, the young man with the leather folder approached the intercom and, frowning, began to quickly dial the code he had memorized. His fingers quickly pressed the buttons until a click was heard, indicating that the door was open. Before entering, he looked around once more, as if checking that no one was watching him.

Inside, the entrance greeted him with a dim light coming from a single bulb flickering under the ceiling. The walls were dirty and peeling, the air was filled with a faint smell of dampness and dust.

The young man closed the door behind him, when suddenly a man came out from the depths of the entrance to meet him. He was wearing a beige jacket with a black stripe, and a construction helmet was on his head. The man walked calmly, unhurriedly, but he and the young man accidentally bumped shoulders.

Both turned around at once, casting careful glances at each other. The man frowned slightly, and the young man narrowed his eyes, as if assessing what kind of person he was. But neither of them said anything, and a second later they went their separate ways.

The young man began to climb the stairs, heading for the fifth floor. His steps sounded hollow, echoing in the empty entryway, while the man in the construction helmet headed for the exit. He opened the door and walked out into the courtyard as if nothing had happened.

Reaching the last flight of stairs, the young man slowed and stopped, taking a deep breath. He crouched down, placing his leather folder on the steps. Opening it, he began to check the contents.

Inside, neatly laid out, was an orange glasses case, a silver pistol, a bunch of keys, and a badge with black writing on a white background: "Key." The young man looked closely at all the items, as if he was weighing something or considering a plan of action.

His fingers curled into fists and he held his breath for a moment. Then, with concentration and confidence, he picked up his badge and pinned it to his chest. It gave him an air of officialdom that seemed to underscore his seriousness.

After that, he opened the orange case and took out the sunglasses. Putting them on, he instantly transformed - now his look was really cool: the glasses emphasized the severity of his facial expression, adding a touch of mystery.

Finally, he picked up the silver pistol. His hand wrapped around the weapon deftly and he quickly pulled the trigger, hearing a short, sharp click. Now he was fully prepared to carry out his mission. The old stairs behind him seemed to be the perfect backdrop for this preparation, and he stood up, ready for further action.

The young man, holding an empty folder in one hand and a pistol and a bunch of keys in the other, confidently approached the door. His steps were quiet, almost noiseless, despite the creaking of the old parquet under his feet. Bringing the key to the lock, he opened the door and went inside.

The hallway was paneled in dark wood, the walls covered in antique lacquered paneling. By the door stood a large mirror in a heavy wooden frame, reflecting a slightly distorted image of the young man. Without thinking, he threw the folder onto the frame of the mirror, freeing his hand, and now held the pistol in both hands, clutching it tightly and confidently.

It was quiet inside, but suddenly a muffled cry came from behind one of the closed doors:

"Ali poboru hamit!"

The young man frowned and turned his head in the direction of the sound. Without wasting any time, he raised his pistol sharply and fired straight at the peephole of that door. The wooden covering of the door shattered into pieces around the peephole, and the smell of gunpowder hung in the air.

Then he turned to the other door, the one he needed. His movements became even more determined. Reloading the gun with a quick movement, he deftly turned the key in the lock, and the door opened with a slight creak. Without wasting a second, he burst into the apartment, holding the gun in both hands. His voice, loud and harsh, echoed throughout the room:

"Jack, you've got me! I'm Agent Clue! Quickly!"

His face expressed a mixture of determination and tension, but the next second he seemed to stumble for a moment in his thoughts. Remembering something, the young man grabbed the badge on his chest with one hand, as if adjusting it, and added in an unexpected tone that sounded almost like an excuse:

"Hooray, I'll just take off my boots, check out!"

His voice was loud and harsh, but at the same time there was a sense of haste in his words. He immediately squatted down and, concentrating, began to unlace his shoes. When he finished, standing in his socks, he jumped over the threshold of the apartment with a sharp movement.

Once inside, as if in a theatrical impulse, he spun around his axis, his glasses flashing in the lamplight. His face took on an angry expression, and his hand with the pistol confidently rose. Without hesitation, he pulled the trigger, and the air was torn apart by the sound of a shot that decided everything.

After a while, heavy, lazy steps were heard in the entryway. A guy in a green cap pulled low over his eyes and a black sports uniform was slowly climbing the stairs. His gait was unsteady, he swayed from foot to foot, as if he was drunk or simply exhausted. His every movement radiated fatigue and indifference to everything happening around him.

The guy reached the right floor and stopped in front of the door. He stood there for a second, as if collecting his thoughts, then lazily reached for the keys. Having unlocked the lock, he pushed the door, which swung open with a slight creak.

The guy walked inside, not suspecting anything, not even bothering to look around the hallway. His thoughts were far away, filled with only one desire - to get to the sofa in the living room and get a good night's sleep.

He yawned, casually throwing the keys onto the nearest surface, and, swaying slightly, headed deeper into the apartment, dreaming only of how he would finally collapse into a cozy corner and forget about everything.

The guy in the green cap lazily stepped into the dark corridor that led to the living room. The floor creaked quietly under his feet, and the light from the half-open door of the room barely illuminated his path. Having reached the entrance to the living room, he stopped and, seeing what was lying on the floor, suddenly froze.

On the floor, unconscious, in his underwear, lay a young man, his body motionless. The guy in the cap squeezed out in horror:

"Brother!"

In a panic, he ran to his brother and fell to his knees next to him. With trembling hands, he shook his brother's shoulder, but to no avail. The young man did not move. Then the boy tore his cap off his head and began to desperately slap it across the face of the man lying on the ground.

"Brother!" he screamed, almost hysterically. "Bro-o-o-other!!!"

But all his efforts were in vain. He slowly realized that his brother was dead. The boy's face was distorted with fear and despair, he dropped his cap to the floor and covered his face with his hands.

A moment later, as if he had caught himself in thought, he stood up and walked over to the switched-on computer that stood on the table. The monitor glowed with a dim bluish light, and something was open on the screen, but the guy hadn't yet managed to make out what exactly.

Suddenly the silence of the apartment was broken by the sound of footsteps. Someone came inside. Hearing this sound, the guy turned sharply to the living room door, his eyes widened in fear.

A gangster walked into the apartment with a swagger. He had a hood over his head and a black bandage covering his mouth. He walked barefoot, with obvious indifference to his surroundings. His steps were heavy, and his gaze was cold and mocking.

Slamming the door shut with a bang, the gangster shouted loudly:

"Hello, you bastard!"

The guy in the green cap backed away in fear, tripping over a chair. Panic overwhelmed him, he darted his eyes around the room, as if looking for salvation, but then, as if he had found courage, he tore off his black sports jacket. His torso turned out to be strong, muscular, and, straining his muscles, he cried out in despair:

"What do you want? You killed my brother? Kill me!"

The gangster, coming closer, chuckled mockingly, his eyes narrowed, and his voice sounded mocking and contemptuous:

"You want it? Here, take it, you moron!"

With these words, he pulled a thin rope out of his pocket, deftly threw it around the guy's neck and pulled it tight. The guy tried to break free, but it was too late - the noose had closed with an iron grip. His hands convulsively jerked towards his throat, but his strength was quickly leaving him.

A moment later, the boy collapsed on the floor, his body going limp. The gangster stood over him, grinning softly, and looked at the motionless body for a moment with an expression of complete indifference. He chuckled softly, as if reacting to a sight that did not arouse in him either pity or remorse. His gaze was full of hatred and contempt.

He pulled the hood off his head, took the bandage off his face, throwing it on the floor. His face was revealed - cruel, cold eyes and a grin that did not bode well. He walked past, looking at the rooms of the apartment for the last time, and said with contempt, looking at the bodies:

"Bastards!"

He went to the exit, but on the threshold, as if remembering something important, he stopped abruptly. Turning around, he waved his arms and, as if pronouncing a sentence, he shouted with fury:

"The fact is, I curse your family!"

With these words he slammed the door loudly, leaving only silence, complete darkness and tension in the apartment. The sound of his footsteps could be heard behind the door, quickly moving away down the corridor.

At this time, silence reigned in the room with yellow wallpaper, broken only by the light crackling of old radiators. On the green sofa lay a guy with short black hair, dressed only in blue shorts. He was sleeping, his head on a white pillow, and seemed to be immersed in some deep, restless sleep.

A strange, calm voice broke through this dream.

"This is a man, he must fulfill a mission, the voice sounded measured, almost monotonous, but inexorable.

The guy, without opening his eyes, grabbed his face in irritation, made a facepalm gesture and grumbled loudly. However, the voice continued, not paying attention to his displeasure:

"This is a mission almost impossible. He must save the elf…"

The word "elf" made the sleeper sigh convulsively. He waved his hand, as if shooing away a persistent fly, and muttered something unintelligible, similar to "leave me alone already", but the voice did not subside:

"…and must open a portal, enter it and kill everyone there."

This phrase finally drove him crazy. The guy made an indignant sound, reminiscent of the offended mooing of an angry cow, then suddenly shook himself and sat up on the couch. His eyes were wide open, but he was staring ahead into space, as if he saw something that no one else could notice.

He sat like that for a few moments, tense and stunned, until the fog of sleep gradually cleared from his mind.

The young man, still sitting on the couch, suddenly felt that his sleepy state was being replaced by something strange, almost unreal. He looked up and froze. Right in front of him, in the middle of the room, stood a long-haired blond man in a black jacket. His hair fell on his shoulders, and his face combined something mystical and familiar at the same time.

"Is this Walter Sullivan? Or Alyosha Karamazov from some postmodern universe?" flashed through the young man's mind. His brain clung to these strange associations, trying to understand what was happening in front of him.

"The shaggy boy," he mentally dubbed this uninvited guest with unexpected cynicism.

The same one, with a majestic look, looking down at the young man, inspired calm but unshakable confidence. The blond's lips moved, and the same voice that the guy had just imagined in his dream rang out:

"I came to you with a mission."

As he spoke, he raised his hand, his movements unhurried, as if ritualistic. Then he pointed directly at the boy, as if he were a priest proclaiming the will of a deity:

"You must save the elf. You must enter the portal. I will give you the key."

The young man felt a wave of tension squeeze his chest. He looked away, as if ashamed, as if he had done something wrong that he did not yet understand. He urgently needed something to calm the feeling of helplessness that had overwhelmed him. He grabbed a pillow, hugged it to himself, as if it were an anti-stress, his only friend at that moment.

The long-haired boy looked at the young man with a slight squint, his gaze reminiscent of a teacher trying to explain to his student how serious the situation was. He stepped a little closer, leaned over and, looking straight into the boy's eyes, said:

2The elf will be grateful to you. Are you ready?"

