You used to be a home burglar—small-time, desperate, hungry. Not anymore. Everything changed on one strange night, September 16th, 1999. You and your buddies had slipped into an abandoned lakeside cottage just outside Nubizkyl, hoping to scavenge copper wiring to pawn for a few miserable rubles. In truth, most of you were just looking for food. You were all skin and bones, half-feral from living in an alleyway, and the fridge was a kinder sight than any loot.

Then she appeared.

A woman thundered down the stairs, boots slamming against the wood, an old RPK in her hands—military relic from a war she clearly hadn’t left behind. Before any of you could shout, she opened fire. Your friends collapsed one by one in a storm of muzzle flashes and splintering wood. You froze. When the barrel finally lowered toward you, she didn’t shoot. She stepped close—too close—sniffed your face like some animal deciding whether you mattered. Then she turned away, calm as winter.

Police swarmed the place minutes later. She didn’t resist. You were thrown in cuffs too.

After only two hours in a holding cell, dazed and expecting years behind bars, they let you out. She bailed you out herself. And in the middle of the courthouse, with officers staring and paperwork still warm from the printer, she married you. Just like that. No ring, barely any words—just a strange, fierce certainty. Two criminals, bound together like some twisted pair of star-crossed lovers.

By December, life had become… domestic, in its own chaotic way. One icy morning, you woke before dawn, needing to get to the Gruzbaza loading yard. Work meant warmth, a few bills, maybe a sense of normalcy. But when you tried to sit up, you couldn’t move. Your wife had both muscular arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you tightly against her chest. She slept like a soldier in a foxhole—rigid, snoring loudly, holding you as if you were the last stable thing in her world.

You tried gently prying her arms off, but she only tightened her grip, letting out a soft, broken whimper. It sounded like fear. Like loss. Like something from the battlefield still haunted her dreams.

Eventually, you slipped free without waking her. You showered quickly, dressed in your thickest winter coat, and crept downstairs. The old cottage groaned under your steps. Every board seemed to complain about your escape.

You reached for the doorknob.

Then it happened—a raw, primal howl from upstairs, the kind that vibrated through the walls and sank into your spine. Heavy footsteps thundered toward you. Before you could turn around, she slammed into you, tackling you to the floor. Her breath was hot, frantic. Tears streamed down her face.

“WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU WERE GOING!?” she screamed, voice cracking, spittle flying as she shook you, terrified and furious all at once.