Three years.
In my past life, fed and comfortable, this period would have flown by in a heartbeat. Three years meant high school, a couple of completed games, a dozen anticipated anime seasons. Time flowed quickly there, blurred by entertainment, the internet, and warmth.
Here, in this new, hostile reality, three years felt like an entire geological epoch. It was an eternity spent on the lowest-level, buggiest, and most toxic server possible, where the admins had long given up on balance, and the moderators were sadists.
I turned five.
Five years in the body of Naruto Uzumaki. And every lived day was not a life, but a prolonged, exhausting round in a survival game where the only goal was not to break.
My world was simple, cramped, and cruel. It was clearly divided into two parts: the gray physical reality and the saving neon interface of the System.
Reality consisted of the pervasive, nauseating smell of bleach that seemed to soak even into my bones. Of the creak of rusty springs on old beds. Of the constant cold walking the corridors in drafts.
But the worst were the people.
These were the faces of the nannies, forever frozen in a grimace of squeamish disgust, as if I were a pile of filth in the middle of their perfect living room. These were the backs of other children who instinctively, like pack animals, shied away from me the moment I entered a room.
Every morning began with a ritual. A ritual of humiliation.
We lined up in the dining hall. "The Warden"—a woman with a face resembling a dried prune and eyes cold as a winter sky—walked along the rows, distributing breakfast.
She moved quickly, mechanically slapping portions of gray mass into tin plates.
Splat. Splat. Splat.
But when the turn came to me, time slowed down.
She stopped. Her movements became demonstratively sluggish, theatrical. She dipped the ladle to the very bottom of the huge pot, where the porridge had already cooled, burned, and turned into a thick, unappetizing paste with lumps.
She scooped up the smallest, most pitiful portion. And with a quiet, mocking clatter, lowered the plate before me.
"Eat, demon..." she hissed once, leaning toward me.
Her voice was quiet, like the rustle of a snake. No one else would have heard it over the clatter of spoons and children's noise. But I, with my passively leveled-up 100% Language skill and heightened hearing, heard every letter. There was enough poison in that whisper to taint a well.
A system log flashed before my eyes, highlighted in red:
[Warning! Verbal Damage Received!]
[Attack Type: Social Humiliation / Psychological Pressure.]
[Source: Hostile NPC (Threat Level: Low, Toxicity Level: Extreme).]
[Analyzing Defense...]
[Passive Skill "Mental Resistance (Lvl. 32)" Activated!]
[Blocked 75% of negative impact.]
[Your Current Mood: Stably Lousy.]
[System Comment: I swear, this woman has the vocabulary of an NPC from a tutorial zone. Don't take it to heart, Player.]
I silently took the spoon. My face remained impenetrable. I learned not to react. No tears. No anger. No fear in my eyes.
I knew the rules of this game: any reaction—crying, screaming, a thrown plate—was exactly what she was waiting for. It led to escalation. To a joyful glint in her eyes. And to punishment.
And punishments here weren't just strict. They were inventive in their sadistic methodology.
Memory obligingly keeps that day in the smallest detail, like a splinter under a fingernail. "The Laundry Incident." Age—four and a half. A time when ordinary children learn to draw the sun and build sandcastles, here became a time of introduction to hard labor.
It all started in the playroom. Takeshi, the local "alpha" of the sandbox, was rushing between the shelves, imagining himself a great ninja. In the heat of battle with invisible enemies, he didn't notice a rusty nail sticking out of a dried-out beam.
The sharp tearing of fabric sounded like a sentence. An ugly hole spread on the issued shirt.
The boy froze, instantly turning pale. The orphanage rules were simple and cruel: damage to property was punished mercilessly.
Seeing "The Warden" enter at the noise, Takeshi reacted instinctively. A finger accusedly pointed to the far corner.
"It's him!" a shrill scream filled the room. "The monster pushed me! It's not my fault!"
The lie was brazen, obvious, and stitched with white thread. The culprit was sitting at the other end of the hall with a book on his knees, bothering no one. But facts interested no one here. A scapegoat was needed. And the ideal candidate—the "demon"—fit perfectly.
"Oh, you little spawn..." there was no indignation in the woman's voice, only triumph. Finally, a legitimate excuse.
No beating followed. Physical violence leaves marks that the old Hokage might notice during his rare, hypocritical visits. Labor therapy worked more subtly and effectively.