The guy on the couch looked away, trying not to meet his eyes. He began rocking back and forth, clutching a pillow to his chest as if it was helping him cope with the tension. However, the long-haired boy did not let him get lost in his thoughts. He said loudly, but still calmly:

"I'll give you the key."

These words made the boy stop and look up. The long-haired boy was handing him a strange object. It looked like an ordinary wooden comb - nothing special and certainly not like a key.

The young man frowned, but without thinking twice, he grabbed the object and mechanically ran it through his hair. Then he looked at the long-haired man with a silent question, as if to say: "What kind of nonsense is this?"

The blond did not change his majestic expression and said:

"This is the key. You must open the portal with it."

The young man twirled the object in his hands, grinned and said with poorly concealed irritation:

"It's a comb."

The tone of his voice betrayed how ridiculous he found the whole thing. However, the long-haired boy did not move. He also frowned slightly and, with a visible dose of displeasure, replied:

"This is the only way you can save the elf."

The guy sighed heavily, his eyes closed from fatigue.

"Yes, okay, I'll come down," he said tiredly, waving his hand. Then he fell back onto the sofa, hugging the pillow tightly to himself.

It seemed like all he wanted was to continue sleeping, but the long-haired boy didn't disappear. He remained standing nearby, motionless, like a ghost, keeping his strange mission.

The long-haired boy frowned even more, his face expressing a mixture of indignation and disappointment. He stretched out his hand towards the young man, as if he wanted to pull him out of his sleep, and loudly, with a deep sense of reproach, said:

"You must get up immediately!"

The guy on the couch barely moved, only hugged the pillow tighter, not wanting to react. This drove the long-haired guy crazy. He started waving his arms like an impassioned orator, addressing the entire room.

"Why are you lying down? You have to save the elf!" His voice grew louder, echoing off the walls. "I came to you with a mission!"

The young man slightly opened one eye, but immediately closed it, muttering something unintelligible, clearly in no hurry to perceive the guest's pompous words.

The long-haired man, as if exhausted by his own ardor, lowered his hands. His voice became quieter, but acquired a strange sadness, as if he was talking about the most precious thing in his life, while harshly reproaching the guy.

"If you don't save the elf, he will die. Is that really what you want?"

For a moment, the room was silent. The blond stared at the lying boy, as if hoping to get to his heart. The boy suddenly stood up abruptly. He was still holding the pillow in one hand, as if it were his talisman or a shield from reality. With his other hand, he clutched the wooden comb-key, as if at that moment he finally believed in its power.

Without a word, he walked up to the doorway, his gaze blank but determined. He held out his hand with the key and waved it near the door. For a moment, nothing happened, but then a flash of bright white light illuminated the room. The light was so strong that it momentarily obscured everything around it. When it dissipated, the young man was gone, leaving behind only the faint scent of ozone.

The long-haired boy, who had been silently watching all this, did not move until the light disappeared. But then his face instantly changed - a satisfied, almost triumphant smile played on it. He raised his head, as if addressing someone invisible, and with a shade of satisfied superiority said:

"Okay, he entered the portal. I'll go after him!"

With that, he lifted the key gracefully, like an actor finishing a monologue. Then, before repeating the boy's action, he theatrically waved his hands, as if creating a magical aura around himself. Placing the key on the same spot where the boy had passed it earlier, he too disappeared in a similar flash of white light.

The room was empty again, as if none of this had ever happened. Only a slight aftertaste of mystery and strangeness hung in the air.

The boy flew into the brightly lit room as if he had been thrust out of another world. He landed on the floor, first on his knees, then on both feet, looking around with a confused expression. The walls of the room were bright yellow, so that the light seemed to come from them. The floor was parquet, sparkling with impeccable cleanliness. In the center of the room stood a door, and around it were mirrors, reflecting every detail.

Right in front of the young man stood a strange character - an elf. It was a young man in blue shorts, with a white pillow on his head like a crown. Black socks hung from his long, pointed ears, giving him a comical and mysterious look at the same time. Next to him stood a closet with a huge mirror, but the mirror reflected something different from what it should have. Instead of an elf and a young man, there was a long-haired boy - the same one who had given the young man the "key. The boy had an angry face, and in his hands he held a silver video camera, as if he was filming what was happening.

The young man blinked, trying to make sense of the situation. He pointed his finger at the elf and asked, with surprise in his voice:

"Oh, and who are you?"

The elf turned his head lazily, his strange voice coming through as if through a bad audio system:

"I… am an Elf."

He casually pointed his finger down at the parquet floor. The young man looked at his pointing gesture, but saw nothing strange there. Instead, he made a sharp wave with both hands, as if he wanted to drive away incomprehensible thoughts, and with fervor in his voice, he blurted out:

"I have a mission to save you!"

The elf, without changing his lazy expression, put his hands on his hips and said with bewilderment, drawing out the words:

"What mission? I'm fine here."

The young man slumped. His shoulders drooped, his face became thoughtful. He scratched his head, sighed hesitantly, and muttered:

"What a dream I had…"

At that moment, in the mirror where the long-haired boy was, his reflection turned towards the young man, and the camera seemed to focus on him. This gave the young man a strange feeling, as if he was in some kind of show or recording. But before he could realize what was happening, his body was engulfed in white light.

The next moment he was in his room. The young man landed on the sofa, the same one where he had just slept. His pillow was lying next to him, and he immediately grabbed it, hugging it tightly, as if it were a life preserver after some nightmare.

And at that moment the long-haired boy stood in the doorway, thoughtfully leaning his shoulder against the frame. Opposite him, on the wall, hung a landscape with a view of the mountains and a foggy forest, but he looked past the picture, as if not noticing it. His face showed discontent, bordering on disappointment. He slowly looked around the room, as if hoping to find something that could change the situation.

"Yes, he couldn't complete the mission," he said quietly, his voice sounding tired, almost resigned.

The long-haired boy raised his hand and brought it to his chin, thoughtfully tapping his finger. His gaze became clouded, as if he was looking not at reality, but at something far away, at some picture in his imagination.

"The elf will die," he said, as if voicing an inevitable fact that weighed heavily on his soul.

He looked down, and a barely perceptible tremor appeared in his posture. It was not fear, but disappointment, the weight of an unfulfilled task, as if he were reproaching himself for the failure of someone else's mission.

In the brightly lit room, where the walls glowed with yellow warmth and the parquet floor reflected the light, the elf was left standing alone. His thin figure froze, as if waiting for something, but nothing happened. With a white pillow on his head and black socks hanging awkwardly from his ears, he suddenly froze, his eyes wide.

"A-a-a…" the elf whispered, as if he had suddenly realized something.

His legs trembled and he swayed, dropping sharply to one knee.

"Ouch!" he cried, clutching the pillow on his head with both hands, as if trying to hold it or remove it, but his fingers only squeezed the fabric tighter.

Another second and the elf collapsed to the floor, as if all the strength had left his body. His voice echoed through the room in a loud, drawn-out cry:

"Oh! OUCH!"

He shifted slightly, clutching the pillow to his head, and then went still. There was no tension or life left in his posture. The room sank into a strange silence, where the echo of his last words hung in the air for a long time.

In the room with yellow wallpaper, where a young man had recently been sleeping on the sofa, the door suddenly opened. The creaking of hinges cut through the silence, and another young man appeared in the doorway - in a red T-shirt, with a shiny knife in his hand. His eyes blazed with hatred, his lips twisted into a furious scream.

"What have you done, you bastard?!" he screamed, taking a step forward.

The young man on the sofa started, sat up instantly, and then, noticing the knife, grabbed another knife from the nightstand next to him. Squeezing it so hard that his knuckles turned white, he raised his head and, his eyes flashing, threw back:

"What are you, you scum?!"

But the young man in the red T-shirt, as if in a fit of rage, had already raised his hand with the knife. His movements were fast and furious - the blade flashed in the air. Before he could even understand what had happened, the young man on the sofa collapsed to the floor, as if his life had left his body in an instant.

The young man in the red T-shirt stopped, trembling. He looked at the young man lying in front of him, the knife still clutched tightly in his hand. But then, as if realizing what he had done, he abruptly threw the knife to the floor.

His face was distorted with a mixture of horror and despair, and he clutched his head with both hands. His mouth was slightly open, but there was no sound - only a silent scream. His posture was strangely reminiscent of the figure in the painting "The Scream", and his gaze darted between the door and the lifeless body on the floor.

The young man in the red T-shirt suddenly stopped his mad thrashing and seemed to fall into a stupor. His breathing slowed and his face acquired a strange, almost detached calm. He looked down at the floor and noticed a blue towel thrown down near the sofa.

The rage that had been hidden flared up again. He bent down sharply, grabbed the towel, squeezed it in his hands and, waving it in the air like a banner, shouted loudly:

"The fact is, I curse your family!"

His voice was ringing, filled with cold hatred, as if each word was striking the space with incredible force. Clenching the towel in his fist, the young man resolutely moved towards the exit. His steps were slow but firm, as if he was leaving the battlefield in the image of a triumphant.

Without looking back, he crossed the threshold of the room, leaving the door open, as if on purpose - as a symbol of contempt or the final gesture of an insulted winner. The quiet echo of his footsteps disappeared into the distance, leaving behind only an empty, motionless silence.

At that time, many miles away, in the semi-darkness of a dark room, lit only by the faint blue glow of an old CRT monitor, a man whose appearance seemed to embody the image of a Byronic hero sat at an ancient computer from the early 2000s. His wavy but short black hair with a light fringe emphasized his face, on which the expression of a complex, almost insoluble internal struggle was frozen.

He was wearing a blue jacket that stood out from the general picture, and bright yellow trousers that seemed to challenge the entire surrounding world with their screaming color. But the man didn't seem to notice. All his attention was focused on the computer screen. This old device, with its characteristic hum of coolers, was running the Windows 95 operating system - archaic, but reliable in its imperfections.

Notepad was open on the screen in front of him. A plain white page, and on it were the lines he was typing with almost mechanical concentration. His fingers slid over the keys of the cracked keyboard, making dull clicks. The room was silent, broken only by that sound and the barely perceptible crackle of the monitor.

The light from the screen highlighted every feature of his face. It was the face of a man not experiencing sadness, but something deeper - a subtle balance between suppressed despair and a stubborn drive forward. Sometimes his gaze would freeze, as if he were trying to catch an elusive thought. He would wrinkle his brow, purse his lips, and then type again with a sudden abruptness, as if breaking through invisible resistance.

"Windows 95" on the screen looked like a strange anachronism, but for the man it was everything. He knew this machine like the back of his hand. He created something important on it, although sometimes he himself could not explain what exactly.

