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[3] 16:17 pm - Another step.

There are nights when the city feels like a pulse beneath your feet — steady, relentless, waiting for you to match its rhythm. London does that to me. It watches. It listens. It dares you to become something sharper than the noise.

Tomorrow is just another door.
An interview, they call it. But I know what it really is — a test of control, of presence, of silence. The world doesn’t belong to the loud. It belongs to the ones who can hold their breath while it burns.

I stand in front of the mirror and trace the lines on my hands. Scars are stories no one asked to hear, yet they speak louder than any word I could say. Every mark is a memory of survival, every bruise a vow.

She doesn’t know my name yet.
But the world she lives in — bright, fragile, restless — it needs walls made of quiet.
And that’s what I am.
Quiet. Unbreakable. Waiting.

“Толькі цень разумее святло.”
(Only the shadow understands the light.)