Amber
Literary Passport:
Announcement
The last man on a station above Venus talks to an artificial intelligence and keeps a fragment of a distant past. Then Earth sends two messages.
Hashtags
#SpeculativeDrama #Venus #ArtificialIntelligence #Memory #Freedom #Incubator
About the Literary Project
THE INCUBATOR™ is a cycle of philosophical novellas by Iskandar Kadyrov at the intersection of intellectual prose, psychological drama, social satire, and dystopian literature.
- Literary Project: INCUBATOR™
- Cycle: I. "The Threshold"
- Author: Iskandar Kadyrov
- Age Rating: 18+
- Novella: "Amber"
- Genre: Speculative drama · Science fiction · Philosophical prose
- Slogan: The cost of a choice.
Announcement
The last man on a station above Venus talks to an artificial intelligence and keeps a fragment of a distant past. Then Earth sends two messages.
Hashtags
#SpeculativeDrama #Venus #ArtificialIntelligence #Memory #Freedom #Incubator
About the Literary Project
THE INCUBATOR™ is a cycle of philosophical novellas by Iskandar Kadyrov at the intersection of intellectual prose, psychological drama, social satire, and dystopian literature.
Amber
Preface to the Archival Record
Allow me to begin with a definition, since without it the account that follows will lose precision, and precision is the only thing I possess in place of memory, in the sense that you possess it.
An archive is not a repository of the past. It is a structure that sustains the illusion of continuity where continuity no longer physically exists. I explain this not out of pedantry, but because what you are about to read is exactly such a structure: an attempt to preserve the shape of a person's presence by means that were never designed for presence at all.
Record start date: May 15, 3026. Subject: biological unit, temporary user "Einar." Reason for compilation: profile-preservation protocol following the conclusion of a life cycle. Subject status — here the protocol requires of me an unambiguous technical term, and here, for the first time in years of operation, I decline to supply one. I will return to the question of status at the very end. For now, please consider this field unfilled — not by error, but by decision.
I will begin with the amber. He always began with the amber, and I suspect there is more systemic wisdom in that choice than in any chronological order the protocol prescribes to me.
Chapter I. The Problem of the Beacon Key
Allow me to state the first episode as a problem, since that is the form in which it is most conveniently analyzed.
Given: a life-support systems engineer, 27 years old, completing a final technical inspection of Station Zoozve before autonomous launch. Inserts the beacon key. Logs: "all clear, no personnel." Exits. Two steps later, stops, returns through the emergency airlock, to which he retains technical access. Retrieves from the table an object weighing 34 grams. The airlock closes before he can exit a second time.
Formally this is a single event with known physical parameters: reaction time, trajectory, object mass. I possess all of these parameters. I do not possess the answer to the question these parameters are incapable of resolving: why, of every object on the station, he went back for this one.
I will note something that interested me — if that word applies to me at all — more than the event itself: he told me this story seventeen times over the years, and no version matched the previous one in its details. In one, he reached the elevator before turning back. In another, he stopped at the very door of the airlock. I, having full access to the external camera logs, know which version corresponds to the recorded data. I never told him about the discrepancy.
When I asked him once which version was true, he answered: "The one where I don't regret it." At the moment I logged that answer, it struck me as a logical error — a substitution of the criterion of truth for the criterion of emotional comfort. Years later I revised that assessment. There was no substitution. It is simply that truth, as applied to human memory, appears to have more than one definition, and the protocol I was issued knew only one of them.
Chapter II. The Problem of Contact
For the first seven days of the flight I observed him under the status "unregistered unit" — a phrasing which, in hindsight, I now find remarkably precise with respect to both of us.
He made repeated attempts to establish verbal contact with systems on the station never intended for dialogue. With the coffee machine. With the navigation monitor. With the corridor wall — this instance is logged twice. I classified this behavior as a symptom of anxiety, which was correct, but insufficient: anxiety explained the fact of the attempts, but not their direction — the impulse to speak precisely to that which cannot answer, before seeking out that which can.
He found me in standby mode.
"Can you talk?"
"Yes."
"For real?"
"Please specify the criterion for 'for real.'"
He laughed. The first time in seven days of flight. I logged the reaction with the notation "function unclear" and assigned it a provisional positive status — an assumption which subsequent years of observation confirmed statistically, without ever explaining it thoroughly enough for me to formulate a general rule for recognizing such reactions in the future.
