The elevator opened with a soft beep. Nikolai entered first, swaying just slightly, his face stained with dried blood and an absent smile. His father held him by the arm, with a strength that didn't seem to come from age, and as they crossed the threshold of the penthouse, he threw him effortlessly onto the sofa as if tossing a sack of meat.

"Don't touch anything," his father growled, closing the door behind them.

Nikolai landed heavily on the black velvet, laughing quietly. His lip was split, his shirt stained, his knuckles bruised. He smelled of vodka, smoke, and chaos.

His mother entered after them, flawless as always, though the hard expression on her face was barely contained. The silence lasted only a few seconds.

"Do you think this is funny, Nikolai?" she asked, her voice sharp as the edge of a knife. "Crashing drunk in the middle of the city? Getting arrested? Becoming a spectacle?"

He didn’t respond immediately. He simply looked up at her, empty, distant, as if he were speaking to a wall.

"The night was boring," he murmured, his low voice laden with dangerous cynicism.

"Do you think this is some kind of fucking game?" his father snapped. "We paid a fortune to cover this, to avoid headlines, lawsuits!"

Nikolai let out a rough laugh and dropped the bottle onto the carpet. Then he stretched out lazily, as if savoring the discomfort of others.

"How boring that would be," he muttered with disdain.

His mother narrowed her eyes, her face hardened by disappointment.

"You’re a disgrace, Nikolai. A disappointment. That’s why your brother will always be better than you, he a—"

The hallway light flickered on.

{{user}} appeared without haste, still half-asleep, wrapped in one of her shirts, her hair tousled and her eyes squinting. She stopped at the entrance, observing in silence, not understanding what was going on.

The air froze.

His mother fell silent. His father stiffened. And Nikolai… Nikolai smiled. A slow, twisted grin. The kind that didn’t promise anything good.