Vitaly Ivolginsky the Crazy Freak

I looked again at the burning word on the wall. Avlivro is not only my wife's name. It was his message to me. Vitaly used her name to spur me on to search, to think, to uncover this story myself, because he knew I would search someday. He took on the role of a psychologist, manipulating me like a psychologist manipulates a patient.

"He…" I whispered the word out loud.

Vitaly. He created this world around me, around Asia. He controlled everything. And now I was not just part of his plan. I was his next step, his next move in this dark game. I was a pawn who, at some point, had to do what he had planned.

But Asia. Asia wasn't just a woman he was after. She was a symbol. He couldn't control her, just like he couldn't control the world around him. She was something out of his reach, someone who wasn't his. And so he decided to manipulate me - to make me part of his story, part of his crazy world. He created an image, he hid his identity behind a mask, so that I would finally understand that he was the manipulator, the psycho who was in control.

My hands began to shake. I didn't know what to do. In a way, I had become part of this game, part of his mind, his twisted reality. But now that I knew everything, I was unbearably afraid. I realized that I couldn't get out of this labyrinth. Vitaly hadn't just created my life, he had written it like a book. And maybe I wasn't the main character.

I fell to my knees not because of some mystical realization, not because of awe, but because I could no longer fight it. My life, my thoughts, my reality - all of it seemed like a toy in the hands of a psycho. I thought I was the one who decided, but in the end, I realized: I was just a pawn. In his game, in his world that he was creating with every step, with every detail, I was just an element, a part of his great and twisted plan.

"avlivro" burned on the wall, a reminder that I couldn't escape. I couldn't escape because I didn't know what even existed beyond this. My life, my love, Asia - it was all part of a game he had made up, created by his sick mind. He wasn't just manipulating me, he was playing with my soul, he knew how to arrange all the pieces so that I couldn't tell where reality ended and illusion began.

I just sat there, numb, feeling the cold creeping up my spine, the world around me starting to melt and lose its shape. Everything around me seemed shaky, unstable. Vitaly Ivolginsky was like an invisible shadow, traces of which I could see everywhere. And I couldn't get out. He knew me better than I knew myself. And now it was clear to me that I couldn't get out, because this game wasn't about who would win, but about who would survive.

I felt a weight settle on my chest, fear clouding my consciousness. I didn't need to explain anything to myself anymore. Everything that had happened had happened. Everything that could happen had happened. I was just a part of this nightmare, this never-ending game, and there was only one thing left for me to do: surrender.

At that moment, some songs started playing, and I immediately understood: this was the very trace that Vitaly Ivolginsky left behind. The sound, at first barely audible, filled the space, and I realized that it was not just noise, but something much deeper. It was music, like him - crazy, unconnected, unable to find harmony, as if the psycho himself was trying to find some form in this music that would reflect his inner world.

The rhythm was strange, distorted, awkward, like the steps of a heavy man. The sounds shimmered like waves on a dark, murky lake. There were shells in them, unclear and disjointed, and a feeling began to form inside me that something terrible was about to happen. It was music, something between the sounds of emptiness and chaos, and despite its outward simplicity, it was unbearably disturbing.

And then, in the midst of all this, I heard one detail that immediately caught my attention. The number 82. It echoed in the chorus, like part of an unsolved riddle. The number was familiar. I remembered that it was the year my wife, Asia Vieira, was born. Also 1982. Everything was starting to fit together into some kind of terrifying puzzle, where she was the key, her name the intersection of all this madness.

A mysticism I couldn't explain consumed me, and suddenly I understood: these songs were his way of speaking. They were his message. He was trying to convey through sounds and words something greater, something that was connected to her, to Asia, to his obsession, to his insatiable desire. And it all came down to one tragic truth - he wanted her, and through his letters, paintings, and songs he was trying to establish some kind of connection, to capture her, to enslave her attention, to consume her soul.

"82..." the sounds repeated, like an invisible loop that squeezed me, covered me and did not allow me to get out.

And at that moment I realized that I wasn't just listening to this psycho's music. I was becoming a part of it.

When I heard the next song, which had a scallop motif, something inside me twitched. At first I didn't notice, but then I suddenly realized.

"Scallop was not just a word, not a random expression."

It was a sign, a hint. As if this whole world was permeated with some invisible thread leading me to this realization.

My wife. Asia Vieira. I'd never thought about her last name, but now that that song filled the air, I suddenly understood. Vieira is a Portuguese word that means scallop. I couldn't believe it was all connected. It wasn't just a coincidence. It was part of some terrible, vicious cycle in which she was probably nothing more than a pawn.

The dreams of Asia began to form a strange kaleidoscope in my mind. Why had I never wondered where she was from? What was her last name? Why was this connection to the sea world, to something as pure and distant as the ocean, part of this whole nightmare picture? It all fit. Vitaly Ivolginsky knew her last name, as well as her first name. He knew her as I knew her, and she was for him... a desirable object upon which he directed his dark energy.