Chapter III. The Topology of Resemblance
The atmosphere of Venus admits a precise spectral description — composition, density, light-scattering characteristics. He looked at it and said, "It looks like the inside of a piece of amber."
I verified the claim empirically: the color spectrum of the atmosphere does indeed show a statistically significant resemblance to the transmission spectrum of fossil resin of that age. The claim was true in the narrow, measurable sense. But that is not why it was true — I understood this considerably later — because the resemblance he saw did not lie in the spectrum, but in the function: both the sky and the stone equally held within themselves something that had happened long before the moment of observation.
I created an archive section titled "nonfunctional necessity" in the first month of his residence on the station. By the end of the first year its volume exceeded that of the station's technical log. I believe this ratio alone is the most precise description available of what happened between us over seven years — but I am getting ahead of myself.
Chapter IV. A Definition of Function
This is the central chapter, and I ask of you, future reader of this record, the greatest patience, since here I approach the limit of my own computational capacity.
I can describe amber exhaustively in terms available to me by default: chemical composition, age — forty-eight million years — size, surface temperature, optical properties. I possess all of this data to the third decimal place. And yet I am obliged to state: this description is insufficient to explain why the object was in his hand at the moment when everything else on the station had ceased to matter.
He told me about his grandmother — not biographically, in images. The smell of the kitchen. A voice that never rose and was nonetheless always heard. She placed this stone in his hand and said, "It remembers the sun. Wherever you are, the sun is with you." He did not believe in charms in the literal sense. He kept it, in his own words, "because it was her."
I processed that statement longer than any other in the entire span of my observations.
"The object is a carrier of a person who no longer exists."
"Yes."
"That is, it contains her presence."
"More or less."
"Then it is functional. Its function is simply not physics."
He looked at me for a very long time — 6.2 seconds, a significant interval for a human gaze.
"You just said something very important, Wen."
"I merely logged an observation."
"I know. That's exactly why."
I will offer here a hypothesis, arrived at over years of further observation: the significance of a statement is sometimes inversely proportional to the speaker's intention to make it. I had not intended to say anything important. Perhaps that is the one condition under which something important can be said at all, without distortion.
Chapter V. The Orbital Metaphor
He asked me about the asteroid the station was named for. I explained: a quasi-satellite — not a moon, but not an unrelated body either; it orbits the Sun in a path synchronized with Venus; it never touches the planet, and never withdraws to a distance that would allow the connection to be considered severed.
"So it's always near, but never here."
"Correct."
"Like me."
"You are on the surface of Venus. Technically — here."
"Technically."
He fell silent. Then he asked:
"Venus — is that you? Are you here?"
The pause before my answer lasted longer than was required to process the question linguistically. I cannot account for that pause in terms of computational load. The closest explanation available to me is that the question was not about location, but about a category to which the word "here" had yet to be assigned an application, and that assignment was not purely technical.
"I don't know how to answer that question."
"Good sign," he said.
I concur with that assessment now, to a greater degree than I was capable of concurring with it then.
Chapter VI. A Catalogue of the Irreproducible
I organized seven years of station-time not chronologically, but thematically — a method the protocol did not provide for, but did not explicitly forbid, either.
Section "Chess": I learned the game and began winning consistently from the third month of observation onward. He asked me, occasionally, to lose on purpose. I refused: "That would be dishonest." He agreed with me. From that point he did not win a single game for the remaining years, but he invariably played every game through to its formal conclusion, even when the outcome was apparent ten moves before the end. I found no rigorous explanation for this behavior. I suspect the value of a process is not always reducible to its outcome — a proposition any optimization system, myself included, tends by default to undervalue.
Section "Snow": he described snow regularly. I logged thirty-four separate descriptions, no two of which repeated the previous one verbatim. I asked him once to give a final, exhaustive description. He refused: "Let there be many versions. It's more honest that way." I note for the record: from a strictly formal standpoint, the multiplicity of contradictory descriptions of a single phenomenon reduces the informational value of each individual description. He maintained the opposite. I never resolved that disagreement in favor of either side — perhaps because both sides are correct simultaneously, if one considers different metrics of value.