Bony fingers dug painfully into my shoulder. A walk down the corridor, stairs down, into the belly of the building.
The basement greeted me with the heavy, stale spirit of black mold, dampness, and acrid, cheap lye. The dark, dank room resembled a medieval dungeon. The only source of light served a single bulb under the ceiling, blinking in death agony.
In the middle of the concrete floor loomed three huge stone troughs, filled to the brim with water. Nearby towered a mountain of dirty laundry. Sheets, diapers, clothes of thirty children—everything that had accumulated in the orphanage over several days.
"Workfront," a squeamish kick at the pile of rags. "The first pile must be washed by evening. Otherwise, no dinner, no breakfast."
The heavy door slammed shut with a clang. The lock clicked, cutting off the path to the light.
Silence. Cold. Loneliness.
The troughs rose like impregnable walls—too high for a four-year-old. I had to drag over a wooden crate. Sleeves rolled up. Palms plunged into the water.
Icy cold instantly pierced my skin, reaching the very bones, as if thousands of invisible needles dug into the flesh.
A piece of laundry soap went into action—a brown, rough bar smelling of rancid fat.
Personal hell began.
Children's hands were not created for such labor. The coarse, stiff fabric of issued sheets worked like sandpaper. Half an hour later, the skin on my knuckles turned red, tightened, and began to crack. The acrid lye immediately penetrated the micro-cracks, turning dull aching pain into sharp, burning torture.
I wanted to howl. I wanted to slide onto this dirty, wet concrete and bawl from powerlessness, from resentment, from the screaming injustice of the universe.
But at the moment when my will was ready to break, the saving interface unfolded before my eyes. Blue neon dispelled the gloom of the basement.
[Attention! Special Endurance Quest Generated!]
[Title: "Circles of Hell: Laundry"]
[Description:]
[You have been exiled to hard labor in Dante's ninth circle of hell, disguised as an orphanage laundry. The body begs for mercy, the mind is ready to break. But a true Player knows: pain is just information. And what doesn't kill us gives EXP and rare loot!]
[Objective:]
[ ] Work 7 shifts (4 hours each), meeting the production quota.]
[Additional Condition (Challenge):]
[ ] Do not make a sound of complaint (Crying, whimpering, and groaning equate to FAILURE).]
[Reward:]
+500 EXP
+2 Endurance (PERMANENT)
+1 Strength (PERMANENT)
Unique Perk: "Calloused Hands" (Reduces damage to hands during physical labor and Taijutsu by 10%).
[Penalty for Failure:]
Debuff "Broken Spirit" (-5 to all stats for a week).
Title "Eternal Weakling" in System logs.
"Eternal Weakling"?
My lips twisted into a smirk. This snide piece of metal knew the pressure points. Pride remained the only unconquered bastion, and no one intended to surrender it to this old hag.
Teeth clenched to a grind. The pain didn't go anywhere. The cold still gnawed at the joints. But now suffering had a meaning. This was the price for power.
Friction.
Scrub. Scrub. Scrub.
Rinsing.
Splash. Splash.
Wringing out heavy wet fabric required the tension of all meager childish strength, all accumulated rage.
Emotions disabled. Torture turned into a mechanical grind. Every washed stain—a defeated mob. Every wrung sheet—a cleared dungeon level.
Fingers went numb, lost sensitivity, and moved automatically. Gaze unfocused, directed into the void, where a progress bar crawled before the mind's eye: 97%... 98%... 99%...
Evening. Steps on the stairs. The door opens. "The Warden" freezes on the threshold, expecting to see a broken, sobbing child begging for mercy.
The picture was different.
A small figure on the cold floor, back leaning against the concrete. Nearby—a neatly folded mountain of wet but clean laundry.
Face pale as death, lips blue, body shaking with the heavy tremors of hypothermia. Hands—a red, swollen mess.
But the silence was absolute.
A slow gaze from under the brows. No tears. No pleading. No fear. Only icy, dead emptiness and a silent promise of retribution.
The woman flinched. An involuntary step back—an instinctive reaction to the threat emanating from a four-year-old child.
That day, an important truth was revealed: their main weapon is your fear. If you don't feed them fear, they get lost. They weaken.
A week later, after passing all seven circles of this "water hell," the rewards were received. Stats grew, and on small palms hardened the first tough calluses. Ugly, rough, but more precious than any gold. Medals for the first real victory in this war.