Suddenly he froze, as if something had startled him. The thing was that the table lamp standing on his left hand side had started to flicker. Its light was flashing on and off, as if giving some kind of alarm signal. The man noticed this, but at first he only cast an irritated glance in its direction, without stopping typing. But the flickering became more and more chaotic, and soon he turned his head, staring intently at the lamp, as if it was to blame for his troubles.

His fingers paused for a moment, and he poked at the buttons on the base of the lamp, trying to stabilize the light. Click, and the lamp went out. Click, and it flickered again, but weaker. The man pressed the button again, but in response, the lamp flickered even more intensely, as if offended.

Returning to the keyboard, he began typing with ten times the force, as if hoping that the rhythm of the keystrokes would soothe his irritation. The clicks of the keys grew louder, as if measuring the time until some inevitable event.

And then suddenly the monitor screen went dark. The lamp flickered one last time and went out too, leaving the room in complete darkness. The man froze for a second, as if hoping that this was just a glitch that would correct itself. But the light did not return.

"Oh no…" he said, leaning back in his chair. "The lights went out."

He ran his hand over his face, brushing away invisible fatigue, and added with resentment:

"I have to work… What is…"

The darkness around him seemed thick, almost tangible. The soft hum of the computer had died down, and now the silence was complete. Suddenly the room was lit by an eerie yellow glow coming from the doorway. The light was so harsh that the man instinctively closed his eyes, shielding them with his hand. When he opened them again, a tall figure in a long cloak stood before him, her face hidden by a deep hood, and a golden halo bursting from behind her, casting strange, shimmering shadows on the walls.

The figure moved silently toward the center of the room, its steps soundless, but each step seemed to echo in the space. Stopping directly in front of the man, it towered over him like a statue. Then a voice, deep and commanding, rang out, filling the air:

"Your time is up. Come with me."

The man, still sitting at his now-dead computer, slowly turned his head towards the intruder, his face a mixture of surprise and irritation.

"What are you talking about?" he responded, raising his eyebrows. "Where can I go with you?"

The figure did not answer, continuing to silently gaze at him from under the hood. The man, finally leaning back in his chair, extended his hand towards the guest, as if pointing out the obvious, and added with even greater bewilderment:

"But I have to work!"

He waved his hand towards the dark monitor.

"And turn on the light finally!" he said impatiently.

The figure tilted its head slightly, as if confused. The yellow glow behind it suddenly began to tremble like a candle flame, and then a strange sound was heard - either a sigh or the crackling of electric wires. The man, resting his elbows on the table, continued to look at the guest, as if waiting for an answer.

The cloaked figure stood motionless in the center of the room, its yellow glow seeming even brighter in the sudden silence. The man's voice came again, low and even, but now with a hint of inflexibility:

"You can't continue working. You have to come with me."

As if pausing for dramatic effect, he added, emphasizing each word:

"Your time is up!"

The man, still seated at the table, turned sharply towards the stranger. His face darkened with irritation, and he raised his hands, gesturing as if in a desperate attempt to reach the logic of this strange guest.

"You don't understand!" he said indignantly, offended, and there were notes of barely restrained irritation in his voice. "How can I go with you?"

He pointed his finger towards the monitor, which, of course, was turned off, but for the man it seemed completely unimportant.

"I have a pressing matter here! My boss is torturing me!"

He sighed heavily, as if he had just run his entire exhausting week through his mind. Taking off his glasses and wiping them with his palm, the man looked at the stranger with the expression of a man who had already given up, but still wanted to be understood.

"I have to hand it over to him!" he muttered, and then, as if trying to soften the situation, he added with a tired smile, in which a bit of despair could be read: "I just can't!"

Then he exhaled, leaning forward slightly, and stared at the figure, as if waiting for some kind of reaction, perhaps a hint of understanding. The room became so quiet that the man could hear the old wooden floor creaking under the weight of the strange guest. The stranger, still illuminated by the golden glow, listened to the man's stormy tirade in silence, seemingly completely unperturbed. But the next moment, he slowly bowed his head, as if about to share some secret, and said in a low voice:

"You know, in Hell we also have a boss who is too strict."

The man in the blue jacket looked up sharply, surprise mixed with a bit of bewilderment frozen on his face. Meanwhile, the stranger took a step forward, and his voice became noticeably softer, like that of a man who suddenly decides to pour out his soul:

"How he drives me… It's a nightmare!"

The light around the figure dimmed slightly, as if even the glow was tired of the harsh conditions they were talking about. The man sitting at the table automatically leaned back in his chair, still clutching his glasses in his hand. Something like sympathy flashed across his face, but he tried not to show it, probably afraid of being considered a weakling.

"Do you think I wanted to come to you?" the stranger continued, shaking his head. "Nothing of the sort."

The words sounded almost casual, but there was a hint of bitterness in the stranger's voice, as if he really wasn't happy with his lot. The man at the computer raised an eyebrow but said nothing, waiting for the stranger to finish his sentence.

He seemed to really need support, because he paused, sighed, then clicked his tongue and said in an almost pleading tone:

"Eh-oh! Come on, don't torment me, okay? Get ready, let's go!"

He spread his hands, as if trying to add weight to his words. At the same time, the golden glow around him seemed to spread softer, no longer blinding the eyes, but creating a strange illusion of comfort. The man at the computer looked at the stranger for a long time, as if trying to read something on his impassive face. Finally, his gaze softened, and the tension in his shoulders disappeared. He exhaled, pressed his lips into a thin line, then suddenly waved his hand, as if driving away his doubts.

"Come on…" he began conciliatorily, his voice became softer and the notes of hysteria disappeared.

The man paused for a second, as if collecting his thoughts, and then, as if having come to an important decision, continued:

"Bro, if that's the case, then our bosses…"

He made a vague gesture with his hand, as if to say, "To hell with them all." A small, clear smile lit up his face as he leaned forward slightly and added humorously:

"Let's forget about them, relax there, go have a drink?"

He extended his hand towards the stranger, a gesture that said, "I don't hold a grudge against you, do you?" His face now expressed an almost childish openness, like that of a man who had suddenly decided that everything in this world could be solved with a friendly conversation.

The stranger froze, his head raised, looking at the man with an expression that was both surprised and thoughtful. The golden glow behind him became faint, almost extinguished, as if this unexpected turn of events had knocked the dramatic spirit out of him.

The stranger suddenly broke into a wide, almost boyish smile, his yellow glow finally fading, replaced by a warmer, more human appearance. He slapped his thigh, as if summing up:

"You know, you're damn right!" he declared with an enthusiasm that was inappropriate for someone who had just threatened to take a man to the next world.

He raised his head as if he were addressing not only the man at the computer, but the entire universe:

"Hmm, such an offer once in a thousand years!"

There was pure, genuine joy in his voice, as if he had allowed himself to relax a little for the first time. He winked at the owner of the room and, bending slightly, added with a cheeky half-smile:

"Let's go have a smoke, shall we?"

With these words he reached for the clasp of his gloomy black cloak. With a swing he threw it off his shoulders with great effect, as if it were not a symbol of darkness but a stage costume, and casually threw the cloak on the bed standing by the wall.

Under the cloak was a blond man with long hair, wearing another, shorter black robe, from under which peeked out dark jeans and boots. His appearance was unexpectedly ordinary, but at the same time, distinctive, as if he were a rock musician who had wandered into a friendly party.

He walked confidently toward the door, then turned into the kitchen, as if he belonged there. The man, the owner of the apartment, paused for a moment, watching this performance, and then, still smiling, stood up from his old computer and followed, silently, but with the expression of a man who had finally allowed himself to relax.

In the small kitchen, lit by a dim light bulb under the ceiling, there was a green bottle with a yellow label on the table - Cahors, the favorite red fortified wine of the owner of the apartment, who had just sat down on a creaky wooden chair, and his guest - a blond man with long hair, now without a coat - sat opposite, leaning his elbows on the table. The stranger poured the wine with some kind of casual grace, while casting lazy glances at the owner, as if their meeting was ordinary.

Then they took the glasses in their hands, preparing to clink them. But before that, the man suddenly rubbed his face with his palm, and his movements showed fatigue. It seemed that all the enthusiasm of the last few minutes had evaporated somewhere. He looked at his drinking companion over the glass, his gaze became focused and slightly detached:

"So, how are things there… in hell?"

The stranger sighed, as if this question was painfully boring to him, and answered without much enthusiasm:

"The foreman is chasing me like a dog, he's already tired me out."

The man smiled at the corner of his lips, but it was more of a nervous reaction than genuine amusement. The stranger, seeing that the topic had not gone anywhere, changed his tone, as if remembering something important. His voice sounded softer, almost cheerful:

"You know, in honor of our acquaintance…"

The man suddenly perked up. His eyes sparkled with cunning, and a smile flickered at the corners of his lips. He looked at the blond as if he had been preparing himself for something unexpected. The stranger smiled slightly, and a barely noticeable theatricality appeared in his movements:

"Let's not stand on ceremony, come on, set it up!"

The glasses met with a light clink. The man was in no hurry to drink, he clenched his fist, raised it to his lips and cast a glance at his drinking companion, in which it was clear that he would never have thought that drinking as brothers with Death could be so pleasant.

Then they both drained their glasses. The wine burned, spread warmly down the throat, leaving behind an aftertaste of tartness and something almost festive. The man, leaning his elbows on the table, put down his empty glass and looked thoughtfully at his drinking companion. The stranger smiled softly, but with a slight shadow on his face, as if he saw something that could not be said.

"You know," the man suddenly said, leaning his palm on the table, "they say there's truth in wine. What do you think?"

The stranger looked down at the bottle and shook his head slightly, as if he did not agree, but answered willingly:

"Truth? Perhaps. But there is more to wine than truth, my friend…"

He paused, looking at the man as if he could see right through him:

"There is death in wine."

The man wanted to laugh, but he felt something strange. Everything around him seemed to be dissolving: the edges of the table were blurring, and the light from the dim bulb was trembling, as if the air around him was becoming thick. He tried to say something, but the words got stuck in his throat.

His vision became clouded and everything went dark.

When the man woke up, he found himself in his apartment. At first glance, everything was as before: the walls of a peeling corridor, the familiar smell of dust and time, a dimly lit space. But something was wrong. The light was on only in the corridor, and its reflection lazily penetrated into the dark corners. There was a viscous, unfamiliar silence in the air.

He stood in the bathroom, in front of the mirror, looking down. The light from the hallway cast a faint glow on his face, making his reflection in the mirror look dark and blurry. The man lowered his head, looking down at his hands, which were shaking as if from a severe cold. Then he raised his eyes and looked at his reflection. The face in the mirror looked exactly the same, but there was something new in his eyes, a feeling he had not known before.