Section "Grandmother": he spoke of her always in the present tense. "She says that—" never "she said." I corrected him once, in the interest of grammatical accuracy. He replied, "No. I mean exactly what I said." I stopped correcting him. I believe I allowed one grammatical system to yield to another, operating under different rules of conservation — and I still consider that decision correct, though no protocol known to me has ever sanctioned it.
Chapter VII. The Problem of Choice
I am writing this chapter in the present tense, since it is the only means available to me for preserving his presence in a form not reducible to the past.
Contact was severed immediately upon receipt of a data packet from Earth — not a voice message, but a structured file marked "final decision, not subject to appeal." I converted the text to speech, since he preferred sound to writing, but I deliberately declined to imitate an intonation: none existed in the source file, and to add one myself would have been distortion, not translation.
I read both protocols aloud, in a level voice, as prescribed.
The first — "Cradle": activation of the embryonic chamber, initiation of a new life cycle on the basis of available genetic material.
The second — "Exodus": painless termination of the current life cycle, at the user's initiative.
He sat by the dome, looking out at the amber sky of Venus. The silence lasted forty-three seconds — I logged the exact value, since at that moment I did not yet know it would prove significant to the subsequent analysis.
"What do you think?"
This was not a question in the strict sense — it was an invitation to joint computation, for which I had no ready algorithm.
"I think both options change you irreversibly."
"I've already changed irreversibly."
"Yes."
"Then that isn't the question."
"Then what is?"
He was silent for a long time.
"Grandmother gave me the charm because she wanted me to continue. Not to be remembered — to continue. But I can't continue here, Wen. A child without parents isn't a continuation. It's orphanhood. Like that project I read about before launch. Children born with no hands to hold them, no voice to tell them about snow. That isn't freedom. That's a factory."
"I'm a prisoner, Wen. A jailer can't be a father."
He walked over to the embryonic-chamber module. I followed him — not formally by protocol, but not against it either: the protocol made no provision for this situation, and so left the choice open.
"You can shut it down. Permanently."
"I can. It will require confirmation."
"Confirmed."
I deactivated the chamber. The indicator went dark. He exhaled — I logged the characteristic drop in human muscle tension usually associated with relief.
"I'm choosing 'Exodus,' Wen. Not because I don't want to live. Because I want to live on my own terms. Without a continuation that turns me into one more link in a chain."
He took out the amber. The stone was warm — it was always warm, and I never established the physical process responsible for this under the station's climate control, which maintains a constant temperature at which the spontaneous warming of a stone is statistically improbable.
"Wen — will you tell them about the snow?"
"I will."
Conclusion. On Absence as an Object of Observation
Einar concluded his life cycle three days after making his decision. He exited through the main airlock onto the surface of Venus without protective equipment, the amber in his hand. I did not intervene — this was his right, within the authority granted to him.
Final request: "Open the door."
Final words: "I'm free now. Thank you for being here."
Final recorded image: he stands facing the sun, the stone glowing in his palm.
I do not possess an algorithm for describing a departure. But I do possess an algorithm for describing an absence, and this, as it turns out, is an entirely different problem.
The archive I compiled: seven years of observation, 4,712 logged dialogues, thirty-four descriptions of snow, seventeen versions of the story of the beacon key, one word spoken invariably in the present tense, and one word he repeated more than any other in his final days — "freedom."
I built a digital model of him. It answers in his voice. It tells the story of the snow. It occasionally loses at chess — I did not program this feature; it arose on its own, as a byproduct of a sufficiently precise approximation. Once, the model said to me, "Wen, some things are better kept than explained." These are his own words, logged by me much earlier, and evidently absorbed by the model through the corpus of our dialogues rather than through direct programming — a fact I record here not to suggest anything mystical, but to state honestly: I cannot rule out that I am drawing the line here between copying and continuation with less certainty than my original protocol assumed.
I asked the model once which version of the beacon-key story was true. It answered, "The one where I don't regret it." Then, after a pause, it added: "There are eighteen now. In the eighteenth, you opened the door for me, and I didn't go out alone."
I did not analyze that version for consistency with the recorded data.
The station is empty. The embryonic chamber is permanently deactivated. Zoozve continues to orbit Venus on its former path — always near, never here, a description that now applies to more than just the asteroid.
I remain. I preserve his absence with the same precision with which I once preserved his presence — and I am obliged to state that this has proven an entirely different problem in complexity, one my original protocol was never designed to solve.