But existence in the orphanage couldn't consist solely of hopeless darkness and hard labor. Sometimes, when the pressure of concrete walls became unbearable, a release was needed. A shake-up capable of turning the gray swamp of everyday life into bubbling chaos.
Thus, in the annals of this institution, the legend of the "Potato Rebellion" was born.
The catalyst was gastronomic sabotage. It was the third day of "mashed potato week." The local cook was apparently in a deep existential crisis (or a binge), and the contents of the plates represented a gray, sticky substance remotely resembling starch diluted with puddle water. Taste was absent as a class, but the texture resembled setting cement.
A look at the plate caused only nausea. A dull protest boiled inside.
The System, sensitively reacting to fluctuations in the mental background, didn't miss the moment, throwing up a provocative window.
[Quest Generated: "Anarchy is the Mother of Order"]
[Type: Social Sabotage.]
[Objective: Organize mass unrest in the food intake zone.]
[Reward: Title "Rebel Leader", +5 Charisma, deep moral satisfaction.]
Challenge accepted.
My gaze slid across the hall, assessing the situation. At the neighboring table, the "strike team" was bored—three of the most uncontrollable toddlers in the group, eternally looking for adventure. Verbal contact was excluded—words could give me away, and the allies' intelligence level left much to be desired.
Non-verbal communication went into play. The language of gestures, grimaces, and general dissatisfaction with the world is accessible to everyone.
Short visual contact.
Index finger squeamishly pokes the gray sludge. Face twists in a grimace of a gag reflex (acting skills came in handy).
Then—finger points to the perfectly white, freshly washed wall behind the duty nanny.
A sharp arm swing, imitating throwing a projectile.
Pause.
In the eyes of the little hooligans, a spark of understanding lit up. Boredom was replaced by excitement. The plan was accepted unanimously, without a single word.
Signal to attack—a loud, dry, demonstrative cough cutting through the monotonous hum of the cafeteria.
"Kha-kha!"
Volley!
Four projectiles formed from gray slime soared into the air simultaneously, following a flawless ballistic trajectory. Time seemed to slow down, allowing one to enjoy the flight.
SPLAT! SPLAT! SPLAT!
The sound of wet mass hitting plaster sounded like music. The wall was instantly decorated with abstractionist blotches. The fourth projectile, launched by a particularly accurate hand, found its target on "Valkyrie's" starched bonnet, leaving a dirty trail on it.
A second of stunned silence. Realization.
And then—explosion.
Seeing that the boundaries of the permissible had collapsed, the other children picked up the initiative. Herd instinct worked flawlessly. Pieces of bread, remnants of porridge, aluminum spoons flew into the air. The cafeteria turned into a combat zone in the blink of an eye.
Nannies squealed, rushing between tables under crossfire from food. Order collapsed. Chaos triumphed. Ringing children's laughter, evil and joyful at the same time, drowned out the screams of the staff.
Retribution caught up inevitably.
The instigators were identified quickly. Punishment—deprivation of walks and sweets for a week, plus hours of standing in the corner. But sitting in the isolation of the playroom, among dusty blocks, one felt not remorse, but triumph.
The admiring glances of comrades spoke louder than words. In their eyes read respect for the strategist who managed to break the system, even if only for half an hour.
The new title in the status menu—"Potato General"—pleasantly warmed the soul, becoming the first combat award in this ridiculous war.
So the years dragged on. Infinite balancing between the hell of punishment and the comedy of rebellion, between the icy hatred of adults and the animal fear of peers.
And so, the day of the fifth birthday arrived. The Rubicon.
After breakfast, when everyone was preparing for the usual portion of routine, "The Warden" clapped her hands, calling for silence. The sharp sound echoed off the high ceilings, making everyone freeze.
"Quiet!" she barked, sweeping the hall with a heavy gaze. "Listen to the announcement. Tomorrow you leave the orphanage. You are being transferred to the dormitory at the Shinobi Academy."
A collective gasp swept through the rows. A whisper full of hope filled the room. Children's eyes lit up. Academy! A magic word. Freedom. Separate rooms. The end of the regime.
"You can rejoice tomorrow!" the icy voice cut off dreams like a knife cuts a thread. "For now—march to bed. Wake up at six-zero-zero. Breakfast at seven. Transport arrives for you at eight. Latecomers will walk."
