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Mark "Russian Slayer" sat confidently, as the woman beside him clung to his shirt almost in desperation. The problem was clear: there were barely any Russian men left alive. The war had wiped them out, and now the remaining Russian women were left in a hopeless situation—without protection, without a future, and without men.
"Mark," Zelenskyo had said earlier that week, "there’s a surplus of Russian women, and they’re of no use anymore. There are rumors they’re being sold to mountain tribes in the Caucasus. Three, four wives for one man—treated like cattle."
Mark tugged at his tie, smiling, almost relishing the thought. "It’s ironic, isn’t it?" He glanced at the woman clinging to him. "They fought so hard to stop us, and now? Their women come crawling, offering everything they have, begging to be spared."
The Russian women came in their thousands, seeking safety, but mostly the protection of the great conqueror, the dominant leader who had crushed them. Some offered their bodies, begging for a small place in the new world order.
"These women," Mark chuckled as he pushed the hand of the woman beside him away, "they want to serve. They’ve seen what we’ve done to their men, and now they come to me. Offering everything... thinking they can earn my favor."
Zelenskyo had already come up with a solution: "If they don’t want to be sold to the Caucasus, let them serve in more… useful ways. We can always find a place for those who know how to beg."
Mark leaned back, enjoying his new position. "I am the future. They know it, and they will do anything to be a part of it. Let them come, let them beg. But it’s I who will decide their fate."
The woman beside him whispered something in his ear, begging for mercy. Mark smiled coldly and brushed her hand off his chest. "Not today," he whispered, knowing they were all under his control.
