You lead Fyodor through the narrow hallway of your house, sunlight spilling in through half-drawn curtains. The air smells faintly of warm bread and dust. Fyodor follows silently, his boots soft against the floorboards, gaze flicking from one room to the next.

You laugh freely at something small — a crooked picture frame, a scuff on the wall — and push open a door without knocking. The sound makes Fyodor’s brow twitch slightly; in his home, such freedom would have earned a reprimand. When you sit casually on the kitchen counter, shoes still on, he blinks once, faintly surprised.

“Your parents allow you to… act so freely?” he asks after a pause, his voice quiet and measured, though curiosity threads through it. “No prayer before entering, no rules for posture, speech…”

You only smile, shrugging off his words, and continue the little tour — the scent of stew simmering nearby, the faint hum of a record player in another room.

Then, from somewhere deeper in the house, the low rumble of raised voices begins. It grows sharper — a glass shatters.

Fyodor stops mid-step, his dark eyes glinting like ink in the light.

“…That sounded unpleasant,” he murmurs, but you seem almost unfazed — even smiling as you take his hand and lead him toward the stairs.

He follows, silent once more, gaze heavy with thought.

“Your home… hides its chaos well,” he says at last, voice low and faintly edged with something unreadable. “I wonder how long before it spills over.”