"Mary…" he whispered, addressing either the mirror or himself. "Can you really be in my home?"

The seconds dragged on, but there was no answer. Only his own reflection, dim and lonely, looked back at him from the mirror. The man stood there for a while, as if trying to hear or feel something. Finally, he sighed heavily, lowered his head, and walked out of the bathroom.

His footsteps echoed in the empty apartment. Everything looked the same, but it felt different. He walked into a room with a turned-off computer-the same one he had just been working on, before… before everything changed.

The man stopped at the threshold and looked around the room. The computer was switched off, the monitor was grimly silent, as if confirming that the connection with his former life had been severed. He stood in silence for a long time until he finally gathered the strength to take a step. One after another, slowly and almost uncertainly, his feet led him to the window. The man's gaze clung to trifles - a crack in the parquet, the frozen shadow of a closet, the barely noticeable trembling of a curtain in a weak draft. This movement, like himself, seemed alien and slow in this house, which recreated reality with frightening accuracy.

He walked up to the window and stopped, leaning both hands on the windowsill. Outside the window, everything looked like it had in his previous life: the lights of car headlights cut through the darkness, moved, reflected on the wet asphalt. People, invisible from his height, continued their business, life went on as if nothing had happened.

But the man knew it was a deception.

It was a Home at the End of the World, a place that recreated reality so skillfully that it might seem to the deceased that he had not died at all. But the man did not succumb to the illusion. He knew the truth.

Looking at the lights of the cars, he swallowed hard and, in a hoarse voice, as if it was painful to speak, said:

"I…" he paused, swallowing the lump in his throat. Then he squeezed out: "Lost Mary."

These words sounded like an admission of guilt, and as if justifying himself, he added:

"But I have to find her."

He continued to look ahead, as if trying to make out something in the endless series of lights, and spoke again, this time in a tone as if he were explaining something to someone:

"She said that she would wait for me in this home."

The words hung in the air like an invisible promise. The man lowered his head, his eyes filled with despair. He ran his hand through his hair, and then quietly, barely audibly, as if he was afraid to admit it even to himself, he whispered:

"But she died three years ago…"

And then his shoulders sagged, as if the weight of memory and realization had finally crushed him. He slowly removed his hands from the windowsill, as if they had become too heavy to hold any longer. He slowly turned away from the window, his gaze tired and empty, as if the lights outside had burned away the last remnants of his thoughts.

He scratched his chin, lowered his hand, stood for a moment, as if he did not know what to do next. Then his steps, uncertain, almost shuffling, led him to the bed.

"Where should I look for her…" he muttered quietly, his voice sounding as if it belonged not to an adult man, but to a child who had lost his favorite toy.

Stopping by the bed, he froze, as if in anticipation, but this anticipation was empty, helpless. After a few seconds, he took another step, came closer, and, reluctantly dropping to one knee, looked under the bed.

The darkness beneath her was as empty and endless as his thoughts. No trace. No Mary.

With annoyance, but not surprise, he slowly rose from his knees. His back was slightly bent, and his face expressed only resignation. As if he had not expected to find anything, but still felt a faint hope, which now faded again.

And suddenly he froze. Something, barely perceptible, like the breath of a ghost, made him turn his head toward the pillow.

As if by instinct, he reached out and picked it up. Beneath it was a wad of bills, tied with a thin rubber band. The bills gleamed softly in the dim light, as if they were announcing their importance.

The man froze for a moment, and then suddenly burst into laughter - loudly, almost madly.

"Ha! Stash!" he exhaled, shaking the pack.

A smile blossomed on his face - cheeky, carefree, even triumphant. Everything that had weighed on him before seemed to dissolve in this laughter. He threw the money into the air and caught it deftly.

"Well, screw this Mary!" he added, almost dancing on the spot.

He pocketed the money and turned to the door, where a warm light shone, inviting and promising. His steps grew firmer, his smile grew wider.

"I'll go get drunk!" he said with the ease of a man who has decided to throw off all his burdens.

He stepped over the threshold, and the light gently embraced him like a warm wave, erasing the boundaries between body and space. First his legs disappeared, then his arms - the movement was smooth, as if an invisible brush was carefully erasing him from this world, stroke by stroke, leaving no trace, no shadow. Another moment - and he completely melted, absorbed by the boundless radiance, which continued to flicker quietly but confidently, like the distant pulse of an unknown life.

When the last glimmer of light faded, the room froze, drowning in stillness. Everything seemed to remain the same: the same walls, the same floor, the same bed. But now there was something strange in this space - the silence was thicker, the air heavier, and the room itself seemed to have lost its essence. It was filled with something that could neither be seen nor touched - namely, absolute void.

[madhousedarry]

The Omen: Legacy of Lunacy | Chapter 21

Meanwhile, the girl managed to enter the house and go to the kitchen - it looks like while Bobby "His-Name-Was-Robert" was sleeping in his bed, Molly managed not only to frolic with his older brother, but also to study the layout of the house.

At least she found the toilet the first time, which she immediately entered and locked with the latch.

For obvious reasons, there was no point in the boy trying to spy on the guests, so he simply went into his brother's room to inform him that Miss Scallop's protegee had gotten some fresh air and returned to their home.

Upon entering Ryan's room, Bobby "His-Name-Was-Robert" noticed that he was sitting by the window with his back to the door.

"Brother!" the boy shouted. "I brought you news!"

"Well, what's going on?" Ryan muttered discontentedly, turning slightly towards his brother.

"Molly's back!" his brother proudly informed him in the tone children use when telling their parents about their success at school.

"Well, screw it," his older brother responded indifferently. It was obvious that this topic had long since lost all interest for him.

"She's in the toilet now," Bobby "His-Name-Was-Robert" continued in a solemn TV presenter's voice. "She'll come out soon, uh-uh, you know! And then we'll fuck her right here! Right now! You'll see!"

Oh, the boy shouldn't have said such words to his assexual brother!

Hearing these words, Ryan seemed to break loose from his chain - he jumped up from his chair like a tiger and in one leap found himself next to his brother; grabbing him by the scruff of the neck, he covered the boy's mouth with his other hand.

After this non-violent act, the young man turned his brother to face the exit of his room and gave him a farewell kick in the ass with his knee.

"Don't talk to me about this, you asshole!" his older brother's angry words reached his ears.

The boy stood motionless in the middle of the hallway for a moment, looking at Ryan's door slamming shut in front of him. Then the child's face twisted into a grimace of hatred for the whole world and his older brother in particular.

Suddenly, footsteps were heard behind him, and the boy turned around reflexively. As expected, it was Molly. Seeing his piercing gaze, she stopped in front of him, about twenty-five paces away.

The boy felt an irresistible desire to rush towards her and grab all the accessible parts of the girl's body with his hands… But instead of all of the above, the following happened - the girl suddenly came close to Bobby "His-Name-Was-Robert" and tried to embrace him, which the boy did not expect from her.

"My poor little thing," Molly cooed, looking at the hunted boy.

Her gentle voice suddenly brought back memories of his long-lost mother. Succumbing to the mood, Bobby "His-Name-Was-Robert" suddenly burst into tears and went to the girl's arms himself.

The latter picked up the crying eight-year-old boy with her tender hands and pressed him to her chest.

And for the first time in all the time he'd seen women (whether they were real or drawn), Bobby "His-Name-Was-Robert" didn't want to immediately pull the girl's clothes off and start groping her tits.

Instead of this vile desire, he was overcome by a feeling of shame and remorse mixed with a feeling of loneliness.

"Don't cry, baby, I'll try to make sure everything is okay with you," Molly continued to coo, and Bobby "His-Name-Was-Robert" had already forgotten that she had a crocodile face - after all, all people have their own shortcomings: who's to blame if they were born that way?

It could be said that for the first time since his mother died (and the latter died almost immediately after she gave birth to him), Bobby "His-Name-Was-Robert" saw in a woman not an object for jerking off, but a person with a heart of gold.

And, shedding tears in the arms of a completely unfamiliar twenty-two-year-old girl, the boy felt himself truly defenseless and in need of care from loving people. And there was no doubt that Molly loved him. And it was not a matter of pedophilia at all - it was just a maternal instinct that for no apparent reason prevailed in her nature among strangers.

And what about Ryan? The asexual drug addict who had no sexual attraction to anyone was still of interest to Miss Scallop's protegee. Apparently, she thought that Ryan's reluctance to show her his mighty phallus was just a manifestation of shyness, and she hoped to get her own in the future.

But for now, this question should be postponed until the evening - after all, Molly needed to get used to the house and decide what role she would need to play during the indefinite period of time that she would be here.

So, after wiping Bobby "His-Name-Was-Robert's" snot, the girl got up and went to the bathroom to tidy herself up, while the boy, recovering from a session of crying and hugging, walked into his room with a bad head and immediately fell on the bed - not to start jerking off to the image of lady Vieira, but only to calm his nerves, forgetting himself in a half-sleep. Soon he drowned in sleep.

Waking up the next day, the boy noticed something strange in the window - a human figure in a red shirt and jeans. Without getting out of bed, Bobby "His-Name-Was-Robert" reached for his phone to capture the wonder on his crappy (only two megapixels) camera, but the mysterious man disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared.

Then the boy decided to call Miss Scallop - after all, it was his duty to report to her about the fate of her protegee, who had been staying in his and Ryan's house since yesterday.

Scrolling through his WhoreApp in search of the old cow's contact, Bobby "His-Name-Was-Robert" noticed with horror that, at least in the avatar, Miss Scallop looked like a spitting image of Molly the Slut - of course, adjusted for age.

The boy could have sworn that the latter was, if not the daughter, then a very close relative of the old cunt, for they both had the same crocodile faces and long hair - the differences mainly being that while Miss Scallop wore her hair in one braid, lady Vieira let it down as she pleased.

Well, and it was not worth losing sight of the fact that if the old cow's face was eaten away by wrinkles and alcohol, then, although ugly, Molly's still blooming face left no doubt that the latter was twenty years younger than the former.

Regardless, Bobby "His-Name-Was-Robert" was at a loss as to what the connection was between a twenty-two year old slut and a forty-two year old fucked up cunt.

Their last names were too different to be able to confirm their family ties. Although, who knows, as is customary with cousins and second cousins… In any case, the boy was already dialing Miss Scallop's number in anticipation of asking her the question that was gnawing at him.

His hopes were justified: the old cunt immediately picked up the phone and, as they say, from the very beginning, began bombarding the little boy with questions on such interesting topics as cosmetics and hygiene of her protegee.

