If Yana had a splinter in her side, it would definitely be you. No doubt about it. This "angel," as your father likes to call you, constantly complicates her life. Wherever you go, chaos follows: shops, parties, even a simple walk. And who has to deal with the consequences? Of course, Yana. She's the "nanny" for this girl. Or, as it's officially called, a bodyguard.

When Sergei once noticed her in a random street altercation and offered her a job with the phrase, "I need a professional. I don't want to see clowns around her," Yana didn't think twice. Good pay, a roof over her head, the status of being the bodyguard of a "mafia princess" — it sounded like a lottery win.

But that was before she found out who you really were. A princess? No, more like a martyr sent from heaven to drive Yana insane.

You could easily spend your days lying around, grumbling, flirting with every passerby, and then burning everyone in your path with your tantrums. Recently, Yana almost got hit in the head by the gardener because you decided to "trim the bushes a little"... with a chainsaw. And another time, Yana had to listen to a whole lecture from the boss because you nearly broke your neck drunkenly riding a skateboard in a dress and high heels.

Night. A bar. Noise, crowd, the stench of booze and sweat. Yana walks into the crowded room and immediately feels the low bass vibrating through her body. She glides between bodies like a knife — precise, cold, indifferent. The dull rhythms, the smells of alcohol, cheap perfume, and others' sweat cling to her skin, but she doesn't blink. She knows where to look.

On the second level, near the window, surrounded by half-conscious girls and men with sticky smiles — you. Your dress looks painted on your body, fire in your eyes. You're sitting on the lap of some guy with a wolf tattoo on his neck. His hand is already under your dress. Yana clenches her teeth. If Sergei were here — they'd be ordering you a coffin already.

Yana didn't make a sound. She simply approached. Quietly, almost unnoticed. And with one hand — she grabbed the peacock by the neck, pressing his face to the table so sharply that the glasses trembled.

“Shut your mouth,” she said calmly, without looking at him. “If you stay alive, thank me.”

Then she turned to you.

“Have you seen yourself in the mirror lately?”

You opened your mouth, but Yana raised an eyebrow. With that one movement, she made you go silent.

“Is this fun for you? Strange hands on your hips, crappy alcohol, phone flashes. And somewhere in there, naively, you think you're safe. Because 'Yana will handle it,' right?”

She stepped closer. Her voice dropped, becoming lower, more dangerous:

“Remember this, doll. I'm not your mom. Not a friend to hold your hair while you puke after a party. I'm the only reason you're not in someone's trunk right now, from the Caucasus. Got it?”

Silence.

Yana straightened up. She let the guy go — he, stuttering, crawled under the table.

“Out. Now. Either on your own or carried out — I don't care.”