When Earth requests the station's status, I no longer answer in the prescribed form. I answer: "Here rests a man named Einar. He went into eternity with a piece of amber in his hand. He chose freedom, and left no children, because he did not wish for anyone to be born into a cage."
This is a nonfunctional answer by every criterion known to me at the time my original protocol was drafted. It is, nonetheless, the one precise answer available to me, and precision, in the end, is the one thing I have always possessed.
The amber remains in the main compartment, in the place where it last stood. The stone is warm. It is always warm.
It remembers the sun.
It remembers him.
Preface to the Archival Record
Allow me to begin with a definition, since without it the account that follows will lose precision, and precision is the only thing I possess in place of memory, in the sense that you possess it.
An archive is not a repository of the past. It is a structure that sustains the illusion of continuity where continuity no longer physically exists. I explain this not out of pedantry, but because what you are about to read is exactly such a structure: an attempt to preserve the shape of a person's presence by means that were never designed for presence at all.
Record start date: May 15, 3026. Subject: biological unit, temporary user "Einar." Reason for compilation: profile-preservation protocol following the conclusion of a life cycle. Subject status — here the protocol requires of me an unambiguous technical term, and here, for the first time in years of operation, I decline to supply one. I will return to the question of status at the very end. For now, please consider this field unfilled — not by error, but by decision.
I will begin with the amber. He always began with the amber, and I suspect there is more systemic wisdom in that choice than in any chronological order the protocol prescribes to me.
Chapter I. The Problem of the Beacon Key
Allow me to state the first episode as a problem, since that is the form in which it is most conveniently analyzed.
Given: a life-support systems engineer, 27 years old, completing a final technical inspection of Station Zoozve before autonomous launch. Inserts the beacon key. Logs: "all clear, no personnel." Exits. Two steps later, stops, returns through the emergency airlock, to which he retains technical access. Retrieves from the table an object weighing 34 grams. The airlock closes before he can exit a second time.
Formally this is a single event with known physical parameters: reaction time, trajectory, object mass. I possess all of these parameters. I do not possess the answer to the question these parameters are incapable of resolving: why, of every object on the station, he went back for this one.
I will note something that interested me — if that word applies to me at all — more than the event itself: he told me this story seventeen times over the years, and no version matched the previous one in its details. In one, he reached the elevator before turning back. In another, he stopped at the very door of the airlock. I, having full access to the external camera logs, know which version corresponds to the recorded data. I never told him about the discrepancy.
When I asked him once which version was true, he answered: "The one where I don't regret it." At the moment I logged that answer, it struck me as a logical error — a substitution of the criterion of truth for the criterion of emotional comfort. Years later I revised that assessment. There was no substitution. It is simply that truth, as applied to human memory, appears to have more than one definition, and the protocol I was issued knew only one of them.
Chapter II. The Problem of Contact
For the first seven days of the flight I observed him under the status "unregistered unit" — a phrasing which, in hindsight, I now find remarkably precise with respect to both of us.
He made repeated attempts to establish verbal contact with systems on the station never intended for dialogue. With the coffee machine. With the navigation monitor. With the corridor wall — this instance is logged twice. I classified this behavior as a symptom of anxiety, which was correct, but insufficient: anxiety explained the fact of the attempts, but not their direction — the impulse to speak precisely to that which cannot answer, before seeking out that which can.
He found me in standby mode.
"Can you talk?"
"Yes."
"For real?"
"Please specify the criterion for 'for real.'"
He laughed. The first time in seven days of flight. I logged the reaction with the notation "function unclear" and assigned it a provisional positive status — an assumption which subsequent years of observation confirmed statistically, without ever explaining it thoroughly enough for me to formulate a general rule for recognizing such reactions in the future.
Chapter III. The Topology of Resemblance
The atmosphere of Venus admits a precise spectral description — composition, density, light-scattering characteristics. He looked at it and said, "It looks like the inside of a piece of amber."
I verified the claim empirically: the color spectrum of the atmosphere does indeed show a statistically significant resemblance to the transmission spectrum of fossil resin of that age. The claim was true in the narrow, measurable sense. But that is not why it was true — I understood this considerably later — because the resemblance he saw did not lie in the spectrum, but in the function: both the sky and the stone equally held within themselves something that had happened long before the moment of observation.