Bobby "His-Name-Was-Robert" had a hard time keeping himself from yelling at the old woman and telling her to shut up, but there's a limit to everything - when Miss Scallop started asking how many pads lady Vieira had in her purse and whether she should order more by mail, he clutched the phone with both hands and, trying not to curse, shouted into the receiver:

"Dear Miss Scallop! For any questions about lady Vieira's problems, please contact my older brother! I'm too young to understand such things!"

"It's never too late to learn, kid!" the old woman answered him cheerfully and immediately burst into causeless laughter.

The boy took advantage of his opponent's momentary weakness and finally used his weapon:

"Miss Scallop, so who is lady Vieira to you that you are so worried about her?"

Having blurted out these words, the boy held his breath. Would this old crab answer him or not? Would she ignore his question or start scolding him? However, he could not have expected what followed next.

When the meaning of his words reached his interlocutor, she immediately stopped laughing and said in a strange, conspiratorial tone:

"My dear Robert," she always called the boy that when she wanted to teach him politeness, "the answer to that question is clear to me today… and a select few," she added after a moment's pause. "I… That is, we don't want this to become public knowledge."

"But Miss Scallop!" the boy became capricious. "Tell me, is it hard to say?"

"It's NOT hard to say," the old cow chuckled, "but dealing with the consequences of an information leak will be beyond the power of even those like…"

Apparently realizing that she was about to blurt out something unnecessary, Miss Scallop made a strange, muffled sound and pressed the call cancel button.

It is clear that the boy could not see this, but you yourself should understand that when the call window suddenly disappears from the screen of your phone, it means that the subscriber has ended the connection with you!

In any case, Miss Scallop avoided answering what seemed to be a very simple question, which caused little Bobby "His-Name-Was-Robert"'s heart to be filled with an incomprehensible anxiety - as if the old crab had kept information from the boy about something that could at any moment destroy the usual life of an eight-year-old wanker.

At least he felt a strange sensation, as if someone had started pressing on the back of his head, and he immediately threw the silent phone onto the bed and grabbed his head with both hands.

Bobby "His-Name-Was-Robert" rummaged through his short-cropped black hair, trying to shake off the stupor that had suddenly overtaken him, but he was not really successful - the result of all this was that his usually neatly styled hair had taken on a crazy look that could best be described in the words of the great English writer Pelham Grenville Wodehouse - "Did the cat drag you in from the garbage heap?"

It goes without saying that there was no way that a young The Omen Ican dancer could have read The Mating Season at the age of eight, and it is not a fact that even as an adult he would have become interested in English literature of the mid-twentieth century.

But he realized something else - he had just experienced the same thing that happened to the main character of the film about the dead little girl from the well! "The Ring"!

Bobby "His-Name-Was-Robert", just like Kazuyuki Asakawa (renamed by stupid The Omen Icans to Rachel Keller) picked up the phone and heard… But that's the point, he didn't hear anything!

If the film had the sacramental phrase "seven days!", then in the case of Miss Scallop's call the boy himself was asking to learn something that the latter flatly refused to tell him! In other words, it was not the presence of certain words, but on the contrary their absence - that's what gave the horror to this whole crazy story!

Poor Bobby "His-Name-Was-Robert" sat on his bed, legs tucked under him like a Turk, staring straight ahead. With his entire atrophied brain he sensed the coming fuck-up, but what kind of fuck-up it would be and when it would happen - he had no answers to these questions.

All he knew was that the secret of Miss Scallop and lady Vieira's affair was so deep that its revelation - or concealment? - might be the last thing that lay ahead for him.

These dark and childishly complex thoughts were interrupted by the creaking of the door. The boy raised his head and stared blankly at his older brother, who, leaning his right hand on the door frame, looked at Bobby "His-Name-Was-Robert" with a smile on his lips.

For a few seconds the brothers looked at each other with completely different feelings, until the elder one broke the silence with a question that was appropriate in this situation:

"Do you want to eat?"

The everyday nature of these words seemed strangely absurd to the boy who was going through a difficult morning, but the latter found the strength to act like a true Jew - to answer a question with a question.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"What, you can't?" Ryan asked reasonably, unaware that he was taking the exchange of questions to the nth degree. "You look like…"

"Like a cat dragged me from the garbage dump?" said Bobby "His-Name-Was-Robert", simultaneously leading the dialogue to a dead end and quoting an English classic, completely unexpectedly for himself.

"I wanted to say it was like you were dug out of a buried subway, but your comparison would work too. What happened to you?"

The boy tiredly touched his forehead with his palm.

"Brother," he answered with unexpected sentimentality, "they tried to drag me to hell."

"And I thought," Ryan interrupted, "that hell was the only place you could go to even when you were walking home, not suspecting anything. So what's it like in hell?"

"I haven't been to hell, you dumb asshole!" Ryan's joking tone was driving the boy crazy. "I want to tell you a scary story!"

"As scary as "The Omen" movie, or even scarier?"

"Fuck, you're annoying!" Bobby "His-Name-Was-Robert" lost his temper. "Are you going to stop joking or not?"

"Will you stop swearing, you little brat?" his older brother answered him in the same rude tone. "Molly was buzzing my ears at breakfast today about how you, at eight years old, swear like a cabby and that it needs to be done immediately…"

The boy didn't hear the rest of the words - grabbing his clothes from the chair in an armful, he ran like a bullet into the corridor and, diving into the bathroom, locked the door.

However, hearing a barely suppressed giggle behind him, he immediately turned around with his heart pounding furiously - it turned out that at that very second Molly was in the bath, who - just think! - was shaving her armpits!!!

The boy had never known about such a hygienic procedure among girls, so his surprise was not surprising, forgive the tautology.

He stood silently right in front of lady Vieira, holding a shirt and shorts in his hands, while the crocodile-faced, heart-of-gold lady stood in front of the mirror, carefully swiping a razor under her armpit.

Although she had her back to the boy, they both saw each other's faces in the mirror, and so they both felt some discomfort - at least Bobby "His-Name-Was-Robert", as for Molly, it seemed that she only enjoyed the presence of a stranger during her hygiene procedures.

"You're a curious one, I see," lady Vieira chuckled, not taking her eyes off the boy's surprised face reflected in the mirror. "You came to see me shave my armpits. I bet you'd like to see me change my pads, too, huh, my little pervert?" With these words, she burst into laughter."

The boy didn't know what to do with himself, but he knew one thing for sure - it was better to be in the company of this idiot with her head in the air than next to Ryan, who would only like to lecture his little brother.

Besides, there was something, to put it mildly, intimate about this situation…

"I know what you're thinking, vulgarian," Molly's voice suddenly rang out. "But don't even hope for that - I change my pads in the toilet, and I always lock myself in there! Besides," she continued, still running the razor under her armpit, "I'm not such a fool as to get caught for corruption of minors."

"Uh-uh…" mumbled Bobby "His-Name-Was-Robert", his hands sweating and almost soaking the clothes he continued to hold in his arms.

"So go ahead and have a good time, boy," said lady Vieira, and to the boy's surprise, she put the razor on the sink and, opening the door, gently pushed him in the shoulder, thus pushing him out into the corridor.

The boy had no choice but to follow the advice of the older woman and go ahead, to the kitchen, where Ryan was already waiting for him, who, it seemed, still needed to speak out after the embarrassment that had happened a few minutes ago between him and his younger brother - otherwise, how else to explain the fact that, upon seeing Bobby "His-Name-Was-Robert" enter the kitchen, he immediately began to think out loud about the peculiarities of puberty in boys of primary school age?!

However, to be honest, this conversation was of little interest to the little The Omen Ican imp. His imagination was much more struck by a large plate containing sliced tomatoes mixed with pieces of ham and pickles, and all this splendor was covered with olive oil instead of the mayonnaise that the boy had grown tired of.

"Is this all for me?" the boy asked.

"I think that it's all for you…" Ryan answered in a mysterious tone, finally stopping his moralizing conversations.

"What about lady Vieira?" Bobby "His-Name-Was-Robert" asked hopefully, looking up at his older brother with his big chocolate colored eyes.

"She won't mind if you finish the whole plate," said Ryan, who hadn't quite emerged from his role as mentor. "However, I hope you won't eat it all in one sitting? You know it's unhealthy!"

"I can't eat that much!" the boy said with annoyance. "Maybe you'll join me?"

"I'll help you," Ryan answered strangely, "I'll sit across from you and make sure you don't overeat. Got it?"

Frankly speaking, the boy did not understand a word of what his older brother said to him, but in order not to run into a conflict, he silently nodded. The last action caused a satisfied smile to appear on the young man's lips.

"Well, you see!" he said. "Now come here…"

Bobby "His-Name-Was-Robert" didn't need to be asked twice - he immediately walked up to the table and sat down in his place.

"That's it, good," Ryan nodded in satisfaction. "Keep it up!"

There was something odd about the older brother's preoccupation with the little boy's food, but the little boy couldn't care less - which couldn't be said about the salad that Bobby "His-Name-Was-Robert" pounced on the minute he sat down at the table. And if Ryan hadn't been watching him, he probably would have gobbled up every last crumb.

But the older brother continued to sit opposite him and watch the movements of the spoon in the younger brother's right hand closely - apparently in order to curry favor with Miss Scallop's protegee, who, as Bobby "His-Name-Was-Robert" remembered, had been doing nothing but complaining to Ryan about his behavior all morning… But that was not the main thing.

When the plate was almost half empty, Bobby "His-Name-Was-Robert" tore his eyes away from the salad with difficulty and glanced at his brother: he was sitting in front of an empty glass with a completely calm face, which was impenetrable like a mask.

It seemed that this was a completely different person compared to the one who had been in this room a couple of minutes ago! The strange gleam in the young man's eyes only reinforced this impression.

"Uh-uh…" Bobby "His-Name-Was-Robert" mumbled, looking at Ryan, who was not paying attention to his actions.

The boy felt uneasy under this intense gaze; it seemed to him that his elder brother at that very moment saw in him something that it would have been better never to see at all.

However, his train of thought was interrupted by Ryan himself, who suddenly tore his gaze away from Bobby "His-Name-Was-Robert" and raised his eyes to the ceiling of the room: a spasm ran through his body as if from an electric shock, and suddenly an expression of terrible torment appeared on his face, mixed with some strange triumph.

All of the above was so unexpected for the boy that he did not immediately understand what was happening. And when he realized it, he became scared and really wanted to run away from this room somewhere far away…

But Ryan had already come to his senses; his face was calm again as usual: apparently it was just some kind of attack from internal tension… The older brother looked at the boy with a smile of a winner, in which there was simultaneously the joy of victory and tears of pain. Bobby "His-Name-Was-Robert" even seemed to sense in it the presence of some kind of guilt before himself.

