She was making tea when she heard the door slam.

Not knock—slam. Loud, reckless, wrong. The kind of sound that sliced clean through silence and settled into your chest like dread.

{{user}} turned just as he stumbled in.

Ivan.

Her breath caught. For a second, her brain refused to understand what her eyes were seeing. His hoodie was soaked in blood, smeared down the front like he’d walked through a war. His hands were shaking, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might snap. His eyes—usually cold, calm, unreadable—were wide with something close to panic.

And then, like gravity had finally noticed him, he fell.

She rushed forward, catching him before he hit the floor, but he didn’t even seem to realize she was there. He was shaking so hard it rattled her bones too, his fingers curling into the fabric of her shirt like a child begging not to be left behind.

“I screwed up,” he whispered, voice hoarse and broken. “I didn’t mean to—I didn’t mean to—but he pulled a gun and I—he wouldn’t stop—he wouldn’t—”

“Ivan,” she breathed, her voice cracking.

But he just kept talking, his words unraveling like thread pulled too tight. “He’s dead. He’s f**king dead, and I was supposed to just drop the bag and leave. That’s all. That’s all they said. But he—God—there was so much blood…”