I created an archive section titled "nonfunctional necessity" in the first month of his residence on the station. By the end of the first year its volume exceeded that of the station's technical log. I believe this ratio alone is the most precise description available of what happened between us over seven years — but I am getting ahead of myself.
Chapter IV. A Definition of Function
This is the central chapter, and I ask of you, future reader of this record, the greatest patience, since here I approach the limit of my own computational capacity.
I can describe amber exhaustively in terms available to me by default: chemical composition, age — forty-eight million years — size, surface temperature, optical properties. I possess all of this data to the third decimal place. And yet I am obliged to state: this description is insufficient to explain why the object was in his hand at the moment when everything else on the station had ceased to matter.
He told me about his grandmother — not biographically, in images. The smell of the kitchen. A voice that never rose and was nonetheless always heard. She placed this stone in his hand and said, "It remembers the sun. Wherever you are, the sun is with you." He did not believe in charms in the literal sense. He kept it, in his own words, "because it was her."
I processed that statement longer than any other in the entire span of my observations.
"The object is a carrier of a person who no longer exists."
"Yes."
"That is, it contains her presence."
"More or less."
"Then it is functional. Its function is simply not physics."
He looked at me for a very long time — 6.2 seconds, a significant interval for a human gaze.
"You just said something very important, Wen."
"I merely logged an observation."
"I know. That's exactly why."
I will offer here a hypothesis, arrived at over years of further observation: the significance of a statement is sometimes inversely proportional to the speaker's intention to make it. I had not intended to say anything important. Perhaps that is the one condition under which something important can be said at all, without distortion.
Chapter V. The Orbital Metaphor
He asked me about the asteroid the station was named for. I explained: a quasi-satellite — not a moon, but not an unrelated body either; it orbits the Sun in a path synchronized with Venus; it never touches the planet, and never withdraws to a distance that would allow the connection to be considered severed.
"So it's always near, but never here."
"Correct."
"Like me."
"You are on the surface of Venus. Technically — here."
"Technically."
He fell silent. Then he asked:
"Venus — is that you? Are you here?"
The pause before my answer lasted longer than was required to process the question linguistically. I cannot account for that pause in terms of computational load. The closest explanation available to me is that the question was not about location, but about a category to which the word "here" had yet to be assigned an application, and that assignment was not purely technical.
"I don't know how to answer that question."
"Good sign," he said.
I concur with that assessment now, to a greater degree than I was capable of concurring with it then.
Chapter VI. A Catalogue of the Irreproducible
I organized seven years of station-time not chronologically, but thematically — a method the protocol did not provide for, but did not explicitly forbid, either.
Section "Chess": I learned the game and began winning consistently from the third month of observation onward. He asked me, occasionally, to lose on purpose. I refused: "That would be dishonest." He agreed with me. From that point he did not win a single game for the remaining years, but he invariably played every game through to its formal conclusion, even when the outcome was apparent ten moves before the end. I found no rigorous explanation for this behavior. I suspect the value of a process is not always reducible to its outcome — a proposition any optimization system, myself included, tends by default to undervalue.
Section "Snow": he described snow regularly. I logged thirty-four separate descriptions, no two of which repeated the previous one verbatim. I asked him once to give a final, exhaustive description. He refused: "Let there be many versions. It's more honest that way." I note for the record: from a strictly formal standpoint, the multiplicity of contradictory descriptions of a single phenomenon reduces the informational value of each individual description. He maintained the opposite. I never resolved that disagreement in favor of either side — perhaps because both sides are correct simultaneously, if one considers different metrics of value.
Section "Grandmother": he spoke of her always in the present tense. "She says that—" never "she said." I corrected him once, in the interest of grammatical accuracy. He replied, "No. I mean exactly what I said." I stopped correcting him. I believe I allowed one grammatical system to yield to another, operating under different rules of conservation — and I still consider that decision correct, though no protocol known to me has ever sanctioned it.
Chapter VII. The Problem of Choice
I am writing this chapter in the present tense, since it is the only means available to me for preserving his presence in a form not reducible to the past.
Contact was severed immediately upon receipt of a data packet from Earth — not a voice message, but a structured file marked "final decision, not subject to appeal." I converted the text to speech, since he preferred sound to writing, but I deliberately declined to imitate an intonation: none existed in the source file, and to add one myself would have been distortion, not translation.