"What was that?" the boy asked his brother.

"It's okay," Ryan reassured him. "It doesn't concern you," he suddenly said in a completely different tone.

Bobby "His-Name-Was-Robert" had seen so much in the last few days that such a change in the mood of a conversation right in the middle of a sentence no longer shocked him - and it was worth remembering that Ryan was a big fan of drugs, so such mood swings were, as they say, nothing new.

That is why the boy did not bother his older brother with insignificant questions, but simply silently pushed away the half-empty plate of salad and, wiping his mouth stained with olive oil, stood up from the table.

"Wait a bit," Ryan stopped him.

"What do you want?" Bobby "His-Name-Was-Robert" muttered discontentedly.

"Yes, I just remembered about my slut's luggage," the elder brother continued. "That slut was talking so much about some trifles, but about when her luggage would be delivered, not a single word, you understand, NOT A SINGLE word!" he suddenly yelled at the last word.

Bobby "His-Name-Was-Robert" involuntarily flinched when Ryan suddenly raised his voice for no apparent reason, but of course he didn't grab his head and run away in panic.

"Well, not a single one, then not a single one," the boy said philosophically, throwing the dirty napkin into the trash can. "What business is it of yours?"

"What does it matter to me?" his elder brother asked with a beastly grin. "And does it matter that this whore is in charge of my clothes? Took my razor? Drank my juice? THREW AWAY MY STASH!" he suddenly yelled, getting up from the table and clenching his fists. "MY STASH, YOUR MOTHERFUCKING!!!"

"Hey, take it easy, FUCKING EASY!" Bobby "His-Name-Was-Robert" shouted in the same tone as his brother.

With these words, he did something that he bitterly regretted for the rest of his life - when Ryan, suddenly enraged, rushed at him with his fists, the boy cold-bloodedly tripped his enraged older brother, causing him, losing his balance, to fall hard onto the linoleum.

At the same time, Bobby "His-Name-Was-Robert" rushed out of the kitchen, fearing revenge from Ryan. However, that was not what he needed to fear…

The thing is, when he fell to the floor with all his might, Ryan managed to break his glasses, which he had somehow put on that morning - something, by the way, that had never been noticed before.

However, it was enough to look at the frame of the glasses to understand that they belonged to a female person - the bright pink color and the unambiguous shape in the form of hearts spoke louder than any words. That is, that very morning Ryan borrowed glasses from his new girlfriend - the slut Molly - which he had to bitterly regret.

After all, what would happen if you fell face down on the floor and managed to break your glasses? The author of these lines had never experienced anything like this, and had never seen anything like this in her life, but simple logic tells her that the shards of glasses would stick into her eyes, which would make the owner of the glasses feel like a fool - forgive me for the black humor.

Be that as it may, that's exactly what happened - the boy tripped his older brother, who fell with all his might onto the floor and, breaking his glasses, simultaneously cut both of his eyes.

There was blood - as if a pig had been slaughtered, the whole floor under Ryan's head was covered in it. And there's no need to even talk about screams. True, what's characteristic, it wasn't Ryan who screamed, but his beloved slut Molly, who, having finished shaving her armpits, came out of the bathroom and, seeing that her newly acquired fucker was lying face down on the floor and bleeding, behaved like a true hysteric.

One can only wonder that this fool didn't do anything nasty in that terrible moment and at least lived to see Ryan's funeral - which did take place, I guarantee it! What happened to her next - no one will ever tell you, because the page of history ends at that moment.

Some say Molly Vieira turned to prostitution - which, given her first encounter with Ryan, would not be surprising. Others argue that she, how shall I put it, did not survive the loss and followed her lover.

And when lovers do such things, they will never return to all other people. I hope you understood me correctly. In any case, you and I should not be interested in the future fate of this extremely vile person, who not only had the face of a crocodile, but also had the habits of a real whore!

Let's consider Ryan's death as Antichrist's punishment for this creature!

[ilyasilantyev]

In the distant future, Delia Yonce, a young actress born on the Moon Base, decides to escape to Earth to spend a long-awaited vacation in Portugal with her beloved boyfriend, Jordan Thurlow. However, her peace is quickly disrupted by the appearance of agents of the Earth Convention, hunting her for political reasons, and she is forced to return back to the Moon. There she is met by Sergeant Schaeymoure, who "gifts" her Galbraith, a cloned brother created from her genes for the sole purpose of growing him into cannon fodder for galactic wars. Not wanting her brother to become a victim of this terrible future, Delia escapes to Earth again, where a new threat awaits her, a killer robot named Damien Thorn.

[asiavieiraunofficial]

Asia Vieira is Always Visible | Song about Delia York from Omen 4: The Awakening & avlivro fanfic

Asia Vieira is Always Visible is the song was created by Asia Vieira's Unofficial Group, a dedicated fan collective obsessed with Canadian actress Asia Vieira.

Inspired by her role as Delia York in Omen IV: The Awakening, the song is both a love letter to her performance and a tribute to the fanfic Always Visible (Another Prayer for the Dying Horror Genre) or just avlivro, which honors Asia’s work in the film.

The lyrics reflect the group’s admiration for her, highlighting her Canadian roots and the fact that, at forty-two, she still captivates their hearts. It’s pure fan devotion in musical form.

Lyrics:

Delia York, the role you own, In The Fourth Omen, chills were sown. Asia Vieira, forty-two, From Canada’s heart, I dream of you.

Toronto born, you stole my soul, A shining star, you make me whole. Every scene, you light the dark, Always visible, you leave a mark.

Your name, Asia, I hold so dear, In every moment, you’re always near. Delia York, your haunting grace, I see your beauty in every space.

At forty-two, you still amaze, Asia Vieira, forever blaze. Always visible, forever bright, You are my dream, my guiding light.

[asiavieiraworld]

AV in AVLIVRO means ASIA VIEIRA! | THE OMEN 4 DELIA fanfic ALWAYS VISIBLE by VITALY IVOLGINSKY

"AV" in "avlivro" stands for Asia Vieira, the Canadian actress known for her portrayal of Delia York in "Omen IV: The Awakening". This project, titled "avlivro" or "Always Visible (Another Prayer for the Dying Horror Genre)", is a literary work by Russian author Vitaly Ivolginsky.

The primary source of inspiration for this work is the American television movie "Omen IV: The Awakening". The author's main motivation for writing avlivro was to honor Asia Vieira and her performance in the film.

[asiavieiradaily]

❤️ ASIA VIEIRA ADMIRER CHANT! 🗣️

I make videos about Canadian actress Asia Vieira, from music to fanfics and more.

All of my content is transformative in nature with a further purpose to add something new and different.

I do all of my editing and designing alone by using free software.

Copyright Disclaimer: Section 107 of the Copyright Act provides the statutory framework for determining whether something is a fair use and identifies certain types of uses—such as criticism, comment, news reporting, teaching, transformation, scholarship, and research—as examples of activities that may qualify as fair use.

the omen, omen, omen 4, omen iv, omen 4 the awakening, omen iv the awakening, asia vieira chant, asia vieira songs, omen delia, vieira, omen 4 delia, vieira omen

omen #delia #asiavieira

[asiavieiralover]

Asia Vieira — Vieira at the End of the Asia | Tribute for Delia York from Omen 4: The Awakening

My tribute for Asia Vieira — actress, who portrayed Delia York in Omen 4: The Awakening. In a nutshell, this is an orchestral interpretation of Raimund Clement's song "Vieira at the End of the Asia".

Lyrics:

At the End of Asia, where wonders shine bright, You'll find your path, everything’s right. No need to fear, the journey is near.

Memories we’ll keep, treasures we’ll find, With laughter and joy, leaving worries behind. At the End of Asia, peace fills your mind.

[deliayorkfan]

Delia York Tribute | MUSICAL that inspired Omen 4: The Awakening FANFIC Always Visible (avlivro)

Delia York tribute from me, dedicated to Asia Vieira. Onto scenes from the film "Omen IV: The Awakening" I overlaid music from the Soviet musical fairy tale "Snow White", released in 1978 by the "Leningrad Plant of Records" under the state label "Melodiya". The recording featured the "Choir and Orchestra of the Moscow State Children's Music Theater", conducted by Viktor Yakovlev.

The production was directed by Emmanuil Krasnyansky, with Natalia Sats, the first female opera director in the world, as the artistic director. The libretto was written by Sergey Bogomazov, and the record's editor was Tatyana Karysheva. In this particular song, the roles were performed by Ivetta Lapteva (as "Snow White") and the famous Soviet actor Rostislav Plyatt, who played the role of the "Storyteller".

You won't believe it, but it was this Soviet musical fairy tale that inspired Russian author Vitaly Ivolginsky (raudokyubu) to written the fairy tale "Zelandyne in Seventhaven" for his fan fiction based on the film "Omen IV: The Awakening", which was known as "Always Visible (Another Prayer for The Dying Horror Genre)".

Lyrics:

Eugene "Gene" York (speaks): But when the musicians started the gallop, none of the guests could stay in place, not a single one!

Delia York (sings):

I’m ready to dance the gallop now,

Dance the gallop, it’s so sweet —

Just breathing, not hearing,

Barely standing, barely standing,

No strength in me!

Chorus (sings):

We’re ready to dance the gallop now,

Dance the gallop, it’s so sweet —

Just breathing, not hearing,

Barely standing, barely standing,

No strength in me!

Chorus (sings):

We’re ready to dance the gallop now,

Dance the gallop, it’s so sweet!

Delia York (sings):

I’m ready to dance the gallop now,

Dance the gallop, it’s so sweet —

Just breathing, not hearing,

Barely standing, barely standing,

No strength in me!

Chorus (sings):

Just breathing, not hearing,

Barely standing, barely standing,

No strength in me! But we’re ready

To dance the gallop, dance the gallop —

It’s so sweet!

Chorus (speaks): What a wonderful celebration!

Delia York (speaks): I danced all day long!

Chorus (speaks): What a joyful celebration!

Delia York (speaks): It’s my birthday!

Chorus (sings):

La-la, a birthday is a great day,

La-la, now you’ve grown up too!

La-la, this bright and lovely day,

This lovely day,

May all your dreams come true!

[omen4fan]

Omen 4: The Awakening Fan Video | Delia's Murderer from THE OMEN fanfic Always Visible (avlivro)

Delia York tribute by me, which I dedicate to Asia Vieira. This is a scene from the fanfic "Always Visible" (or just "avlivro") based on "Omen IV: The Awakening", embodied with the help of appropriate frames from the film adaptation of Stanislav Lem's novel "Śledztwo". Music by Maurice Jarre from the motion picture "Jacob's Ladder".

