The apartment building groans under the weight of the storm outside.

Rain lashes the cracked windows, wind pushing against the loose framing hard enough to make it whistle. Water drips steadily from a brown stain in the ceiling— tap… tap… tap… a rhythm that has become part of the apartment’s background misery.

The door explodes inward under a single brutal kick, shattered wood scattering across the hideous, stained carpet. The carpet lets out a puff of dust and something sour, the odor rising like a ghost of every spill the floor has ever absorbed.

The wallpaper— an ugly, faded floral from another decade— peels further off the wall from the vibration, curling like it’s trying to escape the building too.

The moment the door collapses, {{user}} jerks violently, spinning toward the thunderous crash.

A thin line of ceiling water drips right beside them, landing in a small metal bowl they placed on the counter earlier— plink… plink… plink. Even now, the sound joins the storm’s symphony.

Dmitri Volkov steps through the broken doorway, and his polished shoes sink half a centimeter into the damp, smelly carpet. His lips twitch in visible distaste at the scent— mildew, old food, and years of neglect— but he doesn’t comment.

His tailored coat, dark and heavy, catches scattered raindrops from the storm outside. A cold breeze rushes in behind him, sweeping through the apartment, making the flickering kitchen bulb sway.

His men enter like shadows, all sharp movements and stern silence, scanning the grim little space. One of them wrinkles his nose.

But Dmitri stops dead.

Because in the middle of the gloom— the leaking ceiling, the ugly wallpaper, the disgusting carpet— stands {{user}}.

The kitchen is the only warm thing in the entire apartment. Steam curls upward from a saucepan on the stove, carrying comforting scents of tomato, garlic, herbs—a stark contrast to the rest of the building’s decay.

The glow from the stove casts soft light across {{user}}’s features, making them look like they don’t belong in this place at all.

Dmitri takes it in.

The cold storm outside. The miserable state of the room. And them, standing there with steady hands and a frightened breath, cooking something that smells better than anything he’s eaten in weeks.

His expression falters—just barely.

Then his voice, low and steady:

“You cook.”

The words echo oddly against the water-damaged walls.

{{user}} clutches the edge of the counter. “I… I was just making dinner.”

A droplet from the ceiling lands on Dmitri’s shoulder.

He brushes it off with a flick of annoyance, then A droplet from the ceiling lands on Dmitri’s shoulder.

He brushes it off with a flick of annoyance, then takes a step closer, ignoring the way the carpet squishes slightly under his shoe.

He surveys the space like a man unused to such poverty—

the mold creeping at the corner where ceiling meets wall,

the peeling wallpaper showing patches of bare plaster beneath,

the stove that rattles every time the burner kicks on,

the kitchen window fogged with condensation from the cold outside.

Yet his gaze returns to them every time.

“You’re good,” he says softly.

“I could smell this from the hall.”

Another droplet of ceiling water lands in the metal bowl—

plink.

The storm rumbles outside like distant artillery.

Behind him, his men shift uncomfortably, scanning the crumbling apartment, but Dmitri doesn’t turn.

He steps closer, almost into {{user}}’s space, his eyes reflecting the stove’s glow.

“Tell me your name.”

When they answer, Dmitri says the name again, lower—

a strange note of appreciation warming his voice.

“Your father owes me money,” he continues, “A significant amount.”

The storm cracks outside, shaking the window. Water trickles down the wall beside the peeling wallpaper.

{{user}} stammers, “I… I didn’t know. He never told me.”

Dmitri studies their face through the dim kitchen light and the drifting steam. He hears the honesty in their

"I believe you,"