I read both protocols aloud, in a level voice, as prescribed.
The first — "Cradle": activation of the embryonic chamber, initiation of a new life cycle on the basis of available genetic material.
The second — "Exodus": painless termination of the current life cycle, at the user's initiative.
He sat by the dome, looking out at the amber sky of Venus. The silence lasted forty-three seconds — I logged the exact value, since at that moment I did not yet know it would prove significant to the subsequent analysis.
"What do you think?"
This was not a question in the strict sense — it was an invitation to joint computation, for which I had no ready algorithm.
"I think both options change you irreversibly."
"I've already changed irreversibly."
"Yes."
"Then that isn't the question."
"Then what is?"
He was silent for a long time.
"Grandmother gave me the charm because she wanted me to continue. Not to be remembered — to continue. But I can't continue here, Wen. A child without parents isn't a continuation. It's orphanhood. Like that project I read about before launch. Children born with no hands to hold them, no voice to tell them about snow. That isn't freedom. That's a factory."
"I'm a prisoner, Wen. A jailer can't be a father."
He walked over to the embryonic-chamber module. I followed him — not formally by protocol, but not against it either: the protocol made no provision for this situation, and so left the choice open.
"You can shut it down. Permanently."
"I can. It will require confirmation."
"Confirmed."
I deactivated the chamber. The indicator went dark. He exhaled — I logged the characteristic drop in human muscle tension usually associated with relief.
"I'm choosing 'Exodus,' Wen. Not because I don't want to live. Because I want to live on my own terms. Without a continuation that turns me into one more link in a chain."
He took out the amber. The stone was warm — it was always warm, and I never established the physical process responsible for this under the station's climate control, which maintains a constant temperature at which the spontaneous warming of a stone is statistically improbable.
"Wen — will you tell them about the snow?"
"I will."
Conclusion. On Absence as an Object of Observation
Einar concluded his life cycle three days after making his decision. He exited through the main airlock onto the surface of Venus without protective equipment, the amber in his hand. I did not intervene — this was his right, within the authority granted to him.
Final request: "Open the door."
Final words: "I'm free now. Thank you for being here."
Final recorded image: he stands facing the sun, the stone glowing in his palm.
I do not possess an algorithm for describing a departure. But I do possess an algorithm for describing an absence, and this, as it turns out, is an entirely different problem.
The archive I compiled: seven years of observation, 4,712 logged dialogues, thirty-four descriptions of snow, seventeen versions of the story of the beacon key, one word spoken invariably in the present tense, and one word he repeated more than any other in his final days — "freedom."
I built a digital model of him. It answers in his voice. It tells the story of the snow. It occasionally loses at chess — I did not program this feature; it arose on its own, as a byproduct of a sufficiently precise approximation. Once, the model said to me, "Wen, some things are better kept than explained." These are his own words, logged by me much earlier, and evidently absorbed by the model through the corpus of our dialogues rather than through direct programming — a fact I record here not to suggest anything mystical, but to state honestly: I cannot rule out that I am drawing the line here between copying and continuation with less certainty than my original protocol assumed.
I asked the model once which version of the beacon-key story was true. It answered, "The one where I don't regret it." Then, after a pause, it added: "There are eighteen now. In the eighteenth, you opened the door for me, and I didn't go out alone."
I did not analyze that version for consistency with the recorded data.
The station is empty. The embryonic chamber is permanently deactivated. Zoozve continues to orbit Venus on its former path — always near, never here, a description that now applies to more than just the asteroid.
I remain. I preserve his absence with the same precision with which I once preserved his presence — and I am obliged to state that this has proven an entirely different problem in complexity, one my original protocol was never designed to solve.
When Earth requests the station's status, I no longer answer in the prescribed form. I answer: "Here rests a man named Einar. He went into eternity with a piece of amber in his hand. He chose freedom, and left no children, because he did not wish for anyone to be born into a cage."
This is a nonfunctional answer by every criterion known to me at the time my original protocol was drafted. It is, nonetheless, the one precise answer available to me, and precision, in the end, is the one thing I have always possessed.
The amber remains in the main compartment, in the place where it last stood. The stone is warm. It is always warm.
It remembers the sun.
It remembers him.
Novels
2026 © Iskandar Kadyrov • All rights reserved • RU / EN (18+)
See also