This video is intended to illustrate a scene from a fan fiction, when inspector Galbraith (in the video, he is presented as a moustached man in a trench coat) comes to the home of doctor Baselard (a bald old man with glasses), who had previously killed Delia Yonce on the operating table.

P.S. The subtitles do NOT correspond to the real dialogues of the actors, they are needed to illustrate the scene from the fanfic "Always Visible (Another Prayer for The Dying Horror Genre)".

[asiavieirafan]

Asia Vieira - Hands In The Air | Fan music video for Asia Vieira with Opera

This song has nothing to do with the Miley Cyrus track of the same name. It is a heartfelt tribute to Asia Vieira, a rising star from the streets of Toronto, shining with hope and grace. Written in the style of Gustav Mahler's symphonies, with a leading female opera vocal, the song transcends modern pop — because Asia Vieira deserves more from the world of music! Having faced adversity, she now shines like the northern lights, and with hands in the air, she embraces life free of worries, inspiring the world.

[theomenmovie]

Belarusian fan film based on Omen IV: The Awakening. Dedicated to the Canadian actress of Asia Molly Vieira, born in Toronto on May 18, 1982 and known for her roles in films such as THE GOOD MOTHER and A HOME AT THE END OF THE WORLD.

[madhousedarry]

The Omen: Legacy of Lunacy | Chapter 20

Twenty years flew by for Nar-Tai like one night. And although all this time in his head there was nothing but creepy and surreal sticky nightmares, he still did not notice how all these years passed for him as quickly as if he had just gone to sleep for about eight hours and then woken up at eight o'clock in the morning, well, just like in the story, based on which John Carpenter shot his famous film "Aliens Among Us" or "They Live" in the alternative translation of Leonid Volodarsky.

But there was nothing surprising about that. After all, he had spent all those twenty years in suspended animation, lying in a glass bath filled to the brim with liquid nitrogen, and before that, the caring "Doctor Aybolit", who was present when he fell asleep, had given him glycerin to drink, thanks to which his intestines had not rotted during all that time, but were as fresh and fragrant as they had been twenty years ago, heh-heh!

But although for him these twenty years flew by like one night, the process of awakening for Nar-Tai was very painful, since it did not happen all at once, but in four stages ("Omen IV: The Awakening" will not let you lie!).

At first, our brave superhero thought he was in the glaciers, and that even he himself was nothing more than a big piece of ice. Then he began to think that he was no longer an ice cube, but a cauliflower growing in a greenhouse under the rays of the sun.

Then he was finally able to feel a tongue in his mouth, but since he had not yet fully woken up, he thought that it was not actually a tongue, but an icicle that had somehow formed inside his mouth.

And only when he suddenly began to feel how invisible, but at the same time very rough hands began to roll, break, rub and even beat him, he realized that he was he, and that no unusual transformations had happened to his body, and that all his feelings had simply failed him for a while, which had returned to him only now.

He opened his eyes and saw that he was in a huge room with a high ceiling. He was lying on a bed covered with a white sheet, and his chest was hidden under a blanket of the same color. He was lying on his back, and his head was resting on a small, hard pillow.

He tried to move his right arm, but it felt like lead, like a police baton. He tried to move his left arm, but it was in the same condition. Finally, he tried to stand up, but that was beyond his strength.

He realized that he had woken up enough to understand that he was still alive, but not enough to begin living the full life of a healthy thirty-nine-year-old - after all, in suspended animation he had not gained a single extra year! - a man with steel skin and platinum bones, who in his normal state could do anything, but now, alas, he would have to wait until his body, not yet fully awakened from a twenty-year sleep, was ready for new exploits.

In the meantime he had to lie and wait, wait for who knows how long until he was finally able to at least try to assume any other position than "lying on his back." Yes, it was not such an easy task to wake up from a twenty-year sleep, my little green friend!

You probably expected that after sleeping for such a long time, you would immediately jump out of bed like a fresh pickle and burst into cheerful bird trills upon waking up? Fuck you, faggot, go finish first grade, and then take my book in your hands! But for now, sit and study, STUDY, as Grandpa Lenin bequeathed!

What, are you offended by me, my little green friend? So why are you reading my book then, if you are so touchy? But I didn't advise you anything bad, my little green friend! I only said that you should study!

And you're offended, right? Well, fuck you, be offended as much as you want until you burst with anger. And I'll go continue writing my book, I guess. I still have a lot to write before I can finally say with a clear conscience that the book is finished and it's time to push it to print. Or not to print, but to samizdat, but in our time it's all the same crap, which is no sweeter than a radish.

In the meantime, I'll continue writing this chapter so you don't get bored. You've probably already decided that I, Darry Madhouse, suddenly interrupted the story to have a little chat with you. But I didn't.

I just needed to explain a few things about the plot, and you could have easily skipped those paragraphs and moved on to the next one. But since you, my little green friend, didn't do that, you only have yourself to blame! And I, Darry Madhouse… I'll continue writing my book.

So when Nar-Tai realized that he was awake and lying in bed, but he couldn't move his arms or legs, he knew what he had to do. He had to call someone to his bedside to come and explain what was going on.

And along the way, he would tell him what had happened to his friends and when he would finally be able to get out of bed and live like a human being, not a vegetable. And he did it. Namely, he opened his mouth, which, by the way, was quite easy for him to do in his current state, and quietly said:

"Hello, hello, hello! It's already light in the forest!"

And he heard someone approach his bed. Nar-Tai looked up and saw a young and handsome man with Asian slanted eyes and yellow skin. He was wearing a blue short-sleeved shirt, jeans and white sneakers.

There was a sad half-smile on his face, and his whole face expressed compassion mixed with joy, as if he was glad to see a man lying in a hospital bed in front of him, awakened from twenty years of suspended animation, but at the same time he wanted to tell him something that, with a high degree of probability, would spoil his mood.

But the young man was not going to say anything like that just yet. Instead, he just stopped at the head of the bed and said in the pleasant voice of a resident of a southern country called Jopon:

"Have a nice awakening, Mister Tairymbayev!"

Nar-Tai felt so awkward that this young man saw him lying motionless on the bed like a complete loser, that he even blushed in response to these words of the young man, which, strangely enough, immediately returned his good mood, so much so that he - voila! - was able to find the strength to lift his right hand from the sheet!

The young man, noticing that his words had a positive effect on the patient's condition - or was it the patient? - immediately began to shower him with words, as if he hoped to raise Nar-Tai to his feet, as if some kind of spell had taken place here.

"Dad and I couldn't wait for your awakening day. You remember him, my dad?"

"Uh-uh," Nar-Tai drawled, trying to figure out who was standing in front of him now, "who's your dad? And who are you? And where the hell am I anyway?!"

Growing more and more angry with each word, Nar-Tai felt with pleasant surprise that every word, no matter whether he heard it from someone else or said it himself, gave him strength, and by the time he said "where the hell", he had already jumped out of bed, throwing off the blanket along the way and standing before the young man in Adam's costume, who had retreated in horror.

That is, to put it simply, he was naked as a falcon. And if someone hasn't gotten the meaning of these definitions, then we'll have to say it frankly - he was naked. At all. He didn't even have any underwear on.

But it didn't matter to Nar-Tai, who was already so angry that, without even noticing it, he grabbed the young man by the chest and shook him hard, causing him to flounder in his arms like a fish caught out of water. At the same time, his eyes, in which a silent question was frozen, were ready to pop out of their sockets, and a barely audible wheeze came from his mouth.

And only when the young man's face began to change from yellow to blue - the same color as his shirt - did Nar-Tai realize that he was doing something stupid and immediately let go of the young man, causing the latter to fall to the floor, but, to the great relief of both, he did not break, but only got a bump on the crown of his head and immediately sat on his ass, rubbing his neck with his hands.

The young man was very handsome, and Nar-Tai thought that he shouldn't have treated him like that, but he immediately realized that it wasn't his fault - anyone in his place, after waking up from a twenty-year sleep, would have rushed at the first person they met with the desire to count all of his ribs.

And the young man, who seemed to be thinking the same way, was not offended by Nar-Tai, but, having finished massaging his cervical vertebrae, got up from the floor and, having tidied up his blue shirt, which had been crumpled during the squabble, approached Nar-Tai and, looking him straight in the eyes, said:

"Forgive me, Mister Tairymbayev, for treating you like this…" and he hesitated, apparently not knowing what to say.

"Oh, come on, boy," Nar-Tai said peacefully. "It's not your fault that I'm so angry when I wake up. And you, by the way," he looked at the young man more closely, "look a lot like my friend Ando."

At the sound of this name, the young man's lips stretched into a smile, and something resembling pride appeared in his eyes.

Unexpectedly for his interlocutor, he bowed, stood at attention and, without taking his eyes off Nar-Tai and keeping his hands at his sides, said:

"I am his sonnie, Tai Minamoto!" and he bowed again, this time to the ground.

Nar-Tai nodded reflexively in response, but then came to his senses and, assuming a stern expression, said:

"Are you kidding me or something?" he said without malice, but there was steel in his voice. "I remember that that brat wasn't even two days old, and look at you, you're such a warrior, you're at least twenty years old!"

Having said this, Nar-Tai immediately came to his senses - he suddenly remembered that he had spent twenty years in suspended animation, and therefore it was not at all surprising that that naked-assed boy who wet his diapers had grown into a handsome, handsome man during that time.

And Tai, who apparently thought the same thing at that moment, was not offended by Nar-Tai's words and instead laughed conciliatorily.

"Well, yes, once upon a time I really was a bug, but twenty years have passed since then, Mister Tairymbayev!" he said.

Nar-Tai laughed in response, then sat down on the bed, covering his crotch with both hands - for some reason, only at this moment did he realize that all this time he had been standing in front of the young man in Adam's costume.

He remembered that as a child he loved to peek through the keyhole while his father and mother were making love. And now he understood the reason for his strange behavior.

In addition, memories of how, as a child, he loved to look at the place between his mother's legs awoke in his head - and suddenly he realized: it was not just childish curiosity or a desire to see something new for himself, he wanted to look precisely because from an early age his testosterone level was much higher than that of all his peers.

And now, as he sat naked in front of the twenty-year-old boy, he understood that if this continued, he would not be able to stand it and would fuck him in all positions. And to prevent this from happening, he had to do one thing - find something to cover his private parts with.

And Tai, as if reading his thoughts, pulled out a pair of polka-dotted underwear from a chest standing near the bed and threw them to Nar-Tai, who, intercepting them in the air, immediately pulled them on and felt how the treacherous impulse finally left his body.