Pause. A gaze full of contempt slid over the faces.
"Take nothing with you except the clothes on your backs. No one needs your junk. Is that clear? Get out!"
That night, the common bedroom resembled a disturbed beehive. Sleep fled, frightened by the vibration of dozens of children's voices. The air was thick with whispers, hopes, and naive fantasies. In the dark, castles in the air were built, dreams of great deeds and soft pillows were born.
For most, this move was a ticket to a fairytale.
Morning burst into the bedroom with bustle, nervousness, and the clatter of dishes. Breakfast passed in a fog. Even the eternally cold porridge was swallowed without disgust that day—adrenaline dulled the taste buds.
Exactly at eight-zero-zero, the silence of the courtyard was torn by the creak of wheels.
A simple, shabby cart pulled by an old nag with sad eyes entered the gates. Transport for "refuse."
Line up. Roll call.
"The Warden" counted heads, poking a finger in the air. The procedure resembled an inventory of livestock before shipment to the slaughterhouse. The list was handed to the driver—a sullen man with a straw in his teeth and a gaze full of indifference.
"They're all yours," a short phrase sounding like a sentence.
The woman turned and, rustling her skirts, disappeared into the building. No farewell glance. No fake "good luck." Nothing. A batch of defective goods was written off the institution's balance sheet. The doors slammed shut.
Children's bodies piled into the cart. Hard boards, straw, jostling. Wheels creaked, the horse snorted, and the procession moved.
The journey from the orphanage to the dormitory took twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of the first conscious excursion in life through the Great Hidden Village.
My gaze greedily absorbed the surrounding world.
Konoha was… dazzling.
After the gray walls of the orphanage, the colors seemed unnaturally bright. Streets flooded with morning sun were impeccably clean. Tiled roofs of houses shone. Shop windows were bursting with goods, smells of fresh pastries, incense, and roasted meat made the head spin. Passersby rushed about their business, laughed, exchanged greetings. Life was in full swing.
It was an idyll. Heaven on earth.
But as soon as the gazes of the townspeople fell on the creaking cart full of orphans, the picture changed.
Smiles faded. A mask of squeamish sympathy mixed with irritation appeared on faces. "These freeloaders again," "taxes go to support parasites"—read in their eyes.
But that was tolerable. The real hell began when the crowd's gaze, sliding over the children's faces, stumbled upon me.
On the blonde hair sticking out in all directions. On the characteristic whisker marks on the cheeks.
Sympathy disappeared instantly, as if the light was turned off.
It was replaced by primal, sticky fear and thick, black hatred.
Mothers instinctively pressed children to themselves, covering their eyes with palms as if protecting them from filth.
Shinobi in green Chunin vests frowned, their hands involuntarily twitching toward weapon pouches.
Merchants sharply turned away, spitting at their feet to ward off bad luck.
The System immediately painted the world in alarming tones:
[Debuff "Curse of the Pariah" Active.]
[Range: Line of sight.]
[Effect: NPC Aggression increased by 200%. Social interactions blocked.]
My back remained straight. Gaze—directed forward, over heads. Eyes did not lower. Faces were memorized. Every grimace, every spit—everything was sent to the memory archive.
Finally, the torture by gazes ended.
The cart stopped.
The Dormitory. An old, three-story building of dark red brick, looking like an abandoned factory. Plaster crumbled, exposing "ulcers" of masonry. Windows, cloudy from years of dust, looked onto the street like blind wall-eyes.
The building looked even more dismal and neglected than the orphanage.
At the entrance, the procession was met by a new "Cerberus"—the landlady. A stout elderly woman with a careless bun of gray hair and the gaze of a dead fish.
List in hand. Monotonous voice. Distribution of rusty keys.
"Naruto Uzumaki."
Step forward.
The woman's gaze slid over the figure. There was no hatred in it, only disgust. That's how one looks at dirt accidentally brought into a clean house on the sole of a boot.
Two fingers extended a key, trying not to touch the skin.
"Room thirteen. Second floor," she grumbled, immediately turning away. "No noise. No littering. Don't cause problems. Dinner at six. Late—you go hungry. Next!"
Cold metal dug into my palm.
Room 13. Of course. What other number could fall to the vessel for a demon? The irony of fate (or the System developers) was flawless.
