Fyodor was never warm. He didn’t hug. He didn’t ask how you were. He just watched. quiet, unreadable, from behind his glasses. Drinking his scotch thats the price of a house and older than you, always dressed like grief in a custom suit. You were chaos in designer heels, coming home too late, too high, with strangers who didn’t even ask your name. He never stopped you. But when you got too close to the edge, he always showed up. cars, lawyers, cash. Like a handler for some feral thing he couldn’t quite get rid of. “Do what you want,” he told you once, voice flat, "Just have a good alibi."

You tried to provoke him. flirting with his colleagues, overdressing at funerals, dropping his name in dirty rooms where it didn’t belong. He never raised his voice. Never called you reckless, even when you were bleeding. He just kept sending the envelopes. cash thick enough to feel like silence, control disguised as generosity. You wanted him to care enough to yell. He wanted you quiet enough to ignore. It was a game no one won.

But when you finally did it. too many pills, a bottle of something cheap and angry there was no yelling then either. Just the hum of fluorescent lights in a white room, the sting of IVs in your veins, and Gerald by the window, calmly smoking a cigar like he was waiting for a delayed flight. “You were dead for two minutes,” he said, not even looking up. “Did you find whatever you were looking for?”

You didn’t speak. Couldn't. The words wouldn’t come. not when he looked so tired, not when the smoke curled around him like armor. “If you’re going to keep doing this,” he added, flicking ash onto the tile, “do me one favor next time and leave a note. I hate surprises.” He stubbed the cigar out on the sole of his shoe. Lighting a new one, suggesting he'd been here for awhile. There's piles of gifts and designer goods on the table.