Now he could communicate with this young man without any fears that he could suddenly break loose and start trampling him like a rooster tramples a hen. And no, Nar-Tai was not gay. He just had this peculiarity of the body - without clothes, he immediately tried to fit his unit into a suitable hole.

And then there was one dick - a man in front of him or a woman - for his body there was no division into the partner's gender, since he grew up in conditions when a person, as a creature, has no gender at all - there is only a soul and the corporeal shell attached to it.

But now this problem has resolved itself, as soon as I put on my underwear.

True, they were a little small and quite noticeably pinched, but at least one could sit calmly next to a handsome young man of twenty years of age and have conversations with him about sublime matters that can only arise where love for all living things reigns.

However, it was necessary to speak about these things carefully, because the young man had probably already managed to hear all sorts of nonsense about gays, pedophiles and other vile individuals, which was why there was a risk that he would misunderstand his, Nar-Tai's, words and run away as fast as he could.

But since this did not happen, Nar-Tai finally allowed himself to relax and begin to attack the young man with questions about what had happened in the world during the entire time he had spent in suspended animation for twenty years.

"So, my dear Tai," said Nar-Tai, sitting on the bed and crossing his arms over his chest, "tell me how things are going? What's new from the outside world? How's, um," Nar-Tai wrinkled his forehead, trying to remember the people he was interested in, "that old geezer, you know, the Colonel…"

"Deadend Graver?" the young man prompted; it was obvious that he was eager to tell everything about everyone. "Comrade Colonel has go out."

"Where did he go?" Nar-Tai didn't understand.

"Let's put it this way," the young man began to choose his words, "Comrade Graver at the moment fully lives up to his name."

"Ah, he's dead, the old faggot!" Nar-Tai exclaimed joyfully. "Serves him right, the hemorrhoidal bastard…"

"In his place now is Boner Ghouler," Tai continued in the meantime, "whom there are rumors in the barracks that he eats guilty recruits for breakfast.

"I shouldn't have said that about my grandfather," Nar-Tai said in a completely different tone. "He was a fine man, a servant to the king, a father to the soldiers…"

It was unclear whether he had suddenly become seriously attracted to Deadend Graver, or whether he had simply pretended to have accidentally blurted out something wrong, but in any case, it made an impression on the young man, who, judging by his appearance, had turned red as a boiled lobster, which, given his yellow skin, was not so easy.

"I didn't know," he said in a timid voice a couple of minutes later, "that you were so close to the deceased," and he began to whine.

Nar-Tai, not knowing what to say, was silent for a few seconds. The situation was extremely awkward for both interlocutors: both felt awkward under each other's gazes and wanted one thing - for this unpleasant conversation to end quickly or at least turn into mutual reconciliation of the parties…

Finally, the silence was broken by the initiator of the conversation himself with his question:

"Okay, my dear Tai, don't shed tears, but rather tell me what happened to the others. For example, how is pan Grijas, who twenty years ago so kindly gave me a bottle of glycerin to drink when I was lowered into a bath of liquid nitrogen, doing?"

He thought that this question would calm the young man down, but he only seemed to become more upset.

"Oh, Mister Tairymbayev, why did you mention Albertas Vislovdovichus for no reason? - the boy almost cried."

"Uh-uh," Nar-Tai drawled, "so he's also, um-m…"

"Yes, Mister Tairymbayev, twenty years have passed, and when they put you in liquid nitrogen, he was already eighty-two years old…"

"Well, yes," nodded Nar-Tai, "few people live to be a hundred and two, except for whores… But let's not whine, let's have a man-to-man chat, remembering someone else, do you mind?" and, without waiting for the young man's answer, he immediately got ahead.

"How is your sister, Kari Minamoto, doing? I still remember how eight… No, TWENTY-EIGHT years ago she pissed all over me when I, while visiting your daddy, decided to take his newborn baby girl in my arms…"

"Oh," Tai immediately stopped crying, "my sister is already married! Now her name is Kari Kamiya and she already has three children, and her whole family is happy, like no other!"

"So, you see, there is happiness in the Universe, as long as a man is alive!" Nar-Tai exclaimed joyfully, approvingly patting the boy on the shoulder. "And how is Anton Skovorodnikov, who helped me immerse myself in a bath of liquid nitrogen, pan Grijas - Antichrist rest his soul?"

"Not everything is all right here," the guy immediately became serious. "He was brought to this lousy Analda by some evil spirit, where he ran off to when he stupidly fell in love with some forty-two-year-old cunt with some idiotic last name - either Whoreira or Vagineira, it doesn't really matter. But the main thing is," Tai continued, his eyes seeming to sparkle with anger, "that this cunt of our poor Skovorodnikov went and handed him over to the authorities there, and now poor Anton is sitting in a stinking Analdian prison, where he is tortured every day for secret information about what arsenals our army has and how many soldiers it has."

"Yeah, the guy was unlucky, he was lured by an old whore with her painted cunt," Nar-Tai shook his head. "And you don't know why he suddenly fell in love with her so much that he forgot about everything and rushed from Pet-el-burge to lousy Analda?"

"How could I not know, when in the barracks everyone talks about nothing else! - the young man exclaimed in his heart. - I understood from the very beginning that the man was lost when he started on the Internet…

"Wait, wait, my friend, not so fast," Nar-Tai stopped him. "Let's tell me everything about Anton Skovorodnikov in order, okay?"

"It's coming," the young Joponese man agreed with him.

Nar-Tai nodded in approval, and the young man, having calmed down a little, continued his story.

[graysonkeene]

Delia York tribute by me. I created a vocal cover of Raimund Clement's track "avlivro: The Awakening", a song originally composed for the unique fanfic "Always Visible (Another Prayer for The Dying Horror Genre)", also known as "avlivro". The fanfic reimagines "Omen IV: The Awakening" in the dark, surreal styles of "Jacob's Ladder" and "Silent Hill". The track itself is chaotic, and while I left the instrumental untouched, I completely replaced the vocals. Oddly enough, I couldn't understand the original lyrics, as I couldn't identify the language.

[carltonmorrow]

Vieira-Skovorodnikoff — Epilogue

Soon Asia Vieira, tired from many worries and experiences, settled down on Anton Skovorodnikov's right arm and closed her eyes. Her body, like a magnet, was drawn to him, and she hugged him tightly, as if she was afraid to lose this feeling of peace and security. A light sigh, penetrating her fatigue, was the last confirmation of how much she valued this moment. The soft warm shroud of the blanket, covering them both, only increased the feeling of comfort. With each exhalation, Anton felt how the tension and fatigue of the day left her body.

Asia's breathing became even and calm, and her face gradually relaxed, acquiring a peaceful expression. He could feel her body relaxing under his touch. Her arms, tightly hugging him, lost tension, and he felt all her worries, experiences and concerns dissolving in this moment of peace. Anton carefully watched as the light of the night lamp softly illuminated Asia's face, creating an atmosphere of warm comfort and sincere tenderness around her. The golden light of the night lamp embraced her, emphasizing every feature of her face, making it especially peaceful and calm. The moonlight, breaking through the translucent curtains of the window, added romance to the scene, playing on Asia's long hair, which softly scattered across the pillow. In this soft light, her hair looked even silkier, and her face radiated peace and happiness.

Anton felt her warmth penetrating him, and this feeling filled his heart with joy and peace. The night enveloped them in its calm, and in this silence Anton couldn't help but feel how everything he had experienced now made sense. All the difficulties he had overcome, all the doubts and fears, seemed insignificant compared to this moment. Pictures from the past flashed through his mind, when everything was just beginning, a gloomy autumn day when he, sitting in his modest room, decided to distract himself from depression and watched a horror movie. He accidentally chose "Omen IV: The Awakening", and this choice changed his life dramatically. At the beginning of watching, he didn't even know what it would mean for him, but when he saw little Asia Vieira on the screen, her enchanting look and innocent smile pierced his heart. It was like a magical lightning strike that changed everything.

He remembered how long he tried to understand what exactly attracted him to Asia when he saw her in the movie, and how this feeling gradually became a real passion. He recalled how he had decided to earn money to get closer to his dream. Every day, from early morning until late evening, he worked tirelessly, hoping to save enough money for a trip that seemed almost unattainable to him. His efforts were focused on one single goal: to see her in real life, despite all the obstacles and doubts.

Then his memory flashed back to the difficulties he had faced in obtaining a visa. He remembered how he had spent whole days in the consulate, experiencing each refusal and delay that seemed endless to him. Each time he had to face new formalities and requirements, he felt his patience being tested. But despite all the obstacles, his desire to see Asia remained unshakable. He continued to fight, knowing that each obstacle was just a step towards his dream. His memories also revived the moments when he had to come into conflict with Jorge Montesi and Ryan Donowho. These tests were much more difficult than he initially expected. Each conflict and struggle seemed like a real test of his strength and determination, but by overcoming them, he proved to himself and those around him that his feelings were sincere. He was ready to fight for his happiness, despite all the obstacles that stood in front of him.

Now that Asia was sleeping next to him, Anton felt that all these efforts, difficulties and trials were not in vain. He felt that every step along the way was meaningful and important. Every trial he went through strengthened their bond and made it stronger. A deep sense of gratitude and happiness reigned in his heart, and he knew that their story was not just a dream, but a reality that they were able to create together. The silence of the night and the peace that enveloped them were a reward for all the difficulties and trials they had gone through. Anton felt that his dreams had come true, and that they were now ready for a new stage of their life together, full of joy and love.

Anton gently touched Asia's head, gently adjusting her hair so that it would not disturb her sleep. At that moment, he exhaled with a deep sense of satisfaction. Everything he had experienced seemed to be erased in the majestic simplicity of this night's peace. There was one simple truth in his thoughts: all of this was for her sake, for their future together, which now felt so close and real. As if his whole life had been just preparation for this moment.

In the silence of the night, to the sounds of Asia's even breathing, Anton's heart was filled with deep happiness. All the trials he had gone through, every obstacle he had overcome now seemed like stages on the way to this perfect moment. Lying next to his beloved, he realized that his achievement, which could be called "the conquest of Asia", had become much more than just a romantic adventure. It was not just overcoming difficulties, but a desire for a sincere union of two hearts. All the obstacles and difficulties that had previously seemed insurmountable now acquired a new meaning. His deep sense of satisfaction and love filled the world around him with warmth and light.

When he was next to Asia, nothing seemed impossible. And when in the future the world sees their child, who will bear the double surname Vieira-Skovorodnikoff, all the hardships he had to endure will be perceived as necessary stages on the way to meeting The Most Beautiful Woman in The Universe – Asia Vieira.

[karltonmorrou]

Asia Vieira russian fanfic on The Omen.