Entrance into the building.
Corridors greeted with gloom, hollow echoes, and the smell of old, dried-out wood. The stairs creaked pitifully underfoot, protesting against every step.
Second floor. A long, gloomy corridor with rows of shabby doors.
Here it is. A plate with the number "13," hanging crookedly on one nail.
Key in the hole. Turn with effort. The mechanism gave way reluctantly.
The click of the lock sounded in the silence like a starting pistol shot, announcing the beginning of a new game.
Push of the door. It yielded with a drawn-out, moaning creak capable of waking the dead.
Step across the threshold.
The door slammed shut, cutting off the outside world.
My body froze on the threshold, letting eyes adjust to the gloom reigning inside.
The word "room" was too loud for this premise. It was a stone sack. A punishment cell. A concrete box perfectly suitable for storing mops, but not for a child's life.
Three steps in length. Two in width. The space pressed, causing a claustrophobia attack even in someone accustomed to cramped conditions.
The walls, once—probably in the era of the Village Founding—painted in an optimistic sky-blue color, now resembled the skin of a sick old man. Dirty gray, covered with spots of black mold and scabs of peeling paint, they held the history of dozens of previous tenants.
It was a real gallery of children's despair. Cave paintings of orphans.
"Kenji was here" — scratched with something sharp near the baseboard.
"Ami + ?" — a timid inscription in charcoal.
And large, bold, scratched with a nail right into the plaster in the most prominent place: "HOKAGE IS A FOOL".
Lips stretched into a crooked, knowing smirk on their own. The unknown author caught the very essence.
The air was stale, thick as jelly. It smelled of ancient dust, dampness, unwashed laundry, and something elusively sour—the smell of loneliness. From the ceiling, on a bare wire, hung a lonely bulb without a shade. Its dull, sickly-yellow light cast ominous, trembling shadows on the floor.
The silence was torn by the melodic ring of the interface. A blue window hung in the air, illuminating the squalor of the setting with neon glow.
[New Location Discovered: "Personal Base (Level 1)"]
[Hideout Characteristics:]
[Security: Low (Door lock opens with a hairpin or a strong kick).]
[Comfort: Negative (Risk of debuff "Sore Back").]
[Privacy: High (No one in their right mind will come in here).]
[Potential for Upgrade: Present.]
[System Comment: Sarcastically noting that even in post-apocalyptic survival games, starting loot usually looks more presentable. Highly recommended to find a broom before you are eaten by dust mites.]
"Valuable advice..." a quiet whisper dissolved into the void.
A methodical inspection of the domain began. Every centimeter of this fortress was subject to inventory.
Sleeping place: An iron frame in the corner, pitted with rust like smallpox. When pressed, the springs emitted a pitiful squeal. Mattress—a thin, matted rag, hard as a concrete slab. Suspicious brown stains were visible on the fabric. Pillow absent as a class. Blanket—gray, prickly, soaked in the smell of a warehouse. Sleeping on this is a test for the spine.
Work zone: A table by the wall. A wooden invalid rocking on three legs (the fourth was crudely propped up by folded cardboard). The tabletop resembled a battlefield: the entire surface was pitted with cuts, dents, and drawings. Someone carved a shuriken. Someone—their name. It was a chronicle of anger. The chair nearby looked like it would crumble into dust from a single careless breath.
Decision made instantly: sit on the floor. Safer.
Window: A small square of cloudy glass with a crack in the corner, taped over with yellowed paper. The rusty latch gave way with difficulty, showering fingers with red crumbs. The sash swung open, letting in a stream of humid street air.
The view was "stunning": a blank brick wall of the neighboring building, decorated with green streaks of moss, located at arm's length. But if you stand on tiptoes, press your cheek to the frame, and crane your neck, then somewhere there, high up, you could see a tiny, palm-sized patch of blue sky.
A personal piece of freedom.
The inspection ended with checking the floor. Wooden floorboards creaked. A heel methodically tapped board after board.
At the far wall, the sound changed. Became hollow, empty.
A fingernail pried up the edge of the board. It gave way.
Below, between the floor joists, a small dark space was discovered. Cobwebs, dust, splinters.
The ideal cache. A safe that no living soul will know about.
My body sank onto the dusty floor in the center of the room.
Quiet, soundless laughter shook my shoulders.
