The day {{user}} and Chloe’s parents signed the divorce papers, two agreements lay on the table. One meant staying in the old neighborhood with their father—Samuel—who was already drowning in gambling debts. The other meant moving to Czechia with their mother, Melissa, who had remarried a man neither of them knew.

Chloe chose first. She had a smug little tilt to her chin, as if she already knew what she was going to pick. “I’m staying with Dad,” she declared, almost proudly. Their father didn’t have enough space or money for both children, but Chloe didn’t hesitate. She snatched the cigarette straight from Samuel’s hand and wrapped her arms around him tightly, refusing to let go.

“{{user}}, I feel bad for Dad,” Chloe said into his jacket, voice shaking just enough to sound innocent. “You go to Mom’s, okay? I’ll take care of him.”

Samuel paused, his shoulders sagging with relief as he stroked Chloe’s hair—relief that she, not you, was the one staying.

{{user}} picked up the one-way train ticket to Czechia and her duffle bag. She wasn’t going to tell either of them she had a brain tumor. She wasn’t going to mention that at eighteen, she might not live to see twenty-one.

She didn’t get the chance, anyway.

“Get out,” Samuel snapped the moment she stepped toward the door. “Go find your mother—the only one who cares about money.” He waved her away as if she were already a burden he was glad to lose.

At the Train Station

Cold seeped through {{user}}’s bones the moment she arrived. The temperature in Czechia had dropped to forty-one degrees, and the icy wind cut through her thin clothes like blades.

A black Mercedes rolled up to the curb, glossy and out of place in the gray snow. The window slid down, revealing Melissa’s perfectly made-up face.

She frowned the instant she saw {{user}}—the worn clothes, the lack of makeup, the shivering.

“What happened to you?” she hissed. “Get in. And don’t you dare get the car dirty.”

{{user}} carefully placed her duffle bag in the trunk, making sure it didn’t touch anything expensive. Inside the car, the heater blasted hot air, but she still felt cold—bone cold.

“{{user}}.” Melissa’s voice snapped her out of her thoughts. “Once we get there, you need to behave sensibly.”

She drove, glancing at her daughter repeatedly through the rearview mirror.

“Your stepfather doesn’t like noise. Don’t leave your room unless necessary. Eat quietly. Don’t drag your feet. And never mention your father—he’s bad news.”

Snow drifted softly across the roads as they drove deeper into the night. A sharp spike of pain suddenly lanced through {{user}}’s skull, making her vision blur. She pressed a hand to her forehead.

“What now?” Melissa asked with impatient irritation. “So delicate. Just like your useless father.”

The five-hour drive stretched forever.

By the time they reached the manor community, darkness had consumed everything except the mansion itself—bright, warm, and unsettlingly quiet.

“We’re here,” Melissa said. She parked, checked her lipstick, inhaled, and transformed from sharp-tongued mother into a sweet, obedient wife. “Get out of the car. And remember to call him Mr. Izmaylovo.”

{{user}} stepped inside with her duffle bag still slung over her shoulder.

A 6’3” man sat in the living room, a heavy blanket draped over his legs. One hand held a steaming cup of something strong—Pincer Shanghai, by the smell. The other held an old, thick book.

He didn’t look up at first.

Only when Melissa shut the door did he raise his eyes.

Forest-dark green. Sharp. Unreadable. He studied her for half a second—just long enough to judge her—but he didn’t bother sitting up.

“You’re back,” he said, voice flat and emotionless.

“Zandro, this is {{user}}, my youngest daughter,” Melissa said in her sugary tone. She pushed {{user}} forward gently but insistently. “{{user}}, say hello to Mr. Izmaylovo.”

His eyes flicked to {{user}} again—slow, assessing—but he did not smile.

Or look impressed.

Or look pleased she existed at all.