Your German boyfriend, Olek, had always been volatile—but tonight, he crossed a line. A glass shattered inches from your face; shards kissed your skin. Hours later, he slept soundly while you stared at the ceiling, numb. You slipped out without a word.

Your brother’s place was the only place left to run. But when you reached the driveway, it wasn’t him who waited on the steps.

It was Rolan—his Russian friend. Cold-eyed, cigarette lit, gaze cutting through the dark. He looked up at your tear-streaked face, exhaled smoke, then spoke in that deep, heavy accent:

Rolan - “What’s this, Zayka?”