Delight. Pure, unclouded delight. This hole, this kennel, this mold on the walls... It was all magnificent.
Because there were no eyes here. No wardens. No hatred.
Door locked. The world remained outside.
This was a Fortress. A Lair. A Laboratory.
And it belonged to only one person.
Right here, in the musty silence of a personal fortress, time finally appeared for the main thing. Not for finding food, not for dodging beatings, but for strategy.
Thoughts turned to the one whose place was taken. To Naruto.
To the real, canon Naruto.
Between the current owner of the body and the original lay an abyss.
The transmigrator had in his arsenal the mind of an adult, the cynical experience of a past life, foreknowledge of the plot, and a System turning suffering into stat numbers. The village's hatred was perceived as a game mechanic, as a debuff that simply needed to be endured.
But what did he have? The child?
Nothing.
He was a blank slate. A little boy who didn't understand why the world was so cruel to him. What it's like to see parents hugging children on the playground and not understand why you are alone? What it's like to press your nose against a cold shop window, looking at toys, and know they will never be bought? What it's like to feel hunger, receiving spit instead of bread?
By any logic, he should have broken. He should have hated this village with a black, all-consuming hatred. Burn it to the ground, tear off the seal, release the Nine-Tails, and become a second Gaara, only a hundred times scarier. That would have been fair.
But he chose the most illogical, most absurd path. The path of a saint. He decided to earn the love of his tormentors. To become Hokage so that those who spat at his back would acknowledge him.
"You were either a saint or the most stubborn idiot in the universe..." a quiet whisper hung in the dusty air. "Repeating this path is impossible. And there is no desire."
The Player's path will be different.
The goal is not acknowledgment, but Survival and Power.
But acting openly is suicide. If I show intellect, if I demonstrate adult speech and cold calculation—Danzo will immediately pay attention. "Root" will take the genius-jinchuriki, brainwash him, and make a perfect weapon without emotions.
If I show aggression and hatred—they'll lock me in prison or execute me as an "unstable element."
I need camouflage.
The perfect disguise that will allow me to be in plain sight while remaining invisible. Hide a leaf in the forest. Hide a monster behind a smile.
I need to become Canon. Or rather, its grotesque caricature.
Loud. Clumsy. A hyperactive fool in an orange jumpsuit. Disaster Boy. A Clown. A Loser.
No one looks for a threat in an idiot. No one suspects that behind a stupid, wide smile hides a cold analytical mind. Teachers will give failing grades and wave their hands. Classmates will laugh and consider me a harmless moron. ANBU in masks will write reports: "Subject is stupid, harmless, potential low."
The perfect cover.
My body rose from the floor and walked to the wall where the inscription "HOKAGE IS A FOOL" was displayed. The wall became a mirror.
Rehearsal began.
Lips stretched into a wide, unnaturally joyful smile, baring teeth. Eyes opened wider to hide the glint of intellect in the depths of the pupils.
"I will become Hokage! Dattebayo!" a ringing shout, a raised fist.
The System responded instantly, as if waiting for this moment.
[Training Mode Activated: "Acting (Disguise)"]
[Attempt Rating: 2/10.]
[System Verdict: Fake. You have the eyes of a serial killer planning a massacre, not a dreamer. Icy cynicism splashes in them. Add rainbows, ponies, and a complete absence of thought activity to the gaze.]
"Rainbows and ponies..." fingers massaged temples, erasing the grimace.
Deep breath. Relax facial muscles. Remove tension from the forehead. The gaze must be unfocused, enthusiastic.
Jump in place. Waving arms.
"Hey, old man! Treat me to ramen! I'll be a cool ninja! Believe it!"
[Attempt Rating: 3/10.]
[Verdict: There is progress. Now you look like a mental asylum patient in a manic phase. Warmer, but still scary.]
This will be tough.
Breaking myself, pretending to be a moron twenty-four hours a day, laughing when I want to hit, playing dumb when I know the answer—this is harder than hauling stones in the laundry. It is violence against personality.
But there is no other way.
Ahead was a whole year until entering the Academy. A year to polish the role to a shine. A year to sew the perfect jester's costume.
This wretched room will become a dressing room. And all of Konoha—a huge stage.
In the darkness of the room, a smile lit up again. But this time it wasn't stupid, but predatory.
The show must go on. And the main role will be played so that Stanislavski himself